Alternate Universe In Which Helen is a Far-Right Lesbian Wingnut & The Family W/ Quintuplets Makes Sense

 FRIENDS,

The world is a steaming shithole of death & I’m not even gonna try to accentuate the positive right now. I’m going to gaze & wallow around the abyss until it doesn’t hurt so much, until I can make out some recognizable shapes in the darkness. 

I can barely believe that a racially motivated mass murder was followed so closely by the first elementerty school shooting since Newtown.

This conflagration of human atrocity reminds me that not long ago I went on a psychic adventure that was fueled by drugs & a philosophical text, which was also powered by singing & automatic writing, and which eventually led me to the part of the adventure that I haven’t really talked about (except a little bit in the automatic writing portion).

I will say that once the psychic adventure took off & I felt I was in communicado with the spirit realm, a lot of my healing focus went toward gun violence in schools. I know there is gun violence , well, everywhere now… but it was violence in schools that particularly saddened me. And I know this will be controversial to say, but my main interest & concern is for the shooter. I don’t mean sympathy, empathy or compassion for the shooter, just…interest. Concern.

And I totally get the “not glorifying” by repeating the shooter’s name & burying the victims under all the speculative psychology & gory fascination with the person who did the crime. But I also believe that not looking into the abyss of the shooter solves nothing.

I’ve given up on gun laws. Or doing anything about this through our cumbersome legal system. It will have to be something else…like a pandemic that keeps our children home from school forever. To believe for a moment this was the solution… I was fine with it.  Yeah, I know that is controversial too.

Anyway…I try to keep my interest in school shooters on the down low. I’m not proud of it. But I also understand where it comes from — my boyfriend in 12th grade was most-likely-to-be -the-school-shooter. Most of you are familiar with my backstory but in summary, I was in a terribly abusive relationship where this boy wished to control me so badly that one night he resorted to holding me at gunpoint in his grandmother’s house for hours.

Years later…in fact recently…my brother told me he had this same boy as a lab partner in science & one day he made a point to show my brother the gun in his waistband. So the gun made it onto school property & this was most likely around the time I was dating this kid. And it was just a simple pistol type weapon. The kind of “gun” we were content to defend ourselves with in the 1980s.

I can’t imagine having to fear an AR-15 at school. Except…I can. I go to the grocery store. I go to the McDonald’s. I go outside my house. School shootings have morphed into anywhere shootings & nothing has been done.  [Don’t rattle off a list of mental health checks & waiting periods. Fuck that. That IS nothing.]

All right. I have no more words. Words, words, words, what are they good for…huh…absoloutely nothin’

I like the way you work it…no diggity …i got to bag it up

All Along the WatchTower! and her sullen & aborted currents breed

                                  new age monsters

              True Thinking is dead

Awkward video, and the first suicide is molested

  Groin furiously pumping its stiff pink gallop

              Poise! Underwear paws!

Carefully barricaded & shot up by a psychopath nonetheless!

Words, I have no more.

Here are some words from the automatic portions of the psychic safari:

DELTA

VACCINE

OMICRON

JEOPARDY

MAYIM BIALIK

********

Dot Family Mom (Devya), big sister Jade, Dad (Jack)

Please do your best to enjoy this art. I am so happy to be reunited with my quintuplet family. Speaking of psychic safaris — there is a pretty severe backlash that comes with it. My quintuplet cartoon family helped me through some of it, but I lost touch with them when I had adverse reaction to my meds in 2021. Then we moved & such…so I didn’t have much time to spend with them. But I think they will be having addventures all year long.

THE GUVNAH

THE GUVNAH

Once upon a compass, there lived a place named Florida. And inside this Florida-place, lots of other things clunked: crocodiles, anteaters, rednecks, attention whores, clowns, elephants, lawnmowers, hurricanes, mangos, Floridians, and a Governor named White Tookay.

Florida was a pretty classy place until the election of White Tookay.

Once White came to power, all hayseed broke loose. All social contracts were annulled & staring was allowed. Pointing, too. Lying, denying, plagiarizing, sodomizing--all encouraged by law. Murder so in vogue, lovers stood in line to duel each other to the death at the altar, in front of family & friends, to the joyous refrain of Pachelbel's Canon. (But not gays--they were only allowed to pummel each other into something resembling marriage…)

Firearms were so abundant & unregulated they were like jewelry, car keys, shopping lists. The stuff you're in constant touch with in Florida. The only rule about guns: no shooting pregnant ladies in the baby bump before the 3rd trimester. 

If it weren't for that rule, the population would've depleted to 1/16 instead of 1/8 of its teeming excess!

But worst of all: the sinkholes. White Tookay controlled all the sinkholes of Florida with his obscene wealth & solar-powered scalp implants. Floridians were scared. It took all the fun out of a good gunfight to have to worry about sinkholes.

                                                         *********

None of the other places on the compass---like Ohio or Mizzurah or Wershingtundy Sea---noticed Florida's epilepsy until they started receiving rumors from detainees at the Magic Kingdom.

The Magic Kingdom was a compound inside Florida's northeast sinus. Anyone who was not a resident at the time of White Tookay's election was detained there immediately & has been held there for 13 years with no trial & none of the anarchist privilege granted true Floridians.

Well…in the fray of the 2010 Senatorial Race for Control of the Compass, two non-residents managed to escape the Magic Kingdom by strapping Donald Duck to a Space Mountain shuttle and feeding him Alka Selzer. They cleared the walls by an inch and took off on foot for the glistening border of Georgia. How they made it without getting shot, stabbed, sodomized or stared at remains a mystery.

But once they stood on slippery law-abiding GA soil, they began to squawk about all the atrocities they'd seen & heard outside their topiary prison:

"Eye contact," EscapeeOne testified, "to the point of creepiness."

"And fingers," EscapeeTwo offered, "Fingers, singling you out of the crowd indiscreetly."

"Whoa…" Georgia gasped.

"Woe!" her residents chorused.

"That's not all," EscpeeOne peppercorned. "There were children, naked, copying bits of Dr. Seuss and taking them to the publisher as if it were their own work!"

"Plagiarism??" Georgia beanstalked.

"Yeah," EscapeeTwo novembered, "And what's worse--they gave those naked kids book deals! Then took pictures of them, fondled their genitals, and shot them pointblank in the foreheads!"

"Not before those kids drew their own weapons, though. Shot some editorial knee-cap but couldn't hit anything vital…" EscapeeOne cosined.

"Sodomy? Child pornography? Murder by duel??" the residents of Georgia peanut-galleried.

"YES!!!" EscapeesOne and Two breathalyzed.

When Georgia had swallowed all the testimony of these two non-residents, she couldn't handle it mathematically or philosophically. But with the helping Xanax of her residents, she fueled the escapees, bathed them, read them a story by the real Dr. Seuss, then shoved them to bed.

THEN, she called Mississippi. Who called Utah. Who called Wisconsin. Who called North Dakota. Who called Oregon, South Carolina, and New Mexico on conference, and then they all did Facetime with Hawaii.

"Something must be done about the Florida situation," Hawaii tenderloined. "There's only one more call to make before our plan of attack…"

"Guam??" tazed North Dakota.

"No…" Hawaii half-toned, "…Albany."

The States all gasped in torpor. Albany was all that was left of New York. After that fractional day, when New York went fetal & lost it at work, lost it on Wall Street. Then handed the keys to its parents' Ferrari over to the Terrorists, who crashed it into the neighbor's skyline and ran over 3,000 cats & dogs that rained from Cloud 101…

…since then, New York had been locked up in Bellevue. And Albany was one crusty old fuck about it.

Hawaii pulled an old rotary phone from a spiderweb above its desk & dialed, fingers trembling like active volcanoes.

"What the…….FUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKK??" Albany answered, testicly.

"Albany! Hey, it's Hawaii,"-- mustering all powers of Aloha--"You got a minute?"

"That's a foolish question to ask a New Yorker. Fuck off."

"Albany! Wait!" Hawaii and the other States harmonized, "Please! It's about Florida…"

"What about Floor-ee-duh?" Albany was suddenly plastiscine.

The States all regurgitated the disturbing testimony they'd heard. Albany grunted & clucked & pierced its eyelid with a Bedazzler.

"Hmmph. Urrmph. This is fanatical. Rapturous. There's nothing I can do about it."

"But, Albany," South Carolina pussycatted, "We have a plan…"

"Yeah, what plan?"

The States whispered like thick boiling cream of their plan.

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh," said Albany, pleased with the thick creaminess of the plan.

"There's only one thing..." Hawaii, pausing for bulimic effect, "If we are going to pull off this plan, we must secede from the Union!"

"HARRRRUMPH!!!"

"Stay with us, Albany! We need you to ratify our Agreement to Secede! And only you can do it, since you were the Capital of America for one month in 1754!"

"What about all the other former US capitals?"

"They're all…indisposed at the moment," Georgia tattled wormishly.

"Indisposed how?" Albany wanted to know.

"Incarcerated. In State Prisons. For various reasons."

"No!! Baltimore?"

"Tax fraud."

"Dammit! Philadelphia?"

"All of PA locked up for illegal organ harvesting. Sorry."

"Delaware?"

"Prostitution."

"Oh, god…" There was a distal, poignant, comatose silence on Albany's end. And, after 31 moments, a grunt of consent. "Yeah. All right. I'll do it."

The catch was--snail mail only. Albany didn't believe in electronics. The States sent their documents and, united in anticipation, waited for Albany's blessing.

*************

The situation in Florida was glandular by now. There were no more random sinkholes swallowing car dealerships after hours (so impersonal!) Gov. Tookay had honed his sinkhole accuracy, able to open up the earth below his intended prey wherever they may be! On the highways, in their homes! 

He had sinkholes eating folks right off the crumbling sidewalks. His solar-powered scalp implants worked in conjunction with a rain-powered GPS to create the most acidic & localized invisible parabolic sinkhole strikes.

In other words: SMARTHOLES.

And there were fewer and fewer Floridians left to witness all this. The entire populace of Florida now numbered 126, including governors.

The other States knew they'd have to locate the Governor's hideout as soon as they breached Florida's vulnerable effeminate borders. Smoke him out. And then barbecue him with his own solar-powered skull.

When the Official Secession Document arrived in the mail, smeared in Albany's preemptive mesquite blood, the States did indeed secede & wriggled free of their positions on the map.

First, they flotilla'd to Cuba, where it was still hard to tell if Castro was dead. They were fed whole chickens & generic painkillers, and given maps to the portal of Miami.

The next morning, the States floated silently to the syphilitic tip of Florida, veered nor'east & encapsulated Miami.

"Where is the Guv'nuh?" Mississippi demanded.

Miami was taken amok--it had never seen a whole State before, much less a troop of States surrounding it.

"Who are you?" it asked meekly, with no hint of its former neon.

"We are the States that seceded from the Union to capture your evil Guv'nuh and restore a sublime totalitarian tourist state to its erstwhile prosperity!"

Miami was unfastened for a moment, but then zipped, "Okay. I can help you. The Governor is at his palace in Tallahassee, making new Smartholes every minute!"---near tears now, Miami vignetted, "I want my old State back. God, I miss tourism!"

"I know, baby, I know," South Carolina dandelioned, "We will get your State back, tourists and all. Just help us get to the Governor's palace!"

Miami fell like dominoes. One high-rise hooked to the next, forming a low-speed turnpike all the way to Tallahassee. The States marched, apriled & mayed up this turnpike until they stood before the Governor's architectural embarrassment.

The States diapered their weapons---mostly AK's and trebuchets---and prepared to strike.

********* 

Gov Tookay was in his man cave masturbating to the aftermath of his latest sinkhole. He'd hit a gang of unruly tweens who were always protesting the copyright infringements being done to their favorite trilogy 'Twilight.' They had eluded him too long and he couldn't believe he'd finally sunk the little whippersnappers along with their paperback editions of Breaking Dawn: Book Three. 

SQUISH! His excitement landed everywhere. A large glob even fell on his solar-powered skull, obscuring it significantly.

Suddenly the palace shook. The Governor heard artillery and boulders being launched outside his man cave, and his self-satisfied arousal turned quickly to aroused unsatisfied selfishness.

"Bosley!" the Governor divined for his atheist butler. But the butler had succumbed to the first round of trebuchet fire.

The crescendo of pro-Florida zealotry continued, amplified. Gov Tookay quaked in his Rocky & Bullwinkle slippers. He lunged for his all-powerful technology, barely able to press the vibrating buttons.

"Who could that be out there?" he pilsnered aloud, waiting for the SMARTHOLE to take care of whoever it was.

But the SMARTHOLE did not open up & swallow Georgia or Utah or Mississippi or Wisconsin or South Carolina or North Dakota or New Mexico or Oregon or Hawaii.

The wad of dicksnot on his solar-paneled head had caused a malfunction, and the intended SMARTHOLE opened up somewhere in Ecuador. The palace was still under siege!

The Governor could see through the holes in his man cave what looked like an archipelago standing on its hind legs, surrounding him.

"Who are you and what have you done with my sinkhole?" he blueberried at the big irregular shapes.

"Fuck your sinkholes, Governor Tookay! And your laws against laws! Everyone knows Florida is way too ridiculous to handle the deadly strains of anarchy. We know you just want to destroy Florida for everyone else & keep it all to yourself! Well, that's not gonna happen!"

"Georgia?" the Governor jaguared, "What're you doing here?"

"Calling you out, bitch," Georgia sneered into her AK's sights and sent a flock of hot metal pigeons into the Guv'nuh's right nostril, killing him drastically.

The States januaried down the low-speed high-rise turnpike, jubilantly singing Army songs. They carried the limp, pale, selfish body of Gov White Tookay & before any living thing could take a picture of it, they dumped that pale selfish body into Lake Okeechobee.

Back in Miami, the high-rises stood up like erudite podiums. The States mounted them and spoke loudly to Florida.

"Gov Tookay is dead! Come out & be free to follow the Laws of our Nation once again!"

A few wild-eyed anarchists emerged from the swamps and abandoned airports to listen to the States speak.

"There will be no more sinkholes!" New Mexico googleplexed.

More scruffy Floridians emerged from underpasses & rose from uncut lawns. Wary & mutated beyond human recognition, they were armed to the gills (yes) and wrapped in layers of tire tread & armadillo shell (nature's Kevlar). Some of them toted manuscripts. Some were groping blindly for the muddy, lousy genitialia of others. All of them pretended not to see anything going on around them---

[---Thou shalt deny ever witnessing any wrongdoing--Gov Tookay's 3rd Amendment]--

"But you must stop plagiarizing, sodomizing, and being in denial!" Ohio tunafished sternly. 

One angry mutant Floridian pointed its weapon at Ohio's American heartbeat, but some others knocked it away.

"That's right," Ohio teabagged, "Remember when Florida was a flamingo-colored paradise, and people came from afar to enjoy its cancer-causing majesty? And it was only okay to shoot black people? And we only took our own stories to the publisher?"

The Floridians bob their heads & hiss & murmur like swamp things.

"Now, put down your arms & your verbatim copies of '50 Shades of Grey!'"

"And get your fingers out of each other's hoo-ha's!"

"And look around with your mossy eyeballs at all the wrongs that have been done here!"

The Floridians wept, dropped their weapons, let go of genitals & manuscripts, connected vision & cognition. From their high Miami perches, the States directed the Floridians to free the prisoners from the Magic Kingdom, to stabilize the sinkholes with layers of armadillo shell, and create new works of fiction all based on their brushes w/ anarchy.

Within the span of February, all of Florida was restored to its natural ridiculousness. The beaches were level, the condos upright, the residents back to their bath salt romances.

Georgia, et al, sent their Immigration papers to Albany & were granted full membership to the Union once again. And Albany, never one to exhale until peace was restored, exhaled. Plopped down in the lazy chair, pulled an opium pipe from the cushions and prepared to INHALE, when…

…the rotary phone on the desk warbled like an urgent turkey. Albany cursed mightily & answered it:

"What the…….FUUUUUUUCKKK??"

"Hola, Albany? This is Ecuador. Listen, we got a problem…"

 8-21-13

Suburban Sprawl of Consciousness

All right FRIENDS!

Your attention spans did great w/ those 3 epic poems from 2011. But now prepare for the REAL challenge:

Here is the first half of an epic poem I began writing early this year & am still writing. It is way longer than 'Howl' and just as husky. It could be as long as The Canterbury Tales… so, good luck getting through it. I'll be rooting for you!

Anyways, I'd just like to reiterate something that I iterate often--  IF I WAS THE BOSS OF THIS WORLD I'D TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR GUNS! I'D TAKE AWAY ALL YOUR CARS! AND I WOULD CANCEL XMAS FOREVER! AMEN!

Now here is long, husky free verse nonsense:

*****************************************************

JAN--MAR

I took 68 showers in 2015. Don't be repulsed by the math. I kept clean w/ 292 soldier baths. Water is a resource worth fighting for, an element worth dying for. Grey film sitting still upon the steady gaze of black-eyed peas. Zen cop drama hadn't begun to disappoint. I caught sight of a meteor and instead of joy felt instant paranoia. Took the tinsel off the wreath.

I fill my days w/ prescription ambition. Take away one melancholia tablet, equalling 100 milligrams. I missed the opportunity to educate the Jesus-fearing wino who runs the fruit stand. "I think he wants to be a giirrrlll," she giggled as the customized customer glided away in her bell bottoms and sparkly vest.

My brilliant reply, "Maybe he's a comedian." And a sickeningly hard facepalm from inside skully interrogation center. Tell me again how you're ready to take this journey?

Mercury in retrograde resembles watercolor blood in orbit. Clamped in capillaries meant for ink. Losing lifeforce like Pluto, losing planetary status. I met w/ loved ones & the loveliest one sat alone. I broke the ice & not the bone I threw at Facebook. The book I threw at the dead professor's face. If not my loved one, please be friend #101.

Forgot to take my meds but mid morning reminded me. You're not ready to shave any more milligrams. Look in the mailbox for discarded friends. The awkward knock. Do I answer? I take too long to decide and they are gone. Car trouble on a day you can't afford to open the door. I spend much of winter crying next to the tub. It holds exactly 4 hours worth of tears. No minutes.

Psychologically isolate alter egos. Radioactive decay from pixie dust. Who can tell what's what these days? I  saw your brown eye contact in front of the Blue Owl and no one died. I saw your casual use of black magic and thought, 'Good luck sewing that exit wound shut.' You lived to watch TV another day.

My cat is an aerialist. A daredevil! And I am a washed up rock a dead cartoon star. I need a new prescription, this cockblocking tournaquet around my seratonin reuptake areas will kill anything resembling pleasure. Pleasure, not happiness, is something I can't sacrifice to Big Pharmacies right now.

This is not real writing. This is code for Verbs Are The Scariest Particles of Speech. This is not a Tarot opportunity, it's a neurosurgeon's job. My voice is as cooperative as a cat. Success is being mistaken for a son at Fantastic Sam's. Success is a headache with a good haircut.

Ssssss…..Sssssssss….I am a snake today

In the grass

In the bath

In boxers

In loving synthesis w/ electric shock….ssszzzzz

Jury Summons #4 arrives. I won't go. You are an asshole until proven innocent.

My favorite new coffee shop. Except I've never been back there. Guilty as grey on groundhog day but I haven't been back. Can something be your favorite if it only happens once? God says yes. So do yesterday and the popular kids. Depression passes for Tuesday. Shopping for joydom. Freedom to lie about sniffling & coughing. PJ day. My calendar marked w/ sonnets. Brazen pencil, disoriented ink.

I just draw cartoony stuff 'cause I'm a privileged white queer on the up escalator who doesn't have to try walking in anyone's untied shoes. My sonnets droop on the keyboard. I survive til I get my sex drive back. When I get out, when I volunteer to leave the house, I invite tragedy to aim its weapons at my vacancy. I've got the universe figured out like Level 4 of that one game where you only lose if good stuff happens to you. I never got to meet my 3rd step father. I guess he died today.

Raincheck. Asteroid credit. Acts (or excuses) of God?

I'm going to a place where lots of cool cats stay. Being excited was a mistake. Cats so cool and aloof you could cry & I sure did. It took 45 minutes to finish a 30-minute run. Being curious was a mistake. Short of breath I see no reason to fix my leaky watercolor valve. Yinsulation. Yangxiety. Even cool cats can be awkward. Especially on social media. I've waited 40 years to talk about this and being understood was a risk. I'll pass for one more month.

HAPPY VALENTINES MISTAKE!!! 

The phone says chirp

chirp 

chirp

And I do too. I am up early to be a student of the hive mind.

Teach me Plathy pathology. Equal pay for surrealists. Teach a brain to silence itself and you will sleep in its lap like a cat. A cantankerous cat named Sidney w/ 99 lives and kidney problems.

Is your last name Love? Can I marry you & be true only to your name as it's worn around me like a ringing bell? Is your middle name a place I'd like to be?

We'll see…melancholia, megalomania. Missing mail. What up, boxmaster? Turned into a cockmaster.

Wish I could be the chirping Asperger bird, no vocal boundaries when she asks me about all episodes of Brady Bunch I can't remember watching, or never saw at all. Who censored me so seriously? The narcissists or the no ones? I will cry for 48 hours while I ponder the answer.

A slap in the iris. A POV I cannot see. A good bye I can't speak to Spock.

I stare at enemy territory before entering, before using up the last few words in my vocabble-babble-bubble-sublet-rumor-tumormonger-fishy-horsey-constabulary. Words I've never used before--Yes. Hi. I am fine.

[magnified nerve cells look like hairy eyes]

Green w/ jealousy, amethyst w/ relief. I'll decompress in purple twilight, I'll remain deflated until the leaves blow past my job. Where are my verdant verbs? I'm still searching (foraging, seeking).

Hairy eyes 

Signify a lack of confidence

And resentment for those who have confidence hanging

In their closets w/ price tags 

Still attached

I wear my favorite Tshirt which I've had for 30 years now. Occupy the amethyst evening, elastic vocal cords yodel in a suburban garage to mute the jackhammer. Concrete grave goes quiet like a dead baby's rattle.

Stretch your mind around that insult. It won't reach the conclusion that all 4-inch slabs of meat belong to men and a woman's profile states Salad for life! This little pig went to great lengths not to get all sarcastic & shitty.

Slo-mower. Lawnmower. The farmer in the you're getting a Dell commercial. The laundry in the Westinghouse hellmouth scrubbed of all its liability. The phantom DNA in the arcade of textiles lost forever. These weeks need a rewrite. But they'll sit in the slush pile for decades like you sat on your Kotex pads.

Nothing makes me happier than new socks and that's all I want to share right now.

I've waited 40 years to shut the fuck up. You have the right to remain mysterious. I sweat when I speak up. Even when my mouth is dry my armpits sob into my sleeves til everyone around me grows uncomfortable & must laugh or risk leaking fluids themselves. My skin, I believe, is made of Kleenex.

Poetry + tea = my 19th century past lover and I say Dear Mr. Moneybags, Please be reasonable and give me a hand-out. Since then

I have changed my name 8x.

Since then

I quit swallowing 200 more milligrams of unnatural response

Since then I've had

317 favorite songs…wait…

318

I don't want no jive!

Fridays are always sharp as porcupines. Scalpels at the end of the week. Occupy Porcupine Street. Use scalpels to dig the rest of your tears out so you don't have to push from the inside. Like giving birth to sadness. Like taking a dump on a single Kleenex ply. Preparing me for 2 days off the blade, away from the spoon, forked and serrated into variables so untravelled I'll write a separate poem about it later.

I choose all noise in life drowned in music. I make all choices based on the ratio of amethyst to jade. How sad will I be if I don't try, how jealous and bitter will I grow?I page through my arcade of memories, my brain stacked in slices, little invoices of all the shit I've bought on this planet.

Majestic straitjacket! I grew outta you! Try to fit in my closet now--it's as big as a broken social construct! The straitjackets of self-loathing are exposed to the nosy eye.

I wonder how this Thursday differs from last & find that all my inner Thursdays are retracted. No looking back, these dates will not be referenced for any reason. Never a Friday that didn't begin w/ the acute jab of Thursday, but never any penetration between days.

Let's go to the cafe where writers can be seen being writers. It may be enemy territory But I don't expect the joint to be terrorized. It may be traumatic to transition socially. A potential hello quickly reshaped into fuck you, but this is no place for the jihad of deep non-thinkers.

Emotional magazine content bursting at spines, killing spree with deft buttery knives. Final score: 100s to dozens. Troops to eggs. Break Benjamins to buy donuts.

I thought my effortless genius was a gift from a god even diviner than God. But it was a trick played by Allah on my ego. My ego full of swiss cheese loopholes. I cannot deploy this tactic any longer. My ego has died of heart cancer. It died reading aloud, subversive literature to an unprepared crowd. In front of boat owners and golden uteri chasing after poopy changelings. Disapproving stares firing 400 rounds per iamb. 

I chased my mind down for perfect words, notes from beautiful throats. I chose to abandon my clothes. Soft-spoken mystery gone streaking across a blank canvas. Streaking across the master keyboard.

1-7-16

****************************

APR -- JUN

Can't you see me feeling instead of thinking? It's a nice change--to feel good enough not to think. Obeying the stop sign, flipping off the green light. I run so the meat on my legs doesn't spoil. I run for hours but still decompose in the shower. My endorphin factory has shut down. Is this depression or onset dementia? Time will tell.

Now droplets of history congealing into fine art particles for someday's perspective. For someday's detectives.

Lovely to walk under the crucified bunny moon. Full on all haunches, dying on hind quarters, caught in night's pinhole camera forever,

or as long as any solar system lasts.

It's like the city turned upside down while I remained standing on a burial ground of eggshells. Fetal egos in my shaman's mind. I feel incapable but pull it off for a second, a treasured microsecond. 

When day is so good night looks like bad blood, gangrene, jungle rot to a lawnmower's gaze. Hack, hack away at my overgrown jealousy for i am the long streak of garbage-gray between greens. Be above the pain you meet on this planet. Be front page news. Be the nerve that calls the tribune. Be the vagina that chronicles its journey from the infinite vaginas it glimpses in the hand mirror.

Death & taxes & burritos & broken water heaters & refunds all in the rearview mirror by nightfall. All in the suitcase in the car in the garage in Sarasota preparing to be elsewhere in the telescope by tomorrow. New noise, necessary noise. Drown out the kryptonite glare. I see you under a knife getting repaired. The traces of estrogen's footsteps removed from the topsoil.

The invisible fence of time and privacy. You have a well-constructed family. I live in a tent w/out a pole.

When I let strangers in they look around like they've just found all the missing child-messiahs in the world. It's a look of fear & amusement hooked together like rollercoaster tracks. I ride it like the bicycle I got in Kindergarten.

I'm paying someone to be my friend. It's embarrassing, but it's a choice I'm making. Choosing vanilla at the ice cream shoppe of 69 flavors. My delirium shakes, vanilla. But I know someday I'll be the single malt Scotch I was always meant to be. Paying for a friend is a step in that direction.

I'm still prone to leaking blood when the right chemicals seep through the membranes around my whale corpse. A bloated submarine hides below my Peter Pan surface. But I can still bleed, one forgotten sailor still aboard, long drowned in the wreckage but still hoarding those red cells in heart corners & bone pockets

My blood still likes to dance. It pumps my lungs for info. It strafes my unprotected areas with cancer rays. Finds, of all things, colorful water in my veins. My blood is with the Bolshoi Ballet.

This Just Out: Bicycle/helicopter leaps over the fence to the White House's green lawn endangering the black Prsident and pinkening the cheeks of Secret Service slackers (I try to respond how Allen Ginsberg would if this had happened in his day. His words will always eat mine right off the page.)

And I will keep on 

Keep on typing

Trying tampering stamping

In ink, scrap-booking all

My gendered garments

Spaying & neutering a closet full of lies

And releasing them into the wild

When I add or subtract chemicals from the black tower of my spine, I can feel that shit! Anxiety maggots come crawling through my whole genome, getting into shoulder joints and weakening my knees. I want to make an entrance but my jaw is made of slime. Hello sounds like bad poetry. My dependance on chemicles--does it make me more human?

Feed my addiction to the pale yellow sun. Wait til the stars get a view of your chalk outline.

The spider smooshed on your doorstep. What's left of a werewolf howling at you--Brace yourself for the chip implant future you won't enjoy in the slightest. Here it comes.

Horniness is very life-affirming. It's the best reward for pushing through day-star withdrawal. Giving birth to spontaneous thoughts, reactive phrases with a fermented brain. i will drink the blood of grapes again someday.

On the day you came to me I thought the happiness bubble would only get bigger. Inflating my heart like blood-flavored gum. But I should've learned from exploding houses. If you keep blowing the walls will come down, the gum will return to its flaccid state. 

Since you came the bubble has burst over & over. "Happy Anniversary" says the power outage says the lawnmower says the wasp nest says the automatic pesticide spray melting my shoes to the floor. I pay you to be my friend & you pretend to like my poetry.

I pay music to be my friend and it's not ashamed to be seen inside my head.

The road is: long

black

fast

asleep

dangerous

And I'm on it

I'm back on the pale yellow pill

And no one calls me "Miss, miss, Madam!" on this trip

The museum is: bright

white

Mexican

morbid

light

Crushed under a bus & thrown in a fountain. What's more goth, your will to resurrect a broken spine or the dead dj haunting the taqueria? You decide. 

Am I talking like alphabet soup in a trash can? Throw a tomato if I've stopped making sense but don't throw shade on my memory yet. Road trips back toward home surprisingly full of song. Living dj haunts the dash, makes the wheel spin way back in space to your poopy little angels. Afraid to use the public litter box.

Still running at the mouth and legs. Still frozen in the middle. Still hear spiders howl like human wolves. You empathize with scavenger's remorse. The spider is a cannibal. Out, out damn voice! Still soaked in sodium hydroxide, your uncertainty is just like your mother's. Pour detergent down your throat, nothing removes a voiceprint like Drano. Polite libel, sir, will not get you a more expedient character assassination.

A child's correct gender assignment ends a century old conflict. Is this just a phase? Goddammit, no!

I'm alone w/ my social media trying to piece the carefully curated snippets to the horrors that inspired them. I am a failure, unfriended.

It's time for my yearly evaluation.

Isn't it a little early?

Yes. At least wait til the Mad Men finale. Sure, I can wait til 1970 if you insist.

I'm ready to be on a solitary retreat, away from trans-societal restraints. Handcuffs would be more cozy than the cold stares and lack of "most important thing."

The most important things are: Quiet

Dates canceled by rain

Facts checked by doctors in white coats and cute peeptoe wedges.

She's a doctor who has time for nail polish. She doesn't have time for me.

I'm not on the list of important things

Quiet as i may be

Take a hike in the post-rainy July-like May

Listen to the moods of your guitar, high chord pressure, melancholia, busy being successful too busy to stop. No. Busy is no excuse. You make time for what's important to you. Hating on the left side of the brain the howling poets of modern-american Greece.

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

Vicious.

Vicious who?

Vicious Aloysius.

Knock Knock.

Who's there?

The girl in the dragon costume w/out tattoos.

[Let's play this game for months!]

Runner's High v. Hormones that won't quit making you cry

Moon's Menacing Crescent v. Victoria's Lack of Self Respect

Hormones win 1st round. Moon wins next.

(Consult the crescent lunar zodiac in which one sign is an airplane & all the rest are living things)

Good mornin'

   Good mornin'

       Good mornin'

Did you dream of electric penises? No but maybe my phone did.

Black v. white on a blood-smeared rain-soaked chessboard. I gave you a scare with my lack of hand-eye coordination, but you won in the end. Because you don't have to dream of penises. You don't have to live with my mess.

I forgot how it felt to get caught in the rain's lightning cage. Middle age middle-class white privilege punk not afraid to get my hair wet, not afraid to get shocked out of my shoes. A binder full of women in binders pretending to be men. They'll never be "real men" (Mitt Romney's air quotes)

Data day robots. Info fertile

The cows come home

To abort 

Microcephalic calves

And be damned to a hell that is a rocking boat

So unlike the meadow

I'm seeing the future & I'm not finding myself there. Have i been dropped like a cold genetically mutilated potato? Aquariuuuss! AAaaaaaahhhh-Quaaaaariiuuuuussssss!!!!!

All the truths I once knew are retiring to be w/ their families. What they didn't tell me was the real truth: They're dying. The rain promised but the cloud never shook. Skull broke into a headache instead. We live w/ choices of others but ignore our own robotic motions

Quoth Marilyn Monroe

"I'm bored

W/ platinum

& diamonds

But valium is

A girl's best friend"

In a fit of submissiveness she hoped to get published but banged her head against the bed instead.

Politics, you are correct!

I hear your motorcycles circling my paranoia. Your tiny smelly scrotums sticking to the seats. I couldn't be less impressed. My annoyance stuck in second gear.Get lost said the raven overhead.

My name is a poem

And yours is pornography to my ears

I was gendered correctly in the cat house & knew the happiness that brought

Would be quickly blown to bits

And it was… Like sands in the litter box

These are the moments we'd love to forget

But which burrow into our heads like septic drill bits.

Sick black kittens EVERYwhere. My magnificent privileged panther doesn't get it. Vibrating purr lord. He knows the vascular anatomy of my humanity & sinks his teeth in.

My name is whiny poetry and my hands flash fiction in sign language only Geminis understand. Free bleeding & the Future of Femininity. The hoax that drove the bus over a cliff and onto the camel's back. A single-hump highway that crumbles like original infrastructure  There's no future for feminine tentacles. Here's where we slip into the kind of genetic engineering I've always dreamed of.

Asleep like a street. Awake like a saint. I wipe your blood out, not just away from the screen. A verbose & indiscreet genocide. Gendercide. Gumbocide.

Your babies will be made of carbon on a 3-D matrix & you'll love them like devices, hold them in the palm of your mind, bypassing the gore of maternity and Father's Day will be the loudest holiday of all!!

Juliet is dead, but long live she--Let her die by hormones that begin w/ T--Let her be memorized like a nursery rhyme--and please God let me stop crying…

1-22-16

O-TOWN OUTSIDER

FRIENDS!

"Pastry cafe in the heart of danger

Off-off Disney, behind tinted glass in 

This town that's been in the news

For everything but terror…"

This is the beginning of a poem I wrote on Nov 24, 2015 called O-TOWN OUTSIDER. I do not think it's one of my clairvoyant outbursts though. I remember when I wrote it thinking, what could be more horrific than a massacre in a theatre, an elementary school, a church, a concert in Paris? Because I knew that even after Paris there would be no change (here in America) in gun control legislation.

And I came up with Disneyland. Maybe if the Magic Kingdom took a hit we would all wake up. It is not the most original idea. I'm sure Carl Hiassen wrote a book about it in the 90s. But I started a poem about terror in/at/around Disney & then as poems do it became more of a statement on overpopulation and violence and greed. 

Anyway… I have no words yet for what has happened once again in our country. As with every massacre this one has levels of horror that surpass the ones before it. And the quadratic arguments are going round: It was guns! It was mental illness! It was toxic masculinity! It was homophobia! It was terrorism!

It was all of those things. But mostly it was the deadly weapons in the hands of an enraged, unstable, self-loathing homophobe.

After trans issues--and possibly ahead of them--gun violence is my main concern in this world. I have my own stories of gun violence (some of which I recounted in my "manifesto") and I believe that guns need to be removed from our society as a means of self defense. Guns should be for soldiers and law enforcement only. Actually, no guns for soldiers either, or law officers. And oh yes, I mean ALL guns. Handguns to automatic cumblasters. No guns for you! I am the gun nazi! I don't care if you hate it. Come & get me NRA.

**********************************

All right. Now that we have that taken care of, here is more stream of consciousness:

When my mind is an ocean I can see alphabets and formulas. Colors and futures. Today there is a swamp in my skull. Sloshing with microbes and alligator teeth. An unseen inbred master holds my chain-of-consciousness so I look for a headline to howl at. To bark my jaws against, only sharpening tone but dulling the sound bite. It's idiom as curious as an opaque surface erupting in bubbles. Hark, who breathes there? Who insists upon life where souls are made of mud? The stream-of-command handed down in rusty brown genetic codes. Green is the only color that disobeys. I am flooded with Floridian blood in this Federal Republic; I abandon femininity in favor of no flavor. Traversing the glade with no weapon but my blissful ignorance. 3-3-16

****************

How Monday begins with such uncertainty when Sunday finished in first place? The reset that occurs between 3 a.m. and its next-of-clock kin. The Start Over button in the temple gets pushed by moonbeams. Dreams compiled on quicksand assure no default setting becomes the Establishment. How I wake into this week of waiting, my own head a ringing telephone. How I wake without a trial, how I RSVP the host of my modern era. Sorry I can't be there until the end. I have to leave early so my soul can be parsed into unwanted pregnancies. I have to sing like an angel to earn my wage, to win my war on femininity. I wore it well past its freshness date. It expired on my back, all around my bones it wrapped like a lost weekend. It expired on my watch and it can't be reset. There will be no answer, there will be no message left. 3-7-16

*****************

Tepid waters…loosened shark teeth, urchin spikes. Soft mind dragging tender feet along the shoreline. Can we have enthusiasm for a life that will never live up to this exotic metaphor? Our hospital getaways, our cubicle destinations don't ionize our stardust. We rot tooth-first into a green burial. Enough! Enough of this lament--it's so last century and that's where my fossil is buried. The single-boned organism that was me while I was here. After I departed from the stars and landed in my solitary skin cell. I've had some glory here--I've seen candy, I've touched love's private doorknob, I've listened to fingers exploring forbidden sockets. My current sensory overload--you in your carbon cross-legged sentence. Pulling acoustic nerves from my neck…denying my existence while copying its molecules' sequence. The colors I shovel at your goggled pupil, the baby steps you take in retrograde. I would have gay trans man sex w/ you for sure.

3-11-16

**************

Riots in Chicago. Friday ruptures. Centipede activity. Each segment extending a hand, a prickled leg, from recent history to a future so bloated and slimy--call the coroner. Call the cops to the corner where the first root slithered underground. It's a warehouse full of plants. The skeletal sunflower scientists shout from their tall vantage but the baby's breath never gives up suction. Strangle of the middle class, weeds so mediocre, such bland demographic putting its numbers behind the maybe of its existence. Thrusting its shoulders into fluorescent sun, illuminating a podium where hate speech will be supported, where obscenity will lean like a wounded soldier beside it. I saw you picking cactus very carefully, coercing pansies and petunias with little resistance. I saw you digging up the snapdragons, flamboyant and belligerent. Sure, we'll join your riot. Tell us when to exhale and stand by with socialist hoses. Save your bullets for the Easter bunny. 3-13-16 

************

In the telling of my life story there is an echo. Over and over a reverb sensation squeezed through a throat or hallway, choking on the script. The bullshit scripture stapled haphazard, ripped, red pen hatching over the nest of truths I can't say. Truths I bit down on; interior shark attack. Deep tissue message--I am not a willing disciple. I won't play this role; I won't be cast. I will break every bone and barrier. I will live in a different time signature, I will carry myself like a tornado. Through nursery school fire to upper management isolation. Solitary confinement in a soul mate's embrace. A bridge covered in starlit fog, blockading our lift-off. Lifting our carbon corpses from the fuel tank. 3-18-16

****************

Whats up w/ her?

When my head won't give up its clouds I fill it with anchors. Get down from there I say, it's dangerous. "But I can see everything from here!" it protests. Everything's not yours to see, I tell it. Now sink down to sea level, drain your heart of curiosity, return to this tomb of a body. This is what you signed up for when you volunteered to leave the womb. We gave your soft little cloudhead a squeeze and you agreed--to serve in the karmic forces of the 21st century. There must be profit in misunderstanding. We'll find reasons to bomb McDonalds, we'll make a pinata of the church, a matchstick murder of skyclad moneyscrapers. I steal from the headlines because your wallet is in jail. I steal names and drop them from the radio tower. I steal and steal and steal and no one realizes all the freedom lives in my fist. All the joy is clenched in my throat. 3-24-16

****************

Good-bye friends. I love you all. Take care of yourselves.