Sunday, January 31, 2010

school shooting, keylatch kids, memory association in weather patterns.


pontificate with dexterity 
graphic slur, finger crosses, neonate of earth's lava
protection and flesh
holy stigmata
grey sky days at 2 pm and a spring breeze, rainy and cold
Grata Recordatio
clouds sweat above midwestern highschool on a tuesday.
oh lord,  waves broke of red, against lockers and recede around head
and from like cavern's end
long coats, metal seashells
the tv's on.
grown up to enough to see the irony of smoking in bed inside your mom's house.
a tiny fur child licking ceruse off the walls,
school shooting, immaculate wounds flushed out in precision.
whoever is out in the kitchen, they're doing the dishes.
the church don't comment
the black shrouds are dishonest
the police station is hung with christmas lights this time of year
well it's goddamn surely September , not surly December
but if you're coked out than you wont care.
don't believe in yourself
cause than it wont matter if you do it well
dont believe in sound
cause than there will never be nothin to write down.


i was chased up to find an ashtray to put it all out in
i came into being when i found one
walkin down the illy lit street with your face
frozen to the ground, my thoughts glued below your waist
i said song names before the songs even played
you're eyes got fuzzy, i'm sure you thought it was date rape
but i put a flower in your hair.
tried to leave you, animals without tears
i walked further backwards from my friend's bathroom mirror
just to get from myself,
but now the pictures cluttered with me and everything else
white chipped walls, kitchen table, cluttered shelves

floss, books, midnight and whatever's in between
night caps, ramen, Warhole prints, and clean teeth
dirty towles, face lotion, geriatrics.
cracked face, first grey hair, heart attack, and prophylactics.
so i tried to escape you 
in different states and different perfumes 
how sentimental does someone have to be
to chase away all the things he wants to keep
i wanted to keep on if it wasnt for all of the police
i wanted to keep on if we weren't like migrate geese...

i think this city will eventually have its heart broke
disease and politics, take the grandsons they're bestowed
all to never  really have a happy life
so i smoke in bed for them cause they'd never try.

to get away with the things i get way with
i'll cheat my way through life, i dont really need to win.
just take what i'm given, a wooden stick to beat on,
find you water, touch, give birth to and lean on.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

the coffee stain in the middle of Monroeville, PA

    I'm looking for old notebooks of mine.  Notebooks filled front and back, written while in seventh grade, notebooks filled under telephone wires, hidden behind brick exterior next to paper thin walls.  my next door neighbors cut the wires on the laundry machine so they could steal all the quarters and they did steal the quarters.  I smelled the mint that crept down the hallway and under my door until it stopped three days later.  Then I heard yelling every night after and felt it my duty to inform the police of it, since the yelling was coming from a man I had caught on several occasions peering through the keyhole of my apartment.

        It took over the next two months for the landlord to have anyone fix the washer and dryer, so during that time I had to walk my laundry baskets three blocks, down piss drenched streets, dodging the drug dealers among others just asking for money to a crumbling brick hole that sat in between a tattoo parlor and a butcher's shop.  This dismayed me due to the fact that the right glass window of the laundromats' front was split in two, the split panel was held together with duct tape on either sides.  You stayed in the laundromat while your clothes were being cleaned and you didn't dare leave.  It didn't matter, soaking wet clothes would be stolen.  It was here at the Pitcairn laundromat I met a prostitute named Brenda.  I hated Brenda.  Two teeth somehow hung in between her scabbed lips.  She carried a plastic grocery bag for a purse where she'd pull loose cigarette butts from.  Brenda was some where in her mid thirties to mid forties.  It was Brenda who would ask me incessantly if I'd like to have a girl swallow my cum for ten dollars or if I liked to party we could just go there if I had a place... The way Brenda put it I suppose was actually not as overt I suppose, but the suggestive nature of her connotations was grotesque and I had to keep myself from impaling her with the nubby feet of the plastic chairs lined against the wall.  I couldn't find one without gum and brown globby smudges all over it anyway.
         Brenda would follow me back to the outside of my apartment, the whole time talking nonsense.  At first this was exciting and amusing to hear her inebriated rambling but it became annoying after a week.  My clothes began to pile up and my apartment began to stink because less and less was I feeling the effort of walking three blocks in that area for clean underwear was worth it.  As a result I avoided Brenda until one night, when my cat 'Blackbean' escaped out into the hallway of my apartment building as I was bringing groceries in from my car.  So at the end of this narrow hallway with tacky red carpet, the kind at old hotels, there was an open screen door to a patio on one side and adjacent to that the other tenant's apartment door.  The hallway smelled like mint again, the smell was leaking out from under the man's door.  On the patio was Brenda smoking a cigarette.  Well since the patio door was left open Blackbean ran through it and into the night.  And Brenda the hooker says, "fuckin cat".
Music was playing loud in the apartment of my crackhead neighbor and as Brenda turned to come in, still leaving the patio door open our eyes met.  I went ballistic.  My cat was gone because she left the patio door open, my neighbor's hooker that wasn't even supposed to be in my building.  I yelled and called her  a 'fucking careless' and I called her 'stupid' and I called her "fat", but I don't remember ever calling her a whore.  She began to cry dramatically, while rolling her eyes and flailing her arms.

    "oh everything is my fault," she said.  Brenda says, "I'm friends with the biggest men, who will come in here, they do not care....they do not care."

    I kind of translated what she was goin on about.  The thing was... it scared me and I believed her.  All these people were crazy.  It was Brenda now who was fuming, livid, patches of old makeup cracked around the rough patches of skin on her face.  Little curly hairs at the top of her head seemed to have been fried off, her hair was brown at the roots and looked singed around the perimeters of her face.  As if her face had caught on fire in some horrible meth lab explosion.  I was dumbfounded watching her go, I thought she was going to charge after me.  I thought she was going to kill me.  Brenda slammed the door to the neighbor's apartment.  The apartment that smells like bathroom cleaner.  I was frozen, I made my way down the stair to go get the last of my groceries from my car parked across the street in the community parking lot that sat next to the community park and baseball field.  My hands full of tidy cat and ramen, Giant brand ice cream sandwiches, my hands full of apples, tomatoes, speghettios, well all that hits the ground when Brenda runs down the stair passed me while screaming.  At the top of the stairs I hear my neighbor's voice threatening her with 'ass kickings' or something.  I dunno, crackhead fight.  well Brenda, she runs out onto the street in front of a car, which hits her.  Her body spins around, just like an ice skater, double axel, triple maybe?  It was almost the most graceful thing I had ever seen in person.  Brenda hits the ground, the cars  tires cease jerking its metal body back and forth.  She stands up, Brenda does, as quickly as she hit the ground and just kept running.  Past the parked cars and through the baseball field, into the silhouetted trees beyond and disappeared into the night.

       Living here was getting hit by a car just like Brenda did.  And I kept on running too.  That's what I had to do.  It was such a great metaphor.  I found my cat Blackbean and I moved out two months later, which violated my lease.  So I called the cops on my neighbor one last time the day I moved out, because he was playing Insane Clown Posse to loudly.  That didn't work, apparently the lease I signed determined my willingness to live next to crackheads.  So with three more months to not pay on the lease and Blackbean, we left.  Blackbean ran away fifteen months later in july.  I started writing again after that, that's where these notebooks pickup.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

a love poem to my lover (suicide note 22)

plummet down colors like plumb fading
in holes aqua midnight forest dwelling bones dislocating
i had the time of my life making love to you
i had the time of my life making love to you
i read backwards the lord’s prayer to bring vision
in my candle’s flame to tell of solomon’s wisdom
i played smearing blood in cult like ritual
on the flat surface of the painted white barstool
i drank myself to death in my bedroom to see you
when i closed my eyes newscast, music review, movie preview
water my pallet....fuck...i’m choking on something
my chalice treats me well like a girlfriend in an altruist spirited so kindly to one suffering
i dont know god, i dont know god, i dont know go, i dont know god,
but i hear he’s really promisin
to end up big with lots of followers
ive wrote him alot of letters, im sure he cant answer them all.
so i’m good, my faith is still fine, if i got a bottle of tennessee whiskey by my side
i'm waiting for you to get ready, im watching you put your makeup on, sitting on the toilet
watching your eyelashes fall up and down, feet on the ground, tiptoes up and down
i'm sure you're asleep so how can we do these things
if i sleep my whole life and you keep leaving me,
but it's over and over
suppurating at my mouth, foaming, erupting, boiling, and loving
magma of depths within rocks leak out clefts
prayers take form like spilled oil cans
trickle out from entwined hands
the picture of your face in smoke around wherever my insides land.
i am no separate from the forest without paws just digits and command.
like old bearded captain rolling over brine and gray sea to sand
barrel of rum to continue and find
instead fermented maize and rye
the sky open like the depths i have conquered as a piece of purpose like a pawn
salted wounds  would no longer fester to long
to break through grassy brush from midnight to dawn
to just find you however far i could go
in dream, in witchcraft, in god's plan, in song, in sand,
in dirty converse, death, in sea, forest, in sky and land.

i will kill myself if you don't love me

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

writing used to be my life (suicide note #12)

originally written 07/07/07

I stopped smoking for the last hour of my life after the ashtray on my coffee table floated it's contents through my window's blind. Are they blind? Do I leave them spread for you to see, I mean I fucking masturbate on my couch and I'm to lazy to camoflauge my love sequences i make to myself, I wonder if you watch me from that top window? It's not intended, it's not i swear, it's like when I come home drunk and talk to myself real loud and just forget to close the windows....In my army trenches in the mouths of third party scavangers. Do you get pissed I run my vaccume cleaner at four a.m., here inside my little heaven? I think I heard that once, "what is that kid in apartment three on?" I dunno, a whole lot of you shouldn't be giving a damn. I skipped spots for sentimental reasoning. The L to Brooklyn is my dictated cavern of a poverty stricken mind. Standing in a state of inertia in a bathtub full of lungs in my shower of alcohol withdraw to the cold arms of love to the, "cops is on so shut the fuck up!"

(...It's 2:33 and what am I doing... I dunno...what do you want me to do? Ah you're so dirty. Let's drink wine...not white... red and watch some french films.)

Well neighbor, my cat ran away so he wont run into your aparmtent anymore and I even got some flowers and put them on the fire escape to be more like you. I mean I'm better than you but I have this thing where I try doing things that relate to normal people. It's like how my mom wanted me to be a doctor and so I started playing doctor on you, my past, until I accidently cut you and that makes me even more fucked up but I know that and you, YOU're sick, cause you liked that about me. I could care less you're gone. Why do you want me to be a mess, was it cute?
The only time I've belonged in this city so far was in the pathway of your observation, screaming "Here I am, here I am, meet me on rooftops, meet me on rooftops! Meet me as high as telephone wires." I hate when I get looks in bars but you both looked at me like a memory, ha. maybe a cemetry... maybe like I was the modern day christ crucified on a telephone pole. I dropped my halo like my drink, so, it was alright.
I'm ostentatious throughout a great deal of realms but the existance I extend is pretty subjective and at times.. likley bias. Yeah, I'm black and white... Why doesn't this entry need to be long?...Cause some things arn't meant to be long.
Yeah, you became perfection but you'll always be the ashtray in my smoking section.

remember that night we got caught smoking pot on your rooftop and had to run from the cops, i was never in love with my life as much as i was then.
I have no advice, cause noone takes advice.

"The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honoured and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage labourers."-taken from the communist manifesto

Monday, January 18, 2010

rara avis rara avis siva arar sive arar

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.


i am crazy...

i'm going to start a youtube channel informative broadcast that slams Glenn Beck for the 'pencil dick asshole' and megalomaniac he is.  and i'm going to wear crazy outfits as well...becuz i'm crazy.  who'd watch me?

im a demon>logged

your dick always comes out when we're watchin a movie. shit.
I havn't got to the part yet where I can show you new, cool and interesting films yet without trying to unfold your arms and legs, jump onto you... who cares.
I can't even write what I wanted to.  There's no spark.

Thursday, January 14, 2010