Stream of Tropical Mania

FRIENDS,

How are you liking this rain? I am loving it. I hope you are too.

I also hope you're loving this storm of carefully arranged words I've been dropping on you. The drought is over, sort of. I still don't have any art. I sat down & tried to doodle the other day & I couldn't even draw a face. How the fuck does that happen? Kind of like how I forget to how to play guitar if I stop playing for 2 weeks. The I have to learn all over again.

Bizarre. I wish I could pull my brain out & look at it & tweak the parts that are malfunctioning. But alas, I don't have that kind of access to the inside of my skull. I hope you all do.

Here's some Streams of Standing Rainwater rolling down the streets of your selfhood:

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Months without dreaming then this: a saturation of color bombing the pillows. Panning back and forth across a timeline only recognizable as mine because the dream data was in place. Embedded somewhere below the images was the script. There is clutter in my head I cannot access til I sleep, and this morning I swept and swept. I'm cleaning the hoard of several decades. The grief hoard. The identity hoard. The ways I can't afford to think anymore. Even the kittens and butterflies whose fleeting antics kept me distracted from larger beasts' authority--they've run out the door. The brush of the broom would break their wings, disrupt their whiskers. Antennae so sensitive to evolution. The straw that broke the kitten's back? A pin-drop from an old black hole. A drop of hormone on the floor. 1-29-16

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The history of WEIRD: Before, it was living in a freakshow of a body but having a sound mind. Then, it was having enough dough to buy the freakshow. It became throughout the ages something to hide behind suit & tie. At times it was something to flaunt. With just a touch of genius, madness was a way to make a living. In this Gregorian future, weirdness is alive and well, taking many cloud-like shapes. Let's have a peek through the screen: 

He's ugly and alone--weird! 

She's not afraid of her own mind--WEIRD. 

It's been four years since he got laid--sad. But weird! 

She prefers the company of cats. Or dogs. Or ferrets. Or donkeys. Way fuckin' weird. 

He or she has done a lot of drugs and survived the flat line of the soul. Groovy, wild, high-five, you're really fucking weird, man! 

She was born male but has volunteered for that ultimate pay cut. Too weird for my taste. 

He was born female but thinks he deserves a promotion. Not cool at all, man. Get the fuck outta here before I show you who's boss. 1-31-16

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I've been having a torrid affair with my subconscious lately. Don't tell anyone, but I've had dreams as lucid as Tokyo for a straight week. Not the crescendo of nightmares that wouldn't stop for the sun, wouldn't stop for anything but the soft yellow pill. These are the dreams my brain was born to produce. Character-driven with SPF/X so hi tech they can afford to be subtle. They don't insult the intelligence of the dreamer. And the porn…so saturated with tenderness for the whole person. Not -centric. No harem of Barely 18 15-year-olds getting plunged & squirted in the face by the Lord. Hetero-scripture is a gospel too sad for candlelight. But I know what love is, I know what it looks like. Pitch black with dancing neon pixels. Press your meaty hands against your eyelids and listen. That is love. 2-1-16

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Hey! Punxatawney Pete here. Strapping on my microphone and my ice skates. Waiting for Pittsburgh Philomena and Philadelphia Pris as they prep for their supporting roles. My co-anchoring concubines need a lot more work than I do, what with the face spackle the eye paint the nose shadow the chin waxing the Brazilian deforestation the eyebrow flagellation the mascara (oh please don't skip the mascara) the lip grease the nail residue the boob scaffolding the bling fix-it the wardrobe fire drill the test shots fired at the spectacle until it's viewable annnnnd….the clitoral rhinestones. It's a helluva an effort for our team of special effects rodents but it sure makes me look like a vision of authority, a streamlined no-nonsense news messiah, a voice of reason between two eager-to-agree beavers….AAaaahhgghhhh!! What's that? Six more years of backlash before history has its Hegelian synthesis!  2-2-16 

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Can I write inside this tube? Will I hear my own thoughts beneath the headphones blaring "Chicago Now!" Morning responds to the news break: airplane hole leaks 55-year-old death passenger. Fuzzy exotic animal curls up with 99-year-old sleep citizen. The murder of 13-year-old Match.com liver transplant recipient child was committed by slut-shaming 18-year-old athlete nova and complicit dick-whipped amateur grave-digging 19-year-old female. Suicide bomber v. female suicide bomber. Stripper v. male stripper. Pocketbook v. manbag. "It" v. "they." One is offensive; one is trending. The only one offensive to me is "she." 2-3-16

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Floors made of fire, sidewalks of ice. Just keep the dirt swept under the rug. Good work if the wind can find it. Roof tops made a statement, ceilings closed the argument. No one gets through the door without an exclamation, "Why this is so unfair!" Heart's made of seafood, brain's made of gravy. I could load the boat with bananas but I'd choke before I slipped on the peel. Head over gristly heel, hand over succulent fist. What is your name? Cut like a cookie from the master dough boy? No. I am not shortening, I'm a brand new breed of bread. My name means wine in French; yours means moon in ancient Greece. Have you ever drowned in ammonia? Have you ever shot yourself with the opposite sex? 2-6-16

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Okay, that's enough for now. Like I said, I write a paragraph of gibberish every morning when I wake up. So maybe that's why it seems like it doesn't make sense & you hate it. Have you ever considered that?

Stream of Fluffiness

Fwends,

How are ya? I am good. I've been so busy being Trans lately that I forgot I was a writer!

Lucky for you I remembered, so here are some gibberishy words & garbagey art for you!!

(I'm behind on posting these, so there'll be more throughout the month of June til I catch up. You're welcome.)

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We were trying to decide whether to upgrade our mental templates to the new Priva-Ledger operating system. We'd been coasting with the Victo-Miser system since 2216, but tomorrow was the future and we thought we'd better be ready for it.  Then we saw the dog. Everyday was full of birds--eaglets, owlets, ospreys, jays, kites, skates, skunk apes and peacocks. But it was rare to see a dog. Especially one like this, a vampire collie made of meat, bone and active follicles. An undead collie on an afterthought of a leash. Dropped days ago by hands that suddenly had better things to hold. Puppy love lost to junk or nicotine. My greatest fear is forgetting stuff. I need to remember. I need to upgrade. I need to be clean. Fix me. Break me. Fix me again. The dog had a feminine swagger which he used to captivate us. We were savagely compelled to take the leash. Long nylon bait. Irresistible. Irregardless, the dog was friendly. Unlike the home we found for him based on his data chip. Charlie 317 South Rail South. He'd already taken the blood of the family and left them like toys and lawnmowers' ghosts on land that might've been scaped in 2016.  1-1-16

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The room ran the gamut from Momma's boys to older men who had to endure being women most of their lives. But all the stories were inspiring except for mine. The color wheel spun without mercy. It stuck in this muddy place, but we opened our messy blanket and had a picnic anyway.We sat in this order: white, straight, white, gay, black, straight, brown, alone. Neither edge acknowledged the other. Did it want to? Did it just not know how to ask for the ketchup? Tomato red might've closed the gap just as well as blood does. An emergency infusion that says 'I care. Even if I can't find words, here is a gesture.' But there was no asking, no telling. And when the tall handsome boy said his parents had disowned him, I got shut down when I raised my hand to tell him it might be okay someday… 1-10-16

Old Art 2013

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Along the Eastern artery cars slide around on their tires. I tie up my skates and prepare to do the same. I sleep too late on a day others are stranded in the streets. I dream of a new friend who lies about who she is, and what she wants from me. I wake several times only to realize I'm still asleep. Yes, one of those mornings. Lots of drool to tell me i was on ice the whole time, leaking from my warm nuclear core. I got my head back on Tuesday but I'm willing to give it away again because the week has ended and all the data I needed to remember will be remembered forever.  1-23-16

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I am a stump. My voice has been amputated. I can't fit my roots in this wheelchair. I cry at the slightest touch, the hug of knives and the spooning of snow. Into my mouth the pablum of the stars. And I don't mean celebrity oats, I mean that dust that covers the heaven of my lungs. I mean hell…it's right here where our soles meet the ceramic tile we picked with such care to offset our penniless immune systems. I want my pronouns and I want them now. I want my voice to match the curtains. I want my face to say what my tongue can't quite relay. I run a legless marathon all morning, a grief-stricken first place takeover of a world I don't recognize. I can't pick up its scent through the screen. Yeah--but do you have a penis?  2-7-16

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Today feels bigger than yesterday. Yesterday was tiny. I sat on it like a fencepost. Should I crow for the sun? Shall I sing til my blue chakra gets hard? Endless scales til my Adam's apple tilts forward and lets a montage of cartoon music float through the air. The music will have to do my chores for I can't reach past eight o'clock, out into the real world where people shut their sex toys down. Where people silence their music to speak legalese and condescension. The customer is always right. The customer is always hard. The customer is always wet. The cashier is a rubber doll; the receptionist is being directed by the guy in the windowless van. She is always a she. I am living between he and she, drifting along the hormonal canal, living the hermaphrodite dream. 2-16-16

Old Art 2012

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Show me your chrysalis and I'll show you my shark fin. I'm no entomologist but I could learn to swim just by watching you fly. Up close. Down low. Why, I'm no ichthyologist but I've hung on the shoreline of my own uncertainty long enough to know a mermaid's purse from an urchin's tip jar. And I've read with encyclopedic hunger on the larval stages of forgiveness. Chrysalis is a poetic cliche. But I want to know why yours is intact, and hers hidden or broken w/ no butterfly to show? Stowing away in a blowhole; revealing its monarchy when the coast is phosphorescent. Some lucky dolphin waiting to have its portrait inked on wrist or ankle spurting colorful wings from underwater lungs. Privileged skin erupting in a gallery of goosebumps. She has eyes that refuse to take root in the shifting sands of her mind. Until then she flaunts her hide, saying If you show me yours I'll cry inside. 2-20-16

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My mailbox called me Mister yesterday. I laughed because all the other objects in this world still get it wrong. My telephone calls me Ma'am. The moon calls me 'she.' The wind calls me Mary. My family cries 'her.' People in my way will always say Miss, Miss excuse me Miss! It can't be true I look so much like that abhorrent thing, so why? Why can't the nouns get my pronouns right? The mirror shows me in between, but there are no words for that. Alice can't be Alex in the mad binary wormhole. Let one hemisphere dominate the globe--which hand do you use to push yourself into that wonderland? Terrestrial perverts, forever in the state of oozing matter. Forever imprinting a cock or cunt on neutral ground. Forever molding skirts or trousers on their archetypes. I am in danger of catching cold or fire in this limbo. I'm in danger of getting lost inside my symbolic skin. 2-27-16

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What ocean swims in my head? An ocean of colors--turquoise flash and emerald accusation. The great indecision of mauve. What porridge has my will become? Unsalted desire, butterless debauchery. The long spaces between pleasures are being filled with deadly sin. All the feminine receptors I once deprived are now rewarded. My fragile ego is fed like an alligator, from a bucket full of entrails. Blood, life force, survival of the narcissist. I exercise my jaws and my rights. I look like a person made of leather. I feel like baby soft terry cloth Johnson & Johnson talcum powder slick oil and gentle Q-tip probe. I feel like using my words in private. I feel like masturbating on the bus. What is this desert burning in my skull? The aftermath of utmost joy--the burnt remains of having finally lived. 3-2-16 

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Old Art 2012

OKAY!!! That's a lot of streaming consciousness for you to handle, so I'll stop there & let you get back to your own head noise.

Nothing is too new…I haven't noticed anymore changes….my voice is still stuck in scratchy mezzo soprano waiting for basso profundo…BUTT HAIR!…yeah…it's there…finally started speaking up when people call me ma'am (which happens so very often now!) 

I don't care about politics. I don't care about the zeitgeist. I won't ask you to check your privileges. I won't ask you for money. I won't ask for anything except your company. Can that be delivered?