Monday, November 30, 2009

helen keller

Thursday, November 26, 2009

my sister's hunter

my mom got to's 3pm... she already burnt the turkey and ruined thanksgiving.
my sister told me she met the most beautiful girl ever at school, there's just one thing, she has no left hand.
my sister said nigger to her black friend and her friend got offended.  In front of her spanish friend she said, "why is it a big deal for homosexuals to have kids, Hispanics do it all the time. "  My sister says to me, "they didn't make a Matrix one and two... they only made a first know why you think they made a Matrix one and two?"

"No, why?" I said

"Because it was the matrix that made you think that."

"If that's true, I guess everything is fake...I guess I can take my car into that house there, and it doesn't matter.  if I kill people inside and babies, it won't matter.  It won't matter because it's the matrix."

....and that's exactly what I did.

Monday, November 23, 2009

everything is fake

Sunday, November 22, 2009

street lamps catch with palms open piles of melted sky
dead bird marionette, my itinerant stare
i did things to you in my head about a million times
rag and bone dealer sold me death in a thimble
its lips are mauve
out windows, when he left i knew he wasn't coming back
last time a cried it's because i thought i heard angels singing
or i was watching a cartoon, it was at jades house years ago, i was on drugs, it's ok.
sleep in you like a cocoon, in the perverted way
washed away, ocean waves
mirrors grow
i bought ties i have not worn
ghosts tip over shit all the time.
i hate bukowski
i believe in romanticizing everything in a poverished life
i want to bruise your knees, photograph you, fuck you, and frame you.
i i i i i i i i i like nature, i like the inside of rooms...ive vomit on girls before.
living like the inuits, in the netherlands nwverlansds
telephone poles where jesus would die.
lights off, the tops of their wires hanging in the melted night sky.
ahh shit...this is it..the death of a mind grown ill
i will bury you in all the sweetness of the strawberry patch, bleeding my hands dry for you and under the determination of wild garlic you will ponder your own greatness on tops of clouds among the romans. when i wake, the water hast escape one moaning brush of desire to fill itself with such a home. will i still want a home? refreshed we'll see if you take after your younger brothers. in the 80's virgin births swept the nation, women everywhere were getting pregnant, quaaludes were cheapest in the 80's. the mary celeste was such a mystery. my mind cant breath...oh mind cannot breath.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

what happened to me...shiiiit

Friday, November 20, 2009

Dramatic schemes of black mouthed nothingness.  Dead bird, ripped shirt.  Thoughts attained in arid space.  Warm bathtub and softened skin, softened of burden. Any sugar coated mess of naked words that slipped out of a dress tender and malnourished across a bedspread of floral print that's finally flourished.
Ceiling fan follows the path of my eyes contained on one while the rest spin by.  Layed in piss for days on end when my hands slowly crust over how a willow tree bends.  Found angels atop edges of windows on neighbors roofs.  Played harps in long hallways while most of my blood still is blue.  Paneled sidewalks walked with attempt to renew some sense of temptation or fruit to pursue.  Rotting on limbs while the world grows and learns, to be grown soft and rotted and dropped to the earth.  So ceiling fan tremble the sound of rough love.  To love nothing but midnight and flourish on the wet rug.

Monday, November 16, 2009


I do not own such things for they just own me.  My vision of breathlessness is what I hold close, a representation on being free from such cress that breeds on my borders.  I look out windows almost constantly unconscious of what I see, I have been taken away..ugh this place is filth, goodbye.  Make my death full of sensation and thought.

27. May 2009

   I was supplied with a wealthy abundance of what loss can be.  Stripped of my clothes, rope and shackles, I am now "free" to pace.  The walls are gaunt and my body is ridden with rope sores.  If only I had a shirt, a chair, a rope now, used differently and to my advantage I could pull myself from these depths.  Remorse is a peculiar thing that derives itself in many variations.  Not of my own doing but preventable by only the way one goes about his nature.  Being remorseful for ever being remorseful... like the wishing of events on oneself to bring about clarity... purity.  However, stupidity is understood easily when the adversarial means supercede any goodness that could be contrived from these happenings.  Specificity with thought is an important role concerning most desirable outcomes.  If a mind is vague and apathetic with its contemplations, the culmination thereof is evasive, and finding a meaning to beneficially attribute to oneself is like finding a needle in a haystack.  Do we need to be open to all forms of degradation?  Is the lesson also that; the lessons we want to learn don't happen because we don't necessarily prepare ourselves for lessons?  In that case, there would be no need to be concerned with detail and concentration.  Only on my own terms do I want to experience loss and simpleness.  How do I benefit when I had not cautioned myself to circumvent unpredictability?  Contributing to worldwide appreciation has halted with these events.  The meaning is intangible and only provokes ugliness in me.  If there is a deeper explanation I'd expect one to grace me as I beg god for warmth.  Perhaps it's rather like, finding the correct needle in a stack of needles.  My breath escapes me and travels upwards to freedom, clarity... purity.

So much I really wanna be killed by a very sincere women but not the type that blacks out the sunshine over complacence on my who understands passion cultivating itself through fucking, singing, drinking, laying in dirt, making life with hands, blood and carpet.  A really good shot at a shallow portrayal of catching me off my horse.


The consistency it gives me...modulate my dead air of whims to cumulate into something.  My depression works better in steady waves like the shore moving at a steady pace. Pass planes of waving ambitions, grocery store shopping cart faded in different shades through a century of typical names of faces and places of darkness.  I bought a pack of gum and three apples.  From the seeds id build a castle if only.....

I have known many kinds of alone with you,
Have sat beneath your glistened leaves.
In the breeze that carried me home from growing up to fastly.
Sounds they bounce from the barrier of your brothers,
Kids screaming in turqiouse cars with their family going for ice cream.
Morbific and skin older than 23, when I was fourteen years old, you always listened to me. Peach tree.
Did your dreams get mixed with reality?  Most of what I say has been lies. But when im old I bet you'll still be around when we die.
 I was almost kidnapped one day outside of a toy store. My mother was down the block at a tj maxx.
And a man opened a brown car door.  I was grabbed and pulled toward my love but someone pulled me back.
 The car sped away in warm blue downpour from a plaza in the 90s and I hope god killed him in a crash.

wet leaves on wet sidewalks outside your vestibule in the evening in the fall.

I ran with feral kids like a bird I covered earth and shit
Immortalize your low self esteem you look pretty when you cry next to windows I wanna sink in you prop u up ontop dressers or bar stool.  I know I put you somehwere cause my hands smell like your perfume.
Our parents coulda murdered us im glad we were both let go. I rode a horse and cast spells, sold my soul to get you alone.  You would die for me, won't you try, cause I wanna

Saturday, November 14, 2009

"you can tell... because he has discipline.  if he sees it he can control himself and not pick it up.  but if it has been a long time, you can tell.... because he will run up without asking anybody, and embrace it, and play it."
my face is flaking apart.  Cracks and lines, intersecting.  Vitamin deficiency I guess?  I don't care, I'll kill myself when I become to unmanageable for myself.
 he called it pop art.  "everyone has their blue phase", he says.  He says, "you're nearing the borders of something art is not, maybe you as art but without 'as artist'.  Maybe sweetheart will understand?"
I look at the ground, the green grass looks gray reflectin the sky sprawled across adjacent directions never ending.  "I do not understand what you're saying to me.  It's just color and it means nothing because all the best art is black and white", I say.
I treaded past landlocked laden pulled cover up, solemn white maiden..., past michigan to montana, to nebraska, to alabama.. i bled novels out between my legs, out anywhere that gives the correct tone of my dramatic effect.  All I see is green grass plots with headstones, no more hardwood floors in white painted bedrooms.  I says, "the day I have no more reasons to kill myself, people will have all the reason they need to kill me".  And I'm sure it will happen at some point.  Look...Just looook how everyone already hates the cracks in my face just by looking at me.  was that statement meant to be self-indulgent?  I dont know...hopefully...probably.   "I'm glad hardly anyone understands me, give purpose to something", he says.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

january 16th 2010

i wanna be dismembered by architecture, crushed by someone elses dreams.

short handle of whiskey out a bag on the bed
you could be undressed
the lights low?
where is minnesota, michigan, lake minitoba?
i could care less about any area
surrogate slave work
the dead they tick clocks
running red wrist watch
like connected dots
to dream of countries in the sea which had fallen off.

i was in the wooden mansion a spell cast, my true love died when
she fell off from his hide.
there unpaid loans and crushed bones don't touch that, it touched the heart of mine.
my love melted into the hot summer street playin hopscotch in barefeet.
my true love her eyes were picked clean by birds while she was napping,
and now you cant see a thing...dont touch me
the hospital, they are bad men.  jesse jackson, bed men.
a brave man a brave man. my skin or an afghan.
a lantern in a cabin or your eyes lit fire to mansion.
like a poet, cohen, a showman, im a brave dad.


transubstantiate, ive always been inside you, felt the inside of your openings where light hits.
touched your childhood through car doors. the insides of your ribs, the determination of your heart,
the indifference of your soul. drug myself in your wet hair. i baptized you in a pool, would make love to you on a bar stool. i slid down your throat and populated in your hand.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


Discovering you was a lot like when I discovered masturbation.  My parents bought me a pair of silk boxers for christmas when I was 12 or 13, they had multi-colored mickey mouses printed all over them.  When I wore them they would rub against the head of my penis whenever I walked.  I had discovered the best feeling in the world.  These boxers would remain on me for weeks at a time.  Walking through the halls of school all day I would hunch over so no one would notice my erect dick.  Upon arriving home I would rush and lock myself in the bathroom for a half hour and play with myself until I would come.  When I met you, just the thought of you gave me an erection.  If I could I'd wear you for weeks at a time.  Just like masturbation, since the discovery of it I have not gone without it for long.  So that is much how I view you.
My reasoning amazes me within conquest.  Key latch kids always attached to keychains for the reason of forgetfulness and screwing yourself over if forgotten.  Needless to say, I became clever with the act of crawling through windows.  Worthless and no good, I should be completely forgotten by you only to try and try again to fit into your tiny windows.  Teardrops of glass and shards of blood collage with clothes onto your gold floor.  What good though is anything when it has been broken down just to sit within its warmth.  The winds would waft through and everything would get cold and die.  I'd get cold and die, holding onto you maybe, hunched over so no one will notice my erection.  You'd probably live for a day or two and get cold and die.  If there's nothing though, I could just find my own burrow deep in the earth and you could be nothing but hair and bones drowning in my t shirt.