Archive for May, 2010


When I die

commence a huge celebration

remember thisessence

and wear the clothes of color you like the most

small talkliment yourother’s dresses

and dine on pickled eggs and beets in baskets.


death is rebirth, afterall

and the sunshine smells so sweet

honeysuckle flowers

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still floating outside any world that might’ve been considered my own

what is mine here?

what’m’i doing

and all of this ending.


forest life and prickles



swept by temporal pleasure

and knowing cyclic failure

I’m straying from the path.


you taken care of? I just want you to be taken care of

i only feel good when i’m making sure someone else is okay

and even then,

sometimes i feel i’m doing only because i should be doing

not because i am goodness


i am not goodness.

drugs of all sorts

shake my soul

i am truly just a vessel for fleeting motions, feelings, abberations, affectations to pass through

nothing but some cask


just a husk for repositories

and when i get so serious i am dead



it doesn’t serve me to exist on this physical plane

like everyone insists i do.

it doesn’t serve to lie on a sandy bank

with no one to flow into

give me room to flow

open up your pores and pour me int


what have i done


how has it come to this point,

where ‘being’ in the sense of ‘normal living’ is impossible

i, now so incapable, of these things so many call “life”

because i’ve tasted the truth beyond, the “real life,” per say,

and it has captured me

so that no one can lie in a way I’ll believe any longer

all that is

is breath

. union.

how can i come to care about anything else?

serial stagnation


a failure by social measures

a success in the eyes of the only person I’ve ever met

who understands what is actually important

you get

you’d get

if you were here

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Done For

you’re like a signifier for everything I’m coming to want

epiphanies need to be had by the two of us? before we can meld together again?

what is happening when these humans come into our lives

and we can’t forget them

and we can feel them in our veins

firing our synapses for us

licking us clean

from the inside out   ?

i want to come for you

when it means nothing to me

but coming for you.

to feel again

that nonspace between our palms

. i can’t hope for any comparison.

i can only hope to remain in desperate hoping

for the rest of this time (whatever length that might imply)

really though,

it’s coming to MEan

i need someone else to care for

spending life making love and magic


individual momentum has fallen off
fallen for.

i can’t do this

i am too afraid to do anything but this.

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it’s pretty clear

no one is to be counted on.

what to do with that?

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Paradox ma pox

In kundalini,

I cry.

I fall out of the poses early

when it hurts

when it’s begun to bind my face

when i feel it coming out.

I think of how I need to feel that brow center,

how my energies and awareness must take pains to be shifted to that spot.

I think of how meye there seems to be slightly above where everyone’s always said it must have been.

I think of how my screenname on AIM was “IamtheBINDI” at twelve years old. Before I knew anything about anything

and how in my sophomore picture, I’m wearing a pink one. Slightly higher than where everyone says it should be.

And I wore a red one to homecoming

‘slike somehow I’d had some awareness amidst all the casual normalcy I’d been brought up to believe in.

The clouds are pink when I emerge from the room,

without the meditation I’d come for.

i open my face

and let it cry

saying how

things are so difficult

things have been so goddamn difficult for me these past months, what feels like many

and the worst part is

i feel like i’ve got no excuse

for hurting.

i cannot say that someone died or that i’m ill or poor or enslaved

all i’ve got

is an effort

to understand what life is

and what i should do with the vast array of choices consistently lining the path i walk.

all i’ve got is frustration for feeling so friendless

a disconnect with my guiding force

and the pain of love

the confusion of what feels like irreconcilability.

that no-strings feeling,

as if there is something serious that needs to be resolved

but it is impossible to resolve it right now

and will be for some time.

And me,

feeling like I might be ignoring what needs to be done due to circumstance

even though right now I can’t feel the power to know what must be done.

I’ve just got to trust

that I’ll know soon enough.

I’ll be able to connect and quiet and listen and understand

I’ll see clearly again one day soon


and allow for that to be true.

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I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness

Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

Take off your shoes

Take off my dress

I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness

Don’t be so blue

so blue, my love

This, too, shall pass

This, too, shall pass

But tell me, tell me what

have I done

to deserve you?

Must have done something

’cause that’s how

it works.

Must have been kind

to kittens and birds

in a previous life

Must have thought happy thoughts

happy thoughts

‘Cause there,

you were there, right beside me

and somehow inside me while

inside myself

Books on the shelf

Thoughts on the shelf

Hands to myself

I should definitely keep my hands to myself

’cause love

is a dangerous pastime.

Caught between madness and gladness

of flight

Nothing is wrong

and nothing is right

falling asleep

in your arms every night.

But love’s

such a strange situation

full of frustration and

anger and fear

Everything’s tears

Nobody hears

Nobody’s here and

Nobody hears


want to sing

to you, my love

My only love

and happiness.

Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

Take off your shoes –

Take off my dress

I want to sing

to you, my love

My only love and


Don’t be so blue,

so blue, my love

this too, shall pass.

This, too, shall pass.

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i miss you a lot today.

sipping a beer and whispering, “cherries.” “mulch.” to nonedurstanding and

for serious, man

miss what we made.

seems I need so much more when you’re not around.

it’s like,

i can’t get up now. or things are a dream.

it’s like,

i just wanna sleep. i’m sleeping awake.

it’s like,

i’m just outside it all, okay?

like. who else will forget time with me and taste each separate atom of air.


Here, even in this body full of humans who can be naked with one another

there somehow exists only pretense. some arboretum of walls dividing us via leaves and branches

unable to break down but with rigorous mental training?

why is it

so much more likely to be open in a locale which requires shutting down for survival.


missing some pieces to the puzzle

or whatnot.

i musn’t understand, surely. not him. not i. so much questioning reveals that lack and yawning lawn of confusion.




I’ll feel gently comforted now and then,

by temporal desires.

and while in so, get caught up in them.

like, this yoga class becomes my future.

this funny joke ultimate.

this instant connection something of value and meaning


fuck school.

i just want to live.

fuck plans and a schedule.

fuck it all beyond fantasy.

i wish to live outside in woods



discommunication. only one person i need



for fucking up.

some lesson resides here, i know it.

let’s run off to the woods

let’s learn about energy

let’s ‘wow.’

let’s let go of silly notions that anything’s of inherent worth or value

Theories of Relativity.

Let’s remember, Virginia, none missing anything if you’ve got everything in the palm of your hand (especially when that palm rests inside another of equivocal greatness)

but somehow i treated it wrong.

somehow i don’t have the answers yet

and it made things rather ruined?

Sometimes my romance, i think, is all I’ve got.

unconquerable delusions

insufferable questions

quaking when waking

so let choose to sleep.









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To sleep all day feels not a crime

when’s nothing wants my caring here.

really so often

it just feels i could give a fuck.

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This girl, some holy trinity,

our fire-fire-and air. rising silents and subtle around a table

at some cafe named for our temperaments.

3 to sidle aside one another

seamless and next

and maybe some kind of one.

All these skin-sac.s

reflections in the mirror showing all sides of mineself.

She’s the part of me that suffers

she’s the part of me that feeds.

He’s the piece of impatience

and him, the part that gets annoyed before regaining my composure.

Thomas doesn’t come to work anymore.

His job felt threatened by a temper

which refused to be calmed via ‘reason’ or ‘rationality.’

Wanting to steal this camo jacket!

Wanting to cash a self-written check!

If the world doesn’t manifest according to his surface dire needs,

Thomas flies handles.

His brow connects like a log of brick

and it’s all he can do to make noises from deep within his throat

his deafness aiding the expression of his zipping whip

his candid candle

“childlike” notions of truth, reality, importance.

Truelike notions.

Why shouldn’t he cash a $10,000 check he’s written himself?

None of that bank’s money is real anyhow.

So Thomas practiced his judo chop

in the air about his good friend’s aura.

He let the dishes drop and clang and swung around the racks.

He kicked the shins climbing out of cars

and sent his fist through plaster.

Now, where is Thomas?

In some quiet, dead quiet world of chest vibrations and racecar pajamas.

Maybe sitting on a rug, diving into a bag of raw onions

getting hay in his teeth and coming

out smiling

, his best friend playing the face of a clown.

making it easy on him

with nicknames and signatures.

Thomas, I love your tattoos

and the free drone of your chuckle.

I think it’s cool when you ask me through fingers

about the cleanliness of each individual plastic bowl.

Because I know none of them are really clean.

And the fact that you’re the only other one in the hot mist of the dishroom who knows that

is a comfort.

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These drugs,

simultaneously filling my insides and wetting,

pushing and cleaning them sloppily out.



strings and putty.



o   u    t

lids both halved and fulled.

Is this coming back? Me coming back?

I will admit. When we got off the phone I uttered aloud my disbelief. The rest of the day hovered in the final frays of our clinging

til the next day

.   I knew you’d gone.

He’s gone.

hes gone

I am not “his girl” any longer.

sometimes striking clarity will emerge from these smoking tangles.

I’ll see some curly-haired lemon tending.

I’ll see the necessity of all of this strife.

I will realize,    like,   +

the glorious reminder that we worked because of likeness

in other words, the brilliance I admired so so much in him


it is my potential. It is my past and my path and all that is ahead ,

twining. curling. eyelashes outside of spiraling shells,

lining tassel and velveteen.

I’ll see his happiness,          reclining,            billowing on a bed of smoke,           with some sort of moon gently lowering her breasts to his lips

he, Master, drinks from the breasts of the mother

and she’ll offer

if I’ve anything to do with it

just in hope

I’ll want for those teats to swell

with all the dusty swill of swirling elements and precious



canonical cradling.

Drink, precious beautiful son .

I stand by my assertion

of knowing and not, at once at all.

this is my present life, after all.

and sure, we never learn anything ‘knew’

we just reacquaint

but you know, with your study onthe brain

all the puppetry string meddling in to distort the leaves and falling plains laying deepin.

i know, but i don’t know.

and not yet so solid as to get this intuitively [for the here now lately]

so, sorry babe.

‘Tleast I know enough to cognitively recall how beauty is ugliness and vice verses rolling off silent tongues! This isn’t intuitive, there’ins the issue.

I’ll make it mine, boy. I’ll remember that fear is nothing but choice of death.

I’ll remember the vice versas,

the vices

my vic(tims)(tors)(es) whilstriving to surpass.

and someday, I know

this notion

like no one can understand me but him

like no one can connect as us

like God has escape d grasp and here’s the end

nothing to succumb but loneliness

– i know this will fade, in the face of our truth that all things shift, pass, swivel, and change.

doing my own dance of spirit, and life.

so here’s to fists

and rose wines.

toes between toes and grubby carpets.

here’s to the heavyness in reggae hips

the wisdom of ages

and impossibility of time.

here’s to storybook characters too real to be invented.

to bubbles

and fortunes told.

Here’s to flat squishy bread

and the sad smile that will always come to meye corners

when I think of how you learned to forget your teeth around me.

here’s to the cold washing over

in a room full of misunderstanding

and flirting as a standin for outrage.

here’s, babe,

to your softest skin

and the wave plains your arms made ;

the history of your hair.

the way your collar bones looked me in the third eye

through that cobweb street scholar sweater.

here’s to trying

and dying

and feeling

and mealing.

here’s to falling face first into darkness

and getting caught by light.

to too much talking


and extraordinary knowing.


the love

the pain

the process

our duty.

Here’s to conscious acting

and self-guidance life.

Here’s to our defiance

and beautiful, slow, but mutual compliance.


Thanks for playing my music.

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