don't taste just touch

so i went and bought an apple the other day and put in the palm of my hand. i couldn't eat it or turn it into a pie so i just looked at it, like it belonged to my hand. red and shiny and delicious and maybe some day i'll be like that apple, perfect, but i'm not getting my hopes up. he called the other day and said i was beautiful but it doesn't mean anything. words don't mean much of anything anymore and it's this lost art that maybe we'll find and maybe we won't and the words they just keep falling away. fuck means pear and love means dirt and it's all four letters and it's all the same, don't you see? part of me wants to hold onto that illusion of romance, but i'm not a poet and i'm not a romantic so i'll just sit here and look at my apple that i can't ever taste, i'll just touch.

Televised in Black, White and Chartreuse

Three inches. Goddamn assassination attempts. Fingernail bent, snapped, torn down to the skin on one fingertip. Ignorance pouring from the seams of someone who’s only God looks to be deep fried turkeys on the banks of the Mississippi. Front teeth spreading out and away from one another, enough to slip fat tongue right through. Sick.
Skin slicks off and if you’re rubbed the wrong way, or the right way, you’ll end up bloody, bottle ticking against the wall with each tip, tap, type of the moving fingers. And cancer causes stencilings and we all know stencils are the root of evil, the root of all conformity and no good nonsense.
Take a thousand pictures of me and pretend my nose isn’t too big or that I don’t look maniac and mishandled. Wool socks of servitude and solemn transactions of captain crunch and clown cars stuffed full of dead clowns, ringmasters and hobos that are too sad for even paintings in France. Je suis desolate. Je suis desolate!
Spices try on their flea costumes and I’ve got a high guard for the fact that your smell has faded out of everything and I have been holding onto images and two week old kisses, pressed into my lips. And I haven’t touched myself in, days and days, and I tried to last night, I did, I did, I slipped my hands down beneath the covers and bent my left leg, (cause that’s always how I do it,) and I tried, but I started to fall asleep. It didn’t feel good. I couldn’t feel anything. I just fell asleep. So I rolled onto my side, fetal like a fetus in the womb, except without the amniotic fluid to keep me weightless. So weighted, weighted, a hooded baby, hair long and all about its face. I fell asleep. A goo-less fetus, with rapunzel hair. And I thought, what would the prince think if he saw my face looking down from the tower, if my long red locks fell out of that window and beckoned him to me with a song of hey diddle diddle.
I rolled out of bed, extending my hand and saying, “Don’t you have a bowl to put that in?” I woke up unsure of what it was, but knowing they had made a terrible mess. I’ve got stiff legs and stiffer intentions and twenty pounds to put on for the winter when I’ll creep into my cave and give birth in my slumber, and sleep through cubs suckling from my teats. My fur covered teats. Teats.
Rotten. Reluctant. I beg you to get pregnant, so I can hold one year olds in my arms, while standing is cider smelling apple orchards, and we point at the highest, reddest apple, laughing, while you reach with your big long stick contraption and save the day, and the apple pie, from being less than perfect and we are more than perfect and he’s got tiny little feet that keep growing out of his shoes, and we’re getting ready for his first snowfall, and putting our lives away for his poopoo filled diapers.
Tear. As in rip. As in fall. As in gravity. And I am pressed against the surface of the earth again, fetal and too tired to masturbate.

Loves Babies And Surprises But Doesn't Expect Either

Fine. I’d make cookies, but there is nobody to help put the fire out. And I refuse to do that last paper cause I am rebellious and mighty and really, two beers is more than enough to make my argument void. They deserve it anyway.
It is burning right down in my center stage forum of understanding and sentiment, until my ass hurts from sitting and my fingers are covered in glue and I’m just sorry some people are lonely and someday this gluey finger will be from working on my children’s school projects.
And I was throwing something out and thinking that I’m that person, I’m just that type, that they talk about when someone dies too young. And it makes me check the door twice and wish I wasn’t watching Worldiest Creepiest Places on my own.
Cheer up! Let it down! Settle your fingertips deep down beneath my flesh until we can’t blame the mint cookies or the center of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Until we can’t say what is good or bad and the Generation We elects handsome presidents and wishes for something like Disney land with solar and wind power. Sex without disease or consequences, and love without pure and utter misery.
I’ve got three Indians shooting at a star, three times in a row, and it’s got to make me the luckiest son of bitch I know. And its got to make me the luckiest son of a bitch I know. And its got to…
I’ll grab another and break the streak.

Wohhooooo My first post!!!!!! This is awsome, its a doubly whammy cuz not only is it my first post,but guess what folks? I figured it out!! I know the true root of our current economic crisis!! Heres the shocker: It has nothing to do with mortgages or banks, or the $700,000,000,000 bailout. It’s the newest face of our governments stance on Immigration. That’s right, Im going there, our government has intentionally ruined our economy to keep those friendly border hoppers to our south... to our south. Its really quite engeious actually.

“For the first time in a decade, there are economies in Latin America that are doing better than in rich countries.” -Augusto De La Torre, chief economist at the World Bank, on why fewer Latin Americans are immigrating to the United States ---Courtesy of TIME MAGAZINE OCT 2008

Just let that simmer for a second.....

marinate a little longer.....

The only reason that people in Central and Southern America want to come here... well maybe not the only reason, cuz like people do also come here for such niceties like “Civil Liberties”... and a Police State hidden behind a shroud of Democracy rather than just a Police State. I should stop being so cynical....Anyways where was I?? Oh right: We intentionally destroyed our economy, so that people from Central and Southern America wouldn’t come here and steel all our jobs!! Thers just one problem with this idea, see not only did we get rid of the jobs that latin Americans would take if they were to immigrate, we also got rid of our jobs!!!! Bummer dude.

Just kidding..... really this is just the next part of a class war that has been aging ever since the dawn of civilization. Its all about the consolidation of power, and money. Celebrities, Politicians, Cable TV, Republicans vs Democrats, Blacks vs Whites, Pro live vs Pro Choice, Christian vs Muslim, War, Terrorism .......... mind fart......

Well for a second I thought that was going somewhere really epic....

Until next time my friends.....Back to the grinding wheel.

Smeared Like Candy Corn Highlights

I am sitting on the front steps and repeating to myself, don’t wear your nice pants when you play with pastels or the ghosts will get you, or you’ll have to go down into the creepy basement and brave rape and torture to clean your clothes. I’d pay someone to do it for me or to keep me company, if I had the money, if I had any money.

He calls the apples of my cheeks dimples and I’ve got to soak the rice for at least a half an hour before I cook it. And I was so angry that I almost screamed on the phone with her. It bubbled up in me like a maniac tidal wave of: I’ll be homeless, have to move all my stuff back to the tiny ranch house that’s dirty yellow, and him and I will have another summer but can it always be the way we had it. (Nothing can be the same.) And he doesn’t deserve firework stained arms or Morgan made meals.

Where was I today while they argued like schoolgirls, making inane points and taking up time that could be spent watching Jon Stewart while the bones in my back, sag and the discs slip and I get shorter by the day, by the hour, until my knees are in my shoes and I am holding up my pants with my bra until I simply disappear.

Where was I, this afternoon with research to be done and essays to write, and lesson plans to create, covering myself, staining my fingertips until everything I touched was pressed with large black marks.

Echoes of what “should bes” and “not gonna happens” are filling the space around me as time winds down to end of day, where four hours of interesting man, violently passionate, scolds the ways I’ve been told to follow from birth. Urging me to let go and empty my cup, and it hits me, that’s where I am when the deadlines pile up or they start to argue over dates and the ability to be flexible. I am sitting back and letting go and drinking in the feeling of my feet in these Dr. Scholl’s. I am thinking about the Nutrigrain bar stuck in the back of my teeth and down right refusing to take any side.

Release.

Its dirty under my fingernails and they’ve peeled and shattered themselves short. No longer a wild animal, I retreat to hoodies and child-like illustrations. I haven’t done the cryptoquip in days and showering is at the bottom of my agenda.

• I’ll get to it another day.

spill: dragon, chaos, thrust

dragon is an allusion to penis -
you had to see it coming, it makes
so much sense. Dragon, symbol of
power primal ferocity, except
maybe: Puff. Puff, over at
his beachside cabana, with
his hoseboyJackie He stepped out of
the chaos of the other dragons
male chauvanism, penis fencing dragons
because the life was thrust upon him
and all he wanted was a little tenderness
because this is something sorefully negelcted:
that being MALE means you desire emotionalit
even if culturality says you can't, but MALE
is also a valid existence and it's not just bravado:
do you hear that boys? its not just flexing in front
of mirrors or glaring up your won asshole; it's
not just baravdo! the beauty of being male
is the complexity of exisitence that we share
with everyone else, but is sorefully neglected.

the world isn't about showing how much you can
lift over your head, with muscles and bloodvessels
strain - popping; cars down on your head. its
about the taste of your lover.

Scales & Skin

It's In The Mail

briefs

i've counted sets of turkies wild, two at this point - well, one, but the same flock twice
and they greet me each foggy morning that i've gone out; not gobbling, not as such
there is no tom, but peeping as the females do, with one always keeping watch (for me)

and i've sat with my back to the rain, listening as it was louder and closer and ontop of me
dark clouds and wet, just wet wet wet. these things are important, turkey and rain.
these things are important because we don't appreciate them. these things are important
because i own them as mine; these are my experiences and i share them with you (lucky dog)

Lacking Better Definition (She Streams Conscious In Paragraphical Guilt)

And I tell myself it is nothing more than fabrication, than words and memories, slanted, slewed and separate from the obvious and crystalline individual I’ve come to know. I stand in the fact that the past is the past and we’ve shared as many as I can stand, and we both have our secrets, or pieces we rather not share because they don’t matter, they don’t haunt us and we like now, us, besides the stains on leather couches and frozen fingertips ducked behind buildings, on visible breath autumn nights.
Its been a year now since it started, since it ended, since you came and slowly slipped into my life. You were persistent and heady. We were like tides that came crashing and then receded, so I was often left to wonder where you’d gone, although I’d grumble at how much you’d crash when you were there. In and out, a metaphor and reality. Mismatched socks and bear-like personality. I felt small and pristine in your arms, I’d often imagine crowns on my head and a world of sparkles, and you fur and teeth, pressured desire, untamed but with sweet intentions.
And to what extent wasn’t I a prize to be won. A challenge to be met, a stubborn journey on your part, to let yourself be washed up and down my moody shores, my secret getaways, my lie of a life, that threatened institution and sanity. I trampled on my education, the construct of marriage, I lived off coffee and guilt and worked constantly, twelve hours a day, nothing but production and sadness, some vile creature. Cruel and successful, who couldn’t tell a soul but you, of the terrible things she’d done.
And I couldn’t give into you, couldn’t separate and settle myself, I’d lost myself somewhere in the frost bitten nights and twelve hour days. I kept you at edges and only gave in when I was so tired, so tired, I couldn’t feel the sadness. And you were always there, midnight, trying to fall asleep so we could share the pillow.
I threw myself around, tried lesser, tried greater, tried escape, but couldn’t leave, couldn’t retreat, had to return and so did you. You brought voo-doo with you. And I suppose you had never left me. And suddenly, I was fur and teeth, untamed and unsure, realizing your kindness was all I had, was all I ever had, and all I had needed. What had gotten me through. That I didn’t understand you completely, and we would rub against each other and spark sometimes with static, but we came back. You were “Mister Reliable.” And it sounded like a death sentence to you. You weren’t exotic or troubled like all the other men I’d whispered about. But you were. You had come with your own set of challenges and seeds of greatness. You helped me bring about my own. Until, I looked forward to seeing your face in the doorway, above anyone else’s. Until spending time with you was a pleasure I wanted every day. Until it was obvious that you and I would sit and have tea every evening and you just knew to crawl into my bed at night. You grew into my heart and life until you were as much a part of it as I was, and I seeped over into yours, and we benefited from the interaction, we grew healthier and happier by it. It fed us and made us stronger.
Months later, only months, we can’t count the ways we’ve changed, and yet we feel more like ourselves than ever. There is purpose and reason and Friday nights. And I’m no longer a princess and you are no longer a bear. We are side by side, down autumn roads and always holding my left hand in your right. We are somedays and promises of king sized beds, pet dogs, or at least making it out of school. We are saving money and buying gifts. Eating healthy and growing strong. We are devoured whole chocolate pies and rainforest showers that last for hours. And I am good and happy in my life.
A year since it started, it ended, and it is like a film in the back of my mouth, a reminder of past and weakness. Unresolved it scratches at me, but less and less each day. Until my good has outdone my evil.
I want to share your love with no one and ask, who’s Allen? As if yesterday should matter. As if it mattered to me. When all I care about is Friday. When all I care about is you. To the point that I forsake all others and transplant both my arms to start anew. I am drawing again and it is good. You are writing and it is great. We wrestle our demons and come home to each other. Two hour conversations deep in the night, I taste caramel and avoid certain responsibilities. I try patience and the hours slip.
I am granola and trying to write something sweet and stable, so you can know the sadness is passing, the worry is washed away with words, it is read and retained as something else. But you are constant and consistent. Obvious and above. The whole, while I speak fractions.

Once again its cold and I need a sweater.

And I’ll try harder.

He Cut The Word To Pieces

And I tell myself, I’ve got Chapter seven to read, but I need to take this time. And I tell myself I’ve got an agenda to fabricate, but I’ve got to take this time. And I tell myself to put on a sweatshirt cause its cold in here, but I don’t get up and I miss the dull hum of some tv show that usually helps me whittle away hours while I read and write and usually have more left over that I never get to and keep saying, I’ll get to tomorrow and know I won’t and fear I won’t and what the consequence of “not wanting to” will do to me. And I am smiling and sticking out my tongue cause they say I am put together and all over it and great and great and great and… I feel like I’m gathering pieces and getting by and I can’t wait to pick apples and eat caramel and forget that I’ve got three papers to write, an agenda, a meeting, five hour classes, suits and knee highs to wear.

But first I’ll get a sweater.

And there is silence, the dull hum of the fan whose top speed seems like a breathing machine and not a wind tunnel is making my mind sleepy, doughy, soft and I’ve got half a mind to cover my hair in lotion, and run away to the moon, the rubber cement glue, allergy pills and birth control mingling in my stomach, and bacteria covering my peanut butter, apple and raisin sandwich. As if I was already pregnant and ducking my way out of this terribly scheduled life called Grad School, where I’m expected to make a superb product without stepping on anyone’s toes. Without offending or leaving behind. They want me to do the work, to lead the group, but not be a leader if it hurts someone’s feelings. If one person is sad…
Can you swear? It seems childish to go on the rampage in my mind. All at once I am holding the reigns and trying to push the horses forward, but someone else holds them back, or grabs a hold and says not yet, not yet and that is privileged or I just don’t know.

How does one go about making chocolate cake and never eating it?
How do you proceed and exceed but never move?
What if challenge is welcomed, but some won’t allow it?

I know one thing and it’s that coffee and juice stain white clothing, even off white for that matter.

I know one thing and its that I feel better on the days I go to the gym first, have that cup of Pumpkin spice coffee and am successful with the newspaper cryptoquip.

I am worried that I am too anxious, that I am worrying about too many things. I am worried that I am worrying too much. And I want to talk to someone, to go to the shrink and tell them that I’ve got enough fears and agendas to keep the world at the bottom of the sea, but it’d be another appointment, and I’d be another person and even if I imagine my sister dead in the shower, I can’t make time to be diagnosed and categorized. No room for medications, or stopping the itchiness of worrying. I tell myself its winter weather drying out my skin, but even with intense rescue applied, my skin crawls.

I am afraid. Ofeverything? Of nothing? No th ing. And I want to draw, for the first time in months, and I’m looking for encouragement and support, but I can’t feel it. I need to hear, that’s good, that’s good. But I can’t. And I don’t want to show anyone because they’ll think:

What has she become…?

Nothing.

Was it ever easy? No. But it was different.

And what have I become?

No th ing.

What's the point?

And I have to ask myself, what's the point? Our chromosomes are breaking down, not much time left. The cancer is spreading and they're all dying in fires and holes in faraway places. Dear Goddess fuck the price of gas, who cares because we're all DYING. And I have to wonder why, why am I bothering to get out of bed? My art is me and I am my art but honestly that's all I can see anymore, is the art, and the pain. And recently they've become one and I can't help but to feel lost and confused and I'm losing myself to it. Night terrors and the smell of smoke as I try to keep him alive, try to stop the burning from getting to him too. These bags under my eyes are part of the landscape of my face now. Waking up in a pool of sweat isn't much fun but who am I to complain when this kid in Haiti doesn't have food or shelter or people to say "I love you" to him. I'm so lucky, lucky for these sleepless nights, fears, the ability to change something in my life. But I'm fucking scared. Scared when he walks out the door, scared because he might not come back because it happens. It happens to anyone and everyone and you only have time time you're given but you're never told how long. Everything is so delicate, people die but they also survive. So what is it? Is the will to live greater than the fragile fabric of our bodies? I'm scared to die but I'm scared to live for fear it will be a waste. Because in 1,000 years will anyone know I was here, will our species even be here? There's too many forces against us but so much in our favor. And I'm still asking myself, what's the fucking point when you live in a world where 3 year olds can die?

Tip #2 - Inspiration

Are you having troubling writing, or finding some inspiration to stream? Here's a couple things you can do that might help:

- Look around your room and just start listing objects. Maybe write how you feel about them. Maybe where they came from. See where that takes you.

- Pick out one thing that happened today and let yourself run away with that. It will help if you are specific as possible; generalities don't make for good inspiration.

- Go through a book and pick out twenty words and figure out how they fit together, and try to use them all in a piece.

- Find someone you know (or someone you don't) and get them to ask you some questions, either about yourself or not, and start streaming replies to those questions.

These are only a few ways to get yourself writing; hopefully it will help! And keep in mind, there is no reason why you have to end up in the same place you started - its all about letting yourself go.

spill

i'm writing letters to people who don't exist because i think it might help to define me. i figure if they don't exist, maybe they will if i write them and then a part of me will be there to send a reply. maybe not. it doesn't really matter in the longe run, to see ak and find, to hide and be dsicovered. i just find my words running away with me now. i sat on a bench today and just looked out over the grass and the sky and wondered where this was taking me. i read in poetry and prose words that should give me something and i couldn't take anything away. do you nderstand? i couldn't take anything away. the msot compelling inciden is the msuic whispering through my ears of Chopin, Vivaldi, Thcaikovsky - these artists. the stuffy classical dudes. i've never really understood the resistance to them, because the music all tells a story, that's the point, they didn't have tv, and they didn't have raido, and they didn't have all that sensatory stimulation adn sought sublime in still images and sought sublime in the movtives and motions of fiddles and orchestra. maybe that's why its beautiful to me. it spells ou tht the freckles on your skin. the msuic spells out the way ytour hair falls around yoru neck. and it isn't so much lvoe poems, it isn't so muhc love letters, but letters about love or notlove, and it isn't so much music that's love, but music about love and about things. and as the minutes and the day tick away i have toruble keeping my eyes open. its not like i didn't sleep, but it feels that way. all i had for lunch was cereal. but that was enough. i was eating words and music. i find meaning in my words and thats maybe enough, but i want others to also, but maybe they can't and is that okay? is that enough? how fast can i come up with this stuff and if it is fast, is that okay, or am i just throwing something away.

the point is i count your freckles in the music. the point is i see your hair spill. but there isn't really a point. i write these letters to nobody but myself and they aren't even anything to write home about. and i'm so tired. i'm so tired. i'm trying to do everything, and there aren't enough hours in the day. especially when i want to sleep nine hours. i'm pretty sure its nine, but it doesn't really matter because i sleep seven, and its working (though i'm tired).

i just spilled words yesterday and so many words, and a third of them were sex. i'm wired that way, you konw, wired that way. a male, with a penis, and what can i say, a third of them were sex. not the words themselves, you know, because they were all different, but close enough, you know? close enough.

but really, the point is, i see your freckles, count them, in music. and i see your hair spill.

Cryptoquips

I’ve got a hyena on my back that wants what good for me, and she wants to know my where abouts and what fors, like yesterday is something good and I’ve got all the answers right here inside my shirt, where beneath the clean, crisp white, one mismatched bra and tank are fighting for attention. And my pants aren’t fitting right and digging into my privacy it ss a stepping stone of coffee cups that keeps me going, from one eight am meeting to another, hair nice and smile wide. I am so ready to learn and I just got to tell the hyena, I think its cause I’m pretty, I gotta tell you that. I think its cause I’m pretty that I’m getting anywhere. And I dress clean and ready, I look prepared and personable. And I was brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror, washing my hands and staring at my face and wonder when or if this wasn’t acting and was just, who I am. What is the difference between the person that greets people and the person I know. Is it a show? Or have I finally, set it all down, have I always been, one, two, three people.
My hands are dry. Crack, bleed, bend and break.
I rather be the stay in bed all day with him, wearing pj pants and missing the point, that there is more to life than kisses and constant reassurance, that he still loves me five minutes after he says it.
I am begging for the experiences and they keep sending them my way, one on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another… I am post-it notes and constant reminders. I am sitting quietly and listening intently. I am setting good examples and smiling widely. I am curious and positive. I am letting go. I am not thinking about myself, at least not in the sense that I need to achieve, but that I need to learn, that I want to learn and will do for others in order to learn. In order to…
Drop

Drip.

The heat turned on.

The fan is singing me a lullaby.

I forgot what this was for.

Do you need to know where my mind is at?

Can you see…

Drip.

Drop…. The ball.

Wonders will never cease.

I don’t want to miss the carnival but I don’t want to go alone.

I need a candy apple in my belly, sticky stuck to my teeth and lips, juice dripping off my chin.
Drop.

I’m considering him for marriage, for offspring and wondering if we could make it long term, or if we’d get bitter and turn at the first sign of great disagreement. I want to name my daughter Ann.

And I’m looking into saving money, how to do it, if I ever get it, because I’m thinking for the first time ever, where we’d live and how we’d live. I always wanted a house, but how did I suppose I’d get it?

There’s lip-print marks on the financial literacy notes I took, and that about sums the injustification of setting down words that don’t exist and saving receipts in a 30 day time, just to find that I don’t have money to spend and only buy a coffee a day. Nineteen dollars in my checking, I have nothing and owe more.

I’ve got nothing and owe more.

I’ve got nothing and owe more.

I owe more.

Sick. Sick. Sick. Matt. Sick and tired. Jogger 20 minutes. Stairs 5 minutes. Ball Abs.

My biggest accomplishment is in the Cryptoquip.

toucha toucha toucha touch me

i consistently find myself thinking about all of us loving one another. manKIND. GENTLEmen. women are the saviours of the s=planet. but why do we limit ourselves to one lover at a time? ive never understood this. you dont have one friend at a time do you?

intimacy is special, but it shouldnt be so because of its scarcity. all our bodies are different.your heart lies where it does, its undeniable and anyone with eyes can read it. i dont think its selfish or dishonorable to want to experience as many sexual endeavors as you wish - but weve grown this standard that only one should receive sexual devotion, only one may be touched. i dont think so.

maybe in the future everyone will be bi! wouldnt that be so........!!!

we are so afraid of contact, so many of us.....when you bump into someone in public, your autopilot goes "sorry" or "excuse me" 'or "beg yhouer pardon"....what?! are the defenses so blind we must apologize for accidentally infiltrating the fortress, because the subway is crowded? maybe one day people will run into one another....and say....

Hello.

goodnightmoon

-this freewrite brought
to you by the concepts
of waste and creation;
namely the diametrically
opposed forces, excremeent,
conception-

i don't want to
waste you letters
in this conccptres
so limits, limits: exhausted
p. ppp.p pp. pp.
as. p p. asp. tis
apis asp. sapps
(and please keep that bass
down I'm traying to go
to sleep and dont yu
understand what I'm trying
to do here? surlnaarylf)
of efort dont not goin to
overus words n letrs
only once per word -
my prosal being tha refoing
this waste wil lead to conepti of more -
stilk alt I want is lips fingertp touch and
what a wa te of this time regret for
lo s -- taste this conception

It Tastes The Way You Smell

Winter is falling down around in tinsel colors bright and cheap, we wear red and green, and call the sickness holiday. Little boys gone dead sprout into pumpkin vines that bear no fruit and tomatoes swell too full and drop, unnoticed to the ground. One bite warns off any rodent who has grown fat with summer berries. Stained fingers save a few for father or eat them greedily without the adventure told to another soul.

We run around the point and mosquitoes bite our ankles, stealing without asking, what we dare not give to lovers willing.

There are dishes in the sink and bedspreads still worth staining, but I’ve got days to warm it now, before I’ll have the chance.

We’ll slap hands and laugh until the neighbor sets the dogs out, and windows smash from rough intentions, biting necks and crushing kidneys.

You left your scarf and hat behind, striped around my bedpost, and I was left to shed my tears from all the kisses you would miss, the week or so you left them.

It shouldn’t sting so much to have the coffee cup three days old sitting, by the side that warmed the sheets and is in control of deeper feeling. And Sunday is the day to start, new cycles once again. As pink droplets reign over mother nature and stop the monthly flow. I grow my own trees of progress and promise that our seeds will never mix, that we will never share, one heartbeat, eight weeks old.

I’d ask you what George Washington and cavemen have in common, than tell you it’s their hair. Thanks to pen and sharpie, the King shall live again.

And I’ll mix one with won and hardly know the difference, saving bottle caps for Christmas. We’ll put Vaseline on our rough edges and stop and go, stop and go, pull hair and swear, until my mouth is swollen ripe and red and teeth have bitten through. It shouldn’t be and missing pieces we think of me inside of you.

And if you judge my bare reflections, leave me elbows wet and sudsy in the sink, I’ll eat raw egg and smash the dishes, down around our cold wool feet. For we’ve got blankets, blacks and browns, while she’s a Patrick Star. And I can’t help but think of when you leave me at your car. Face still lined with salt, I press upon the day, when good-bye is just a trick we use to give ourselves some space.

The screams are constant now and break against the rocks to wails. Some cult is chanting in a language, the director chose to tape. Budgets set on gallons of blood and shirts that rip away. Halloween cascades as some unsentimental day.

Tip #1 - Use paper

Write down your thoughts on paper, either in a notebook or a sketchbook or whatever, before typing them up to place them on the internet. This will let you write more naturally, let the text move around on the page without any forethought, and such. It can also be easier to let your mind go when you don't have to worry about the mechanics of typing.

quantifiable & justification

i wonder if we're quantifiable by
the stuff we leave lying around the
room like: bowling pin rock'em sock'em
robot ring voo doo doll; i wonder if thats
all we are if so then I:

am paper pileup, words words words
all across the floor - I am just books
and papers and discarded food boxes milk
cartons cabbage soup all I am is
loose change paper clips pen caps

clean me up throw me out but maybe
better than Institutional. maybe White
Wash Walls, maybe Bar-red wIndows
maybe Straight Jacket stitutional,
but thats all in the past
the phase out mind moments those times
that life was quantifiable by intoxicants
psychostabilizers and the casual
affrontery of those ugly upturned
eyes. now i'm tired, crumpled
not yet yellowed.
but lets talk about quantifiable
nature of this mind behind
these eyes up this right nostril
(the left plugged too tight)
and anyway, really, whats all this all about: understanding tastes
too pretentious but maybe thats all we have. Life -- is whats spewing
out of us all the time and it slows to trickles and this guy in white measures
it bottles it

-- quantifiable -- like the nature of the Atom
of the Cell. Like the nature of orgasm, like the nature
of people all tied up together hearts.

Intro

This isn't about the show you watched last night, or how upset you are at the world. This is about that string of nonsensical thought that spills off the top of your head into that teapot at the bottom of the stairs; about where you are going and what you can't ever know about those things behind the refridgerator. It doens't matter if you spell wrong-ly or sell rightly (i mean, spell, of course), that's just wat this is. RUN WITH IT! RUN WITH IT!

And let's do it go; and let's to it; and let's do it together.