Thursday Evening

2010-09-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

Hair in sea weeds. Skin sallow and wrinkled from this life long bath. Giving myself over to the waves. Eyes wide watching, knowing. Tender skin over jagged stones. Body smoothed softly like a beach pebble. All the while hoping for some beachcomber to pluck me out of this tidepool. To pocket me for a moment's curiosity. To turn me over to the shelves of shells and starfish. Or toss me back into the sea from warm hands.

2010-09-02T12:16:00.001-07:00

put me back on the shelf with the other toys

2010-09-01T08:18:00.000-07:00

he brought me blue roses. They came in a tall vase, stately and arranged. Baby's breath and matching ribbon sealing the deal. I put them by the window.

Beside the other dried blue roses.

hack hack cough cough

2010-08-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. My eyes, how they ache. Dry lips stick together. Arms that are heavier than ever. A dense pain in my stomach, rife with fear. Skin prickling with trepidation, or the onset of disease.

You crawl naked from my throat, unraveling from an endless black ghost of bile. Writhing in a mucous membrane, slick with saliva. My diaphragm strains and you are anxious to be free. Blood vessels pop. My esophagus rips tenderly against your phantom limbs. I can taste the blood and stomach acid as you enter my mouth, sensually dragging yourself onto my tongue. I am choking. Coughing. Reeling from your weight, sweating tears. You slide from my tongue like a fetus at birth, leaving strings of fluid hanging from my lips. You erupt into a little less than a cloud; leaving my body shaking with effort and laughter.

I'm not sure who is to blame.

2010-08-03T20:59:00.000-07:00

Tired hands in the flourescent light. tiny moles and hairs illuminated and unflatteringly present. what little these hands have done, in every gesture and touch. what lifelessness they hold. I once thought you frighteningly nimble. trained on feeling, blind feeling. clairvoyant. but: how you shake, in the light. How swollen knuckles meld to stretched tendons, covered with mottled wary skin. The arthritic tension, worn-out wrists.

2010-08-03T20:38:00.000-07:00

I pulled mosquitos from the air lazily
The ones that circled around you

I tried, I tried.
But it was all I could do to save you.
It was elegant and it was enough for me.

Abe

2010-07-29T11:17:00.001-07:00

Watching him was easy this time. He slept with his arms crossed and head on his shoulder, glasses falling slightly from his face. I stood across from him behind the bar, polishing a highball glass. A sweet breeze rambled in the open door. Abe slept like a baby, I thought. Like a cat in sunshine. How could such a man sleep so sound in a place like this? I put the highball on the shelf.

It was March. A cold unforgiving March. The chief called me in to his tiny bitter office and laid down the deal. Before I knew it I was on undercover assignment again, looking for cheap make-shift apartments and shaking up my wardrobe. When I'd arrived at the unit scant years ago, I was pleased for a chance to exert my knowledge in forensics and my sound analytical skills. Instead I was immediately pushed to the front as the show-piece, the dumb fall guy. And before I knew it I was driving trucks, posing as a legal intern, working the bar late on friday nights. I was undercover guy numero uno, hand-picked for my looks and my youth. "You just don't look like a cop," they said.

2010-07-15T14:25:00.000-07:00

The small boat, overstuffed with parcel and person and ready only for a small journey, sunk deep into the surface, parting the dark sea. The waves rolled apart from the bow like thick black dough, slow and deep and undulating. Tiny luminescent organisms splashed in the wake like sparks from a fire. Like the lights of a city we had long left behind in the night. Sluggishly the algae jumped and shone out from utter darkness, fragments of dreams in a state of half-sleep. We rode through this barren space nobly and silently, leaving a great trail of stars and galaxies. The formation of the universe. A meandering ship forging through unknown waters, lazily stirring up suns and constellations. Unearthing stars that flamed into space, then settled and smoldered until bursting into empty shells, dispersing the afterglow, and eventually fading from view.

2010-07-12T08:51:00.000-07:00

A caravan arrived, stuffed to the brim with all manner of mismatched luggage, salvaged scraps of food and cloth bound with twine or scarves or rope. An alchemist's paraphernalia, a pirate's plundered treasures. Copper clasps, bulging sacks, curiously shaped packages. Three generations of heirlooms, hodge-podged from all manner of families. Mystifying parcels peered out the windows like forgotten dogs, in longing and anticipation. Jigsawed and nestled together, sleeping. Waiting.

I'm predicting the future.

2010-07-12T08:44:00.001-07:00

We will let rice burn on the stove together. Take turns reading horoscopes. Lick the salt from each other's early-morning eyelids. Share spoons and cups and toothbrushes. Make each other cry. I'll wear your dirty socks. You'll comb my messy hair. We'll take separate vacations. Meet again older stronger and still hesitant.

2010-06-28T19:49:00.001-07:00

1:34 am glowed in my palm as I looked down to my phone. No calls. No messages. I stood in the close crowd of bodies, protected by their proximity and their strangeness. A moist wall of human scent rose up around us, forcing beads of sweat to my brow. We all tapped feet, bobbed heads, bent knees, swayed arms. Customized drones. The man in the dress to my left stepped left and back to right energetically, demanding and receiving a wider berth. We are a functional organism.

The violinist switched to a harmonica mid-song. The lead guitar was slick from sweaty palms. Six sets of eyebrows knit together. Six faces in painful ecstasy.

The lights went out. The music vanished, leaving only a loud electrical hum from an amp. A glass shattered to the floor. A scream broke through the murmuring voices. Someone laughed nervously.

A gunshot went off. Adrenaline erupted, hands pushed and grabbed and pleaded against the shirts of strangers. I was pushed forward onto the floor, sticky with beer and shards of glass. After the sixth shot was fired I stopped counting. I crawled forward against the sea of knees and shoes frantic for the door. I found the corner of the stage blindly, and navigated right, slipping into a corner. Ears ringing with human fear. I sank my head into my knees, bloody fists balled and shaking over my ears.

It took me a moment after it was silent to realize there were no more gunshots. That there was no sound at all. No more footsteps or screams or moans or names called out or chairs being tripped over. I rose my head in the darkness. The air was cold, stinking of fear. In minutes I had composure enough to slip my body noiselessly around the corner and begin crawling to the exit. Hot blood soaked my knees and palms. My hand slipped over a rubbery limp forearm and made a dull thump on the floor. I froze.

2010-02-21T14:47:00.000-08:00

When we stopped at the light, she leaned over. Her silver pendant swung against my shoulder, hot breath on my neck. The lights of passing cars tigerstriped her face.

"Please" she whispered. "Pleease." she pleaded. There was something about her desperate tone; the downturned edges of her thin lips. I knew this time she wasn't playing games.

"I'm not stopping," I said. She stared back at me, a tremble at her mouth. Her eyes widened, pulsing as yellow as the seventh sun of Vropticon. They bulged threateningly. "Kara." I said. "Kara. I don't want to stop." She jolted back against her seat, arms crossed. Thin bits of drool spun from her sagging lips. "Its my decision. Its my fucking life." My anger rose fast and the words choked me. She said nothing.

I slouched towards the window, turned on the radio. Garbled Wegavian slipped through the speaker, heavy with static. Lucky. I knew she hated Wegavian. I was eager to piss her off. The air felt dry and heavy. Hard to breathe. I knew without looking that her torso was shriveling. Her skin, darkening. Her eyes even more aglow than ever. When I did look her body was transformed. Limbs beyond skeletal and insect-like, her heavy head dangling from a limp neck. "There you go again," I said. "Get your shit together." She slid forward to the floor helplessly, pleading with her mouthless horror of a face.

2010-02-12T17:51:00.000-08:00

You've come a long way from tipping your cereal onto the carpet. From soaking tears into my shirt. These days you feel beautiful and have sex with strangers. Now you know how artistic it is to smoke cigarettes.

2010-01-31T01:59:00.000-08:00

How tiring it is, sitting on the sidelines. What keeps you in the game? Is it those fully square meals? Or a gallon of liquor?

wood for the fire

2009-11-23T07:44:00.000-08:00

The slow fall; leaves returning to the ground. I'm going back to my roots too, but not back to you. I'll be sinking into the ground singing. The great gravital inertia pulling us all into the same grave. The big pressure. A single silent tsunami wave tucking us into bed.

I know you heard about Martha Tilston before I did but you don't have to brag about it.

stuck pig

2009-08-08T09:21:00.000-07:00

"Too soft for the hard road ahead", its true. You can find me in the ditch nuzzling with a rock, soiled by the wind of passing cars. Looking down. Wearing flip-flops. I dream heartily about wild adventures and the test of the human body. Dream from the very stillness of my atrophied legs and arms. Longing dreams that grasp for the reins and the world. Dreams that stretch from birth to present.

Its hard to remember if I was waiting for someone or if I just needed a rest. Nor does it matter, no one's hands can lift me now.

Yesterday we found the truth: in seeing and feeling

2009-08-07T04:55:00.000-07:00

Shimmy those knees a little --
yeah loosen up those hands
cerebral palsy is a thing of the past!

things I can't explain

2009-02-28T10:34:00.000-08:00

The beauty and simplicity of an old man.

2009-02-28T10:13:00.000-08:00

That feeling of waking in the mid-morning in Marrakech, to the sounds of footsteps on cobblestone yelling in the streets cooing in the riads. The cool sensation of the air and the stone floors and walls; crisp, contrasting to the burning rising sun that scours the tops of buildings until it is high enough in the sky to rid the streets of their cool dark shadows. The taste of cheap marmalade on fresh round bread, steaming mint tea in tiny glasses. The smell of the air, something in it; everything in it, so strange. The feeling of being welcomed into a new day inside the walls of the medina, into this warped disneyland of culture, spurned with the nagging scent of timeless, ageless, orange trees.

I spy

2009-01-27T20:01:00.000-08:00

what makes you think those little pieces of flesh interest me in the slightest?

2009-01-22T17:41:00.001-08:00

I have just the thing for you; you filthy little slut
It's a mammogram
I wish I didn't have have to touch you
but I am a medical doctor.
Raise your arms, let me slide on your goosebumps

Is it cold in here?
Don't give me that sour lemon lip
I wish there was a machine that could do this for me.
What did you just say to me?
nice girls know when to shut the fuck up.

I'm done here.
Speak to the nurse
Don't forget this prescription
And please find another doctor
Oh yeah,
Crying isn't becoming of a lady.

blorg

2008-12-31T04:13:00.000-08:00

Ghost faces flicker in and out of your eyes. An electrical hum rises to crescendo crossing paths with sweat and the sweet absence of regret. The patchwork skin drew me to you, faded pieces of cloth and scar tissue sewn together with shed hair. In the florescent light I pick you apart for your pieces. This scarred skin I can brave tenderly, worn denim stroked like a kitten, interspersed with parasitic growths; I flinch over their ragged warmth. I fear the undead in you, the ghost faces. The foreign dna still pulsing with hot life, bulging with your breath, laying with you when I lay with you. A hundred past collar bones and corners of the eye caught in your patchwork web of memory. These are your battle scars. Your jeering points over jager and hot smokey nights with the boys.

goodnight

2008-12-27T21:49:00.000-08:00

"You can sleep when you're dead"

"Shut the fuck up, Gary, put your dick away."

"Jesus girl, where'd you get that mouth." This wasn't a question.

She turned off the lights.

"I have to work tomorrow," and quietly, after a pause, "asshole."

Cold hands feel more invasive in the dark.

watch out

2008-12-27T21:28:00.000-08:00

"Tuesday you're making a cheese plate, and by Wednesday you're being fucked by choco in your week-old pyjamas, bleeding from every orifice"

look

2008-12-27T21:25:00.000-08:00

Cereal

2008-12-05T09:01:00.000-08:00

Owl or dog? Yeah, YOU'RE the one with the problem.

2008-12-01T16:26:00.000-08:00

Contrived

2008-12-01T16:22:00.000-08:00

The secret of attraction

2008-12-01T16:19:00.000-08:00

It's true,

2008-12-01T15:57:00.000-08:00

I've been watching you for a while now.

cat on the stoop

2008-11-28T10:02:00.001-08:00

theres a cat on the stoop
a cat on the stoop
oh no
OH NO
it's a big problem,
a motherfucking HUGE problem
shit guys
what are we going to do?

marsh

2008-11-28T09:48:00.000-08:00

I need the sweet sickly trickle of you into my veins. I'm waiting. Anticipating. Crawling on the floor, back arched; knees scraping and palms bruising. There is danger here; our understanding tenuous in a cloud of smoke and downturned eyes; this history of ours built up in my garden alone; roping vines and squelching weed that leech the soil into heat and submission. It is here I walked and fell and crawled; soaked in the sweat of these pulsing growing things. It is here you can find me, if you peer through the undergrowth and the sickly damp smoke; or rip and gnaw a way through these inhuman limbs and branches.

Come into my garden, my secret garden; soak yourself humid, let moss grow into your hair and arms, dig your feet into the rotting leaves and the warm humus and grow with me, shake with me.

some kind of something

2008-11-28T09:43:00.000-08:00

we leap towards eachother closely slowly
never quite reaching, never hearing
feeling
the same as those who dance interlocked in the streets
invite me in
to the forest
logs fallen ghosts calling echoing in this shallow yellow light
mandolin
plays for me the words you did not say
trumpet-lovely
mustache-wary
come away to the ocean
we'll forget all these instruments of passion, fashion
all the tools and rules
it's just you and I left alone at the end
at the fall of dark
at the receding of tide
at the moment of starfish un-sticking from the rocks
how romantic.

despues de la parada

2008-11-27T21:37:00.000-08:00

The resolute faces and the sporadic tapping clicking things floating above the surging monster growl. My body touches all the lurching people humorlessly. Canes and paper rolls jutting, falling books and mugs, someone is vibrating and fourteen frequencies are being tuned into. We are all disdainful by circumstance, too aloof. Someone has a bloody nose.

Scavenger

2008-11-27T11:11:00.001-08:00

I've always been a scavenger. It's not a word I'm especially proud to call myself but I suppose it's apt. It's a name my uncle gave me when one day, visiting his principal's office, he caught me casually rooting through the school's lost and found bin. "What are you looking in there for?" "Oh, I just... well you know, just looking." I stumbled over my words. I was hoping that my glance had been brief enough to be passed off as a young person's curiosity. Uncle Ed gave me a serious look. "Really? Well you have the eyes of a scavenger," he said. And then, "I understand people." He turned into his office and held the door for me before changing the subject. "Well, when am I supposed to bring you to your dad's?"

It was a mundane enough encounter, but it's always stuck with me. Scavenger. Scavenger Kayla. I'd built a character around myself in my head since that day. I started wearing fingerless gloves and taking unnecessary walks, especially in winter. Something about the cold fingertips and earlobes made me feel like the crows I'd often see on the old bank downtown; those ominous birds that went unnoticed, but let nothing slip by themselves. A dropped foil candy wrapper, a stray paper cup; each person and item in the streets scanned and analyzed for use and worth by their careful eyes. I had always found it strange that they chose the old bank as their perch. So many other suitable rooftops, but they chose the eldest, the most gradiose and run-down gothic building. I imaged they did it for image.

My first pair of fingerless gloves had been found at a the bus stop, one piled neatly on top of the other, still warm from someone else's sweaty palms. I looked around conspicuously before snatching them up into my bag. I didn't wear them even though it was february and I had no mittens with me. I could never wear or use something as soon as I picked it up; I always had to bring it home first ritualistically, add it to my dresser or put it in storage first; even if only for half a day, before I could make use of it. Something about this system made it feel less wrong, less like stealing. As if I was only picking up a book or a hat I had forgotten I'd owned.

It wasn't always easy to pull the wool over my own eyes. I had the conscience of a chronic thief but I tried to rationalize myself out of this categorization constantly. A thief was someone that broke windows, slipped quick hands into pockets on the subway, walked out of walmart in four layers of clothes. A thief engaged in big thrills and shady business. A thief left a trail of evidence behind; messy and imperfect, their crime was bound to be discovered. A thief was someone who was noticed. I was never noticed.

If anyone ever asked me where I got my book bag or CD compilation of jazz music, I gave the routine answer; salvation army. Or occasionally, if the questioner had a suspicious look in their eye, it was a gift. From my grandmother. Who shops at the salvation army. No one could distrust a grandmother. And if they really did recognize my t-shirt as one they had taken on and off their own body, washed folded and put away hundreds of times; who was to say it hadn't been lost and donated somewhere for cheap re-sale? These lies insulated me with a thin layer of relief; I was never challenged, never outed.

Only once was my secret habit nearly discovered, and only once have I felt true and honest guilt. I was 12 and walking to school with a purple scarf I had recently recovered from the playground in my neighbourhood. It was near to dusk and hanging sadly from the monkey bars, not a person in sight. I pulled it down and bundled it under my coat, smuggling it home.

Anyways, I was walking to school with this violet tightly knit scarf around my neck. As I approached the milling of children and the big brown doors of Central Stewart Elementary, I remembered with the burning anxiety that it was the day for our class's Christmas gift exchange. The girl I had picked, Shelley, I hadn't known very well, and thus had forgotten all about her gift. I suddenly had an idea. I tore off my scarf and carried it hidden in my coatsleeve into the classroom where Mrs. Talbot was sifting papers on her desk. I quietly approached her. "Um.... " I stammered. She looked up and over her glasses into my timid face. "Mrs. Talbot I forgot to wrap my Christmas gift for the exchange, I was wondering.... if there was, if I could, you know, wrap it here? I don't have any paper." I gushed out. Her tired face broke into a smile. "Of course my dear, it's Christmas. There is some tissue paper in the art cupboard back there." She lazily returned her attention to her papers, and I busied myself with wrapping the purple scarf.

After recess, our first morning lessons, and second recess, the class resumed and Mrs. Talbot gave the class a glowing grin, a santa-glint in her eye. "Alright class, it's the time to open our pre-Christmas gifts! Everyone stay seated and I'll call out the names." She sat beside the tiny tree in the corner of the class that was surrounded in all manner of packages, poorly wrapped at last minute like mine or neatly done over with bows and folded edges by loving mothers. Once all the gifts had been distributed and the tag-less items had been figured to one owner or another, Mrs. Talbot announced that we could open our gifts.

My reindeer-wrapped box contained numerous chocolates, a small tree ornament in the shape of an elephant, and a pair of unisex green and red striped socks. I sighed. I snuck a glance over at Shelly, and froze with fear. She was holding the scarf at arm's length and giving it a disdainful expression. Samantha Robbs and Lara Stone were standing around her desk, discussing something in catty whispered tones. The group of girls moved up to Mrs. Talbot's desk and resumed their discussion with her, eyeing their classmates uneasily.

After the group talk, Mrs. Talbot addressed the class. "It has just been brought to my attention that someone has received a gift that may have belonged already to someone else in this class. Mrs. Talbot looked over the students, but catching my fearful gaze, she paused. I could feel the burning eyes of everyone around me, and the whispers start up. "I know that some of you may be less able to purchase gifts for your classmates, but I will not tolerate stealing in this classroom." She continued. My face was hot, I was caught, the class had seen Mrs. Talbot's eyes meet mine for a little too long, they now saw my worried face and red splotchy cheeks. A testing gaze around me after the incident had passed still revealed hateful glares from all directions.

Pammukale

2008-11-11T09:11:00.000-08:00

We climbed up the arms of this ivory creature, startled at first by the pureness beneath our tired feet. The dreamlike whiteness, jutting out from this craggy earth, these broken lands. One great lump of sugar fallen from the heavens. Slow ascension of the beast inspired fascination; the love-drunk of a fresh snowfall; deliriousness that stripped even the muslims of their clothes, and children of their inhibition until the critical masses gathered at the summit, shrieking and laughing into the waters. These religious moments interspersed like the giant cupped hands of spring-fed water resting down the mountainside, in cotton-white luminescent sunglow. Our lashes turn down to the tired horizon, bleeding out it's last golden waves, this rich light seeping into our skin and these echoes of ruins around us, repeated columns and tall wavering archways; poppy-covered, grown-in to the hillside. The seeking wanting earth devouring every anomaly breathlessly, carelessly. Pulling these pillars downward, eroding this carved stone and the pained human faces. The falling darkness obliterating our features, closing our eyes, coaxing our bodies into curved and gentle fawns, cheeks to the ground.

the worst part of knowing : (

2008-11-09T01:55:00.001-08:00

These strange feelings left over at the end;
the girl I could not ever conquer and
the man I could not hope to attract
but it's all lost
all irrelevant
all in the sparklers
and the word which I cannot name
the "D" word
that I am now known for
by some strange fluke of passion
is it so
are you convinced?
Your drink is strange to me
your being
is
is it?

I am kept awake by suspense of my undoing;
To know this is to shed tears; metaphorically at least.

2008-11-04T19:59:00.000-08:00

These hours turned to years and you fluttered on the bitter wings of awakening too soon from a dream. What creeping winds uncoiled your hair and disturbed the fine dust across your cheeks in the dappled light of morning. We rose to life creakingly and achingly, eyes rolled back in denial of consciousness.

2008-11-04T02:24:00.000-08:00

5 am; I'm wondering if it's the end of a long night or just an early beginning. The body is bruised and stained in splotches of ink, dark circles illuminating the eyes romantic and haunting from sickness and sleep. Uncombed hair and the twitching of that lefthand muscle that ropes around the inside of the forearm. The stale breath of a sidamo blend and cold fried rice lingering in the fingertips. All that's left over is a broken brandy snifter, a finished script, and a rumpled t-shirt. From whence these three talismans came and where they converge is a mystery known only to rivers and deep-delving tree roots; I can only hope to synthesize a rationale for selfish purposes. The pages of the mind, eyes reflected in hundreds of shards of glass, a heartbeat leftover warmth in those clothes you shed. Step out from behind these complicated words and let your skin drip and melt into the sea; open your arms in surrender and embrace the fragility and sharpness of your reflection.

I'm constantly stirring this murky water, changing the sheets. Unsticking your taste from the roof of my mouth. If the door wasn't so thin already I'd turn the key and dim the lights to you. This groping and restless eyelids shaking in the dark; the low whine of pens scribbling, muted out. Creaking knobs divined in whispers streaming up and down the staircases; motion-blurred. An echo of rustling, the outside bearing in on winds and in the furs of sneaking creatures. These wild dogs and I embrace in desperation against the glare of a warning sky. In this house you are a troubled ghost of a man; translucent eyebrows betwixt in mourning and fear.

Beggar Woman

2008-10-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

walking
feet shuffling
eyes slackened
a stone in the river of youth

singing
hoarse tones
of forgotten tunes
trying to revive a faded age

sitting
withered and shapeless
soiled and shameless
a tired animal squatting in filth

crying
flesh drooping
shoulders stooping
tears like tears for the dead

begging
cupped hands trembling
puckered lips mumbling
a vending machine of redemption

this is it...

2008-10-27T01:50:00.000-07:00

Driving through the wastelands that night, into the wild west countryside of an alien planet, I could tell we were getting close. A silver sunset orbed in the horizon, slick and steaming into the cold rising dusk. Our skin glowed with translucent fervor and our hearts pumped together, carrying us up and over the cracked and cratered earth. Hair bristled defensively, muscles warm and tense, we were ready. Ready to fly over the horizon into a cold and frightening world. The screech of some organism clung to the windows and hummed every bit of metal in the ship; it's bolts and fixtures already trembling under the atmospheric stress. And we sat calm.

"I fucking love you." he said, straight-faced, fixed forward.
"I know." We didn't need to look at each other. We didn't need to touch. The touching and looking were long over.

Suddenly the ship jolted underneath us, pulling my heart downward for an instant as if on elastic. There was a high pitched screech and a burning steam began to seep through the floor panels. The smell of burning was all around us. The ship would not last long.

Moths to a flame

2008-10-19T15:55:00.000-07:00

I stood square, transfixed by his smirk. Excited. I felt the adrenaline like cocaine; fearlessness and wonder. He broke into a rolling laugh, those parted thin lips too child-like for the deep voice. I stepped closer and felt his body rise defensively. I was feeling cocky. I was feeling like a man.

"What are you laughing at?" The words uncoiled from my sly mouth. One more step and I pushed his shoulder roughly with a tiny hand. Caught off balance, his eyes hardened briefly and he returned the shove. In the half second of stumbling backwards there was danger in the air. I had lost control. I felt my eyes widen, heart beat blood, hair prickling like an animal. The house and it's dim light and closed doors mocked my fear; I had stepped outside the territorial boundaries. His eyes told me this. The seeping darkness and moist air told me this. I stepped back and he advanced, laughing again.

Love Poem

2008-10-19T15:40:00.000-07:00

I wanna be in the dirt -- thats how I like my life
hot and dusty-itchy sweaty
SWEATY SWEATY DIRTY LIFE
but
The way you YELL at the fucking dog
turns me on
and I can't EXPLAIN this feeling I get to slide
my sticky hands in your long long long hair
(or fuck on the floor)
til I don't give a shit about modern ART

2008-09-30T19:07:00.001-07:00

I'm sliding my hands into drawers and peeking under the cloth in the cupboards.

2008-09-30T19:03:00.001-07:00

The cold brings back too many memories for me; the smell of green green weed burning and soaking into jackets and long scarves, mingling with the sweet scent of decomposing leaves. The sharp feeling of a deep breath after a short and joyous leap in a heavy coat. Thick mittens woodpiling in Orgiva, twig snapping, picking olives. Running with the dogs through the goatpath and into the valley, the early morning shiny dew on the oranges and lemons. The cold floor on an early sunday morning before the sun peaks, coffee steaming

the state of things

2008-09-30T16:43:00.000-07:00

Wildfire fear spreading in the body, pupils burning like an animal, four feet on the ground, muscles hot and tense. Autumn day short of breath against the winter, striking, awakening, real. Forethoughts of starvation. Sudden blindness, claws raised. Futility. Apprehension, steaming from the lurid earth. Grasping me by both hands. Pulling me into the sinking marsh. Going down fighting.

rememory

2008-09-28T08:36:00.001-07:00

play my sorrow; a violin

weeping across the strings

caress my neck in misery

until my sorrow sings

2003

so simple after all

2008-09-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

More and more I am coming to the conclusion that I am not so complicated a person after all. I represent a small part of human nature and animal instinct and I am true to my creed; I hunger for food and flesh and love, I need the adrenaline of a short sprint and the calm of a lonesome walk. So much of my memory relating to time has to do with it's relativity; the moments of passion and excitement and fear dwarfed by the large expanse impressed in my memory by strolls up hill road and into the bush and the fields, the strange pause of connectedness I feel knee-deep in Lake Mindemoya in front of my house. Such a large space of my life is dominated by this calmness, this aloneness, this intrinsic connection with nature. It stands up humbly for itself against my overwraught fears and my intense desire for action, distraction, and change.

Days of youth

2008-09-28T08:02:00.000-07:00

We stand in the pouring rain, in the centre of town but
untouched by streetlights. Stale moist cigarette smoke
curling with the rain and soaking in our skins. Crapulent on
whisky and darkness; that glorious feeling of humans
together in the truest form, our bodies sillouetted against
the darker night and kept united by gradiose banter. We are
the unseen, we are the mud-creatures, the rain-things, the
frogs and slugs and feckless wild dogs freaking into the
streets. The air pulsates with a deep drum ground sound, we
growl and scream with unbridled vigor. The freedom of
carelessness is nauseatingly pleasurable; we run and run our
formless bodies against one another brashly. Savage freedom
becomes mythology; these legendary spirits of the
intoxicated night live in our dreams and stories. The mud
becomes skin as we huddle together and intertwine our lives
with the paths of stars.

2008-09-17T18:12:00.001-07:00

An obsessive preoccupation
suffocate.
smother.

rememory

2008-09-17T18:12:00.000-07:00

play my sorrow; a violin

weeping across the strings

caress my neck in misery

until my sorrow sings

2003

boys and bars

2008-09-07T08:09:00.000-07:00

Dear Saturday morning:
You will never find a nice boy at a bar. Just forget about it.
-Friday night

What times are these?

2008-08-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

this one-eyed step
this single cat
the iron leaf on the withered grate
that clattering of birds
the chattering of plates

shahal fessa'a?
que hora es?
what time is it?

Morning

2008-08-17T08:39:00.000-07:00

Listening to music is like some kind of teasing sex without the orgasm. I wake up to a song touching me like a warm hand on my thigh. All I can smell is my stale breath and stale beer. Everything is low and broken like the room had been picked up and shaken. The sound warbles and flows and I can't stop touching myself. I live for this delerious state between sleep and wakefulness, when it's too early to feel ashamed.

Rain rain rain

2008-08-17T08:15:00.000-07:00

It's all about enjoying your life right now I
suppose, forgetting all the bad dreams,
breathing in the clarity and feeling the
feeling pulse and shake in your chest. Just
going with the way of life and realizing that
no experience is ever finished, is ever a
completed thought in your head it's all part
of a great big puzzle where everything stays
connected but never quite fits together
perfectly. The goal is to jump right in and
understand it by accepting it and going on
some great hope and faith just for the hell
of it.

To be aware of your body and realize this is
the only true reality, this is only where
something exists, really.

I realize the fixation derives from weakness,
a fail-safe, an identity, a fragile strain of
attachment that lies about it's existence, to
change walk on across the water and choose to
see a new vision
I feel as if Christ and God is a metaphor for
being the master and saviour of your own
thoughts as subjets.... God made man in his
own image, this is our saving point, this is
our great hope, that we can even attempt in
aspiration. And this the genius is really
closer to God, closer to this strange clarity
and sense. The higher you are, the farther
you can see.

It's one great fraudulent and utterly
laughable fact: all religions describe this
one thing, this mysticism created of allegory
and metaphor, that is that completely
mundane assertion.

This is Antonello. This is Jawad. This is
Grandpa Black, this is Ryan. This is man as
the great stand-in, the great pawn, the great
metaphor.

The space between the stars

2008-08-14T08:45:00.000-07:00

"My whole life I had felt a little bit lost, like things didn't quite fit right. When I saw him for the first time, I knew that he was the missing piece of the puzzle. He looked into my eyes and said, 'Welcome home'."

-A woman, the radio

Saturday morning

2008-08-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

I felt as if my tears, the unknown sensation of whether or not I was peeing, the wetness I felt around me, and my own thoughts seemed
to meld together in my visual sensations, creating a very moist, vivid, changing, living reality. Upon looking at the clock, I realized that it had no
meaning to me. I could not discern what importance it had to the current moment, whether it was morning, afternoon, night ? in fact these concepts were
literally forgotten.

ghostcat

2008-08-08T20:47:00.000-07:00