Posts Tagged ‘body’

too many inroads

my brain awash in the dishwater, peanut-butter floaties and no-names leaving skids and skuzz and goop millipeders thick on my hollowed skull basin.

Making friends with writers. Internet fighters. Burning through new karma and leaving what? behind

CONcentrate on trying not to hurt yourself.

distract from the urge to maim

your body’s nothing but a speck anyway

what determines its use for any fewl?

What determines your right to look in the mirror, girl, and to judge what you’ve seen there? Mostly it’s this out-of-body understanding that’s not I. pleading eyes

Yet the shirt comes up each time

an examination of how much has accumulated lately

and why my skin’s noticing the mazecage of this belt\noose

Where’s the rubbin spots? What shapes am I making now. How can I blow

or bust through the rocks of this hard earth. Sinking


drooping to crispen, a christened burning of sallow cremation

nowhere for these ashes spreading.

I feel even my dishonesty must be dishonest.

Too lies make a truth?

which personage belongs here anyhow and why come none are physically recognized.

writing seems to make everything realness, like I need that recordation.

I get it: everything that happens has a consequence. Con. CON CON CON. A negative. A trick.

the other side

I am a living CONsequence, rife in CONtradiction


I have CONditions. One in a moment, millions at a time. “Condition.” Akin to disease or rather experience? Guidelines? Condition; Softness.

billions of one suggested coughing-blood cottony incident.

It’s like,

you’d ask me who I am

when the answer’s a constant fluid, ripping through a plastic bag into a fireplace.

not to mention blasting past any hands outstretched to catch

lightning in the sand, becoming then an iced sculpture skulking saltward, ebbing out.

Or an answer seems not to make sense

because the opposite seemed also to be true, simultaneously.

How unusual and unlike lifelike (.)

what a damn nuisance it is to be ignorant –

or greater, to have knowing and deal with the ignorant. Tolerate them. Mistakenly love them when their naivety prevents them from weaving a net underneath you in return.

Is that too simple?

what frustration. More, what ache. What selflessness to take the hand of some dirty girl, embittered and caked in the cum of wrong-cousins

spider-eyed with doubt that one can ajar minus defense.

Boy, I don’t know. I just feel tired. And seeing that this love’s developed in me and a crater in you, like I scraped your earth to shape my own thirsty pyramid-

scraping, with a wooden spatula, the man’s tongue clean out at the dance-hint of a threat. Like he was going for an imaginary gun, truly just a statue inside a stranger’s car: a tool for lighthearted relations.

If that is what I have done, (and I have, but perhaps not finitely) I wish you’d pirouette away, wispy-dancing in the clouds like you belong amongst the pink harnessed satins and richness of beyond. A Gate to that place. The OUT sign: exiting a fence into an open field, where cows and folks and caterpillars merge together steaming like the bed of a forest floor



you’ve BecOME.

I just wanna be a pile of leaves after all. exhaling fermentation

I just wanna crouch down mid-dancing, catch a bloody baby in my arms while crying tears and bouncing

smoothie up the coming placenta

and gullet it one swift popeyeGulp.

I just wanna clean my bowl with soup

and drink my urine on repeat

till I’ve sweated-breathed-hoped it gone.

Then shrivel.

disappearing with a trebling PUH of a leaf letting go; the dried up umbilical cord dropping off and getting snapped up by the next wolf who manages to scrounge by.

I offer this to the hungry ghosts; all centuries of them dwelling inside of me. Those which I transferred to you when we pricked the insides of our elbows and pressed the mothersunspots together



throbbing and cantankerous sexperiments


I am sorry we passed more than blood in that bodily exchange.

maybe if we’d known we wouldn’t have opted

to drink all the sins and gas from centuries past.

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Young women, listen to me –

I’m talkin’ to you.

Don’t come down here before your time.

It’s dark and cold.

Nothin’ doin’ down here

but the Grandmothers sayin’

“Anorexia Bulimia!

Tell the young women this for us:

They bound our feet

and our toes busted out –

to travel on, test new waters.

They bound our breasts…

our nipples busted out,

infra-red eyes to take in

what the other two miss.

When they bound our middle

rib ‘n hip busted the stays

took the waist with ’em –

free as they were born.

But now, young women – now

They’ve got your soul in a bind,

wounded, wound up

in electronic wire and hard paper twine

that cut images into your brain,

unnatural images sayin’

‘Starve yourself to suit us.

Starve your body.

Starve your power.

Starve your dream –

thinner and thinner –

until YOU vanish.’

They want you to do that

’cause if you was to take on weight

you might start throwin’ it around.

No way can They handle

a full-grown woman

with a full-grown dream. No way.”

Listen young women,

the Grandmothers and Anorexia Bulimia

are talkin’ to you –

Feed your body.

Feed your soul.

Feed your dream.


For Judy (1966-1992)

Written by Marilou Awiakta

Bold emphasis mine.

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It’s not perfect. There are a couple of essays in here that I wasn’t feeling and the faux-blog format acts to divide it a little too much,

but this is an IMPORTANT book. This is a crucial book. This book starts a number of conversations that need to be had on a massive scale.

My mental energy is currently overtaken by some recent events in my life, but I do plan to discuss this book in depth soon. I’m throwing this post up as a reminder to myself to do that.

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The Big Five: Current top overarching concerns of my life.

The stillness of this starless city as I'm walking home at night.

The stillness of this starless city as I'm walking home at night.

1 work.

– I hated to place this at number one, but seeing as I’m working 5-6 days a week, it’s difficult to avoid. My dreams at night are about work. I’ve been promoted to “Bartender,” which means I sling fresh juices, smoothies, espresso drinks, etc, for the whole approx. 93-seat restaurant. I gotta say, I do love steaming and foaming milk. I’m decent at the position but it doesn’t especially suit me. I’ve been struggling with unhappiness at work as of late. When I’m on bar, I don’t feel like socializing with customers or coworkers because I have so many tasks to complete and I’m still getting used to things. Other people just tend to get in the way. Today marks the first day I have off after 8 days straight of working; it’s no wonder I’m feeling burnt out. For the most part, I love my job and I feel blessed to be working at a place like Trident. But I cannot WAIT to sit down in a car with Melanie and drive 1900 miles after next week. And spend a couple of days with my mommy on the way!!

2 my own little life.

– Unsure what to title this piece of the Big Five. My first try was “isolation,” but it’s more than that. Truth, I have isolated myself from many of my friends over the past couple of months. This summer was a very social time for me, however it was social in that I attracted and gave attentions to new people, people I wasn’t necessarily planning to commit to in any way. This behavior seems to at last be waning a bit, but I am not returning to old and good friends. I am finding that these days, my energies like to be spent inside my own little life. Practicing, learning, caring for myself, and sort of reforming. The people I love have been gently moved towards the periphery. I struggle with this because I haven’t done it before. The people in my life have always played a major role and garnered much of my attentions. I don’t feel any less care towards them than usual, I just don’t need them omnipresent right now. I wonder how the changing of seasons affects these behaviors..

3 spirituality and self-healing.

– To go along with my little life and the elimination of social distraction, my interest in my own spirituality is prickling. I had a minor surgery a month ago and the incision has refused to heal. My body rebels against antibiotics. I decided recently, then, that I was just going to heal myself.

– Yona’s serenity and calmness in all of his calamity is fascinating and enviable. I will achieve it.

– Realizing how spiritual I am as a person, automatically. Living simply. Avoiding excess. Remembering the goal of long-term happiness. Reminding myself that I am safe. Having gratitude and cheer. Seeing (looking, knowing).

4 my body.

– Letting myself come back into it. Paying attention and giving, caring for it.

5 transitioning.

– Place to place and life to life.

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My body’s constantly wearing a fluffy flesh-colored sweater full of sausages.

Do you know how it feels to be over-sized?

The mirror’s been surprising me the last three weeks and the waist of my work pants feels more fitted.

Why don’t I look like myself these days but a paler, more bloated, unhealthy version of me? I feel like myself internally but my skin’s certainly not mine. And this layer between my organs, my bones, and the not-mine skin certainly does not belong. I do not own it. I am not connected to it. It may as well hang there loosely as many turkey necks, swinging and making walking near impossible.

Yona’s hand is on my stomach his mouth is calling it soft and I’m sneaking glances because I can’t imagine what it is it looks like. I know there’s more there than perhaps before. I know its a pale gelatinous mass of self-loathing. “My tummy needs love.”

In my mind’s eye I’m an amorphous blob of impossible age, dark circles, and lukewarm tepid pallor blotched with masses of imperfections. Imperfections riding on imperfections! A gluey goo of an old woman. A hag in distress.

So the mirror, it surprises me. Because it does not match this monstrous image I constantly construe of myself. Yet also I don’t see the me I can usually view in that mirror these days. It’s some in-between wretch-ed guest altogether, how bewildering.

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