Oh Olivia, you are being rained on
The colors are in rainbow patterns against your backdrop
Pretty enigmatic and foggy hallucinatory hairpins
Plucking the leaves and sweet Olivia from the air
Like meadow larks of pierced holes in stomach spots
Saintly sacrament of Olivia in her bedroom diner
A wine to go down and drink away spots of colors
Above the gloomy ground that we know is certain
And the dark shadows that the post forms
From the light of the television illuminating
Olivia I know you are waiting for someone
To take you away
And Olivia I know you’re in pain
From your bound ankles you shake in sleep
A man who sneaks into your window each night
A new brown breather for every season
The milky white of the walls you painted away
Because of him
Who hid and fled to a prison somewhere
In Mississippi or someplace dead.
May your rhythm spark, Olivia
A winter coat for you
To keep you warm when I don’t
Come through that window anymore.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Strange People
There are strange people in my house. I’ve met them a five or so years ago and they keep showing up at my house. I do not know what they want. I do not know. But they keep coming from the fringes of highways, rolling lost hills, the crevices of rocks bound to desert sand slowing moving across leaving trails. There is the father. He is lame and an idiot. The mother is foreign. Two daughters. One is gone off to her own devices; the type off girl I need to explain words to, so many increasing in numbers, birthed from a failed system, they are the system, from it they are born like cockroaches. The younger one is downstairs. I bet she sucks cock. Or a lesbian clits. Not particularly attractive, plays basketball, ignores words, a child, not my type. Still dirt accumulates under her fingers leaking to cover her being, maybe leaking from underneath, pure filth from her being, something lurks in her depths. I am worse, nothing to give me away. I play it cool. I am the master. I am worse than them all because everything is under control. Or all under chaos. I am ordered through chaos, the math provides direction that I can delineate, manipulate, transform into shapes that are frightening and alluring. My fingernails sparkle. I don’t speak to them, the family downstairs. They converse with my family. I let them be. All they are is be. When I talk to you; a sign that you are something more than be. Leave that insidious hive you buzz around bees. It wants to waste your body on wasteful stings. Stings the skin and CLAP! I need to leave the house.
The tessellated roads lead to Olivia. I turn my head, when I pass driving, to Olivia’s home. I could hit a car and I wouldn’t care; I’d be staring blankly at Olivia’s house as my blood pours out with consciousness. She is tall and a tight cunt. I get hard for redheads and she was my first. The second I fingered in a studio someplace dead, for the rest I just fuck casually forgetting names that form Olivia. Now I turn my head for the hundredth time and she is not there for the thousandth time. I remember the taste of the hundred tastes. She had the sweetest juice. Her things convulsed and the bed sheets twisted in her hands as I made her come with my tongue flicked her clit in waves and waves and waves. Between her thighs she squeezes my head and messes my hair. That is what I remember the most, the taste, of everything the taste. Besides that she was terrible. She destroyed me. I thank her for that.
I will forget her. Then remember her. Every time she enters my memory the image will be weaker. The time span between remembrances will decrease exponentially as it approaches infinity; when I die she will be the image of death taking me to sleep. I need to get home.
Burial plays on my laptop speakers. The rhythms I write to, I write with this rhythm superimposed onto the rhythm of life. All is life and music lives. The beat and popping sensations like a virgin destroyed or freed and I am with Elena and she massages my spine and my temples and Elena soothes me and Elena rubs my neck and I fall asleep and Elena is there and she sleeps next to me. When I wake up I leave. She dreams of someplace else. Somewhere she is still whole.
I go home and take a shower. The exterior is clean, cleanliness only goes epidermis deep. Why am I so self-deprecating? Deprecation is violent. Ennui needs violence to whisk it away and I commit self-violence to free me from my self-stricken bonds. The modern psychiatrist seeks to cure unhappiness; the common unhappiness of living has become regrettable. How are you so strong? You are such a survivor! They say this and you must exaggerate this in you. Do they know how to deal with masochists? Freud is dead. I’m fine with him being dead, not his complete death where not even the dust of a corpse remains. Happiness is the drug. The medication, a supplement. You will cease to understand yourself as you create a persona you become lost in. What darkness lurks deep? Who are you? These clichés no longer matter, they are all that matters. The only knowledge that matters are self-knowledge as the lama says. Not Chopra, he forgets what is human and his divine emptiness fills to the brim with rainbows, rainbow colored shit. All I need. All I need is to understand. Fuck all else.
I’m reading By Night in Chile and wonder if I was meant to live in those punishing time, those glorious horrible times in a gloriously horrible stretch of land. Meant to, crawling up walls, stone birds perched, ancient texts, Bolano and a priest. Where are you Roberto? Poetry is shit. I write a poem about the night, delete it, empty my recycle bin, 3 am and I am asleep.
Dizzily I fall off my bed and dance across the room. I pour a cup of coffee and sink into my couch, my body falls endlessly into the cushions. I drink the coffee. Sip after sip after sip.
This coffee! This is the greatest fucking coffee I’ve ever had. Oh my god I’m so in love with you, a pleasant smile on, in love all the way. Who wants waffle cones? Why is everything brown and murky so yummy? This coffee is damn good. Warm down my stomach churning, probably looking like shit, another cup and I’ll be pissing every hour. It worries me that days must continue when all poetry in the world can be found in the morning sipping coffee. I must go on now. We all must go on. Hot coffee transforms the essence of being like a penetrating will into the swollen motherlessness of life we hang on like a crutch with our fingers resting on the little edge, to stimulate the world into consciousness until you feel it and I feel it and it comes.
What is it I think of when sipping the mug of light? That the only thing you can trust is your dick, but even that lets you down in the end. You have empty hopes with empty genitalia, you sit up and lean on a wall as a dizzy spell comes over you, in the moment of dizziness you see men with holes in their backs spilling acid, leaving trails that follow them through dead streets that smell like formaldehyde and semen. Semen? Whose Semen? With alcohol breath and raging cocks, they move across blurry lines; this they can count on day to day until time sprinkles it away. Too soon. We have not come far enough and now what is left? The curtains spread, the cunt closes, the door opens, the day scares away night. Here we are awake and in need of coffee to keep from lulling into the certainty of sleep, certain that not waking up isn’t that bad of a thought or half-thought or full contemplation. So we sit on the edge of our seats waiting for the climax to occur, but sex and novels give us the wrong impression of life and the climax never occurs. We sit and sit and sit. All when flags need to be burned and put with the cremations of fathers who first put spots on maps, when abysses need to be danced wildly upon, and when there is still passion at the bottom of cups never finished. Make me move fragile wings I will not fall into numbness again!
The tessellated roads lead to Olivia. I turn my head, when I pass driving, to Olivia’s home. I could hit a car and I wouldn’t care; I’d be staring blankly at Olivia’s house as my blood pours out with consciousness. She is tall and a tight cunt. I get hard for redheads and she was my first. The second I fingered in a studio someplace dead, for the rest I just fuck casually forgetting names that form Olivia. Now I turn my head for the hundredth time and she is not there for the thousandth time. I remember the taste of the hundred tastes. She had the sweetest juice. Her things convulsed and the bed sheets twisted in her hands as I made her come with my tongue flicked her clit in waves and waves and waves. Between her thighs she squeezes my head and messes my hair. That is what I remember the most, the taste, of everything the taste. Besides that she was terrible. She destroyed me. I thank her for that.
I will forget her. Then remember her. Every time she enters my memory the image will be weaker. The time span between remembrances will decrease exponentially as it approaches infinity; when I die she will be the image of death taking me to sleep. I need to get home.
Burial plays on my laptop speakers. The rhythms I write to, I write with this rhythm superimposed onto the rhythm of life. All is life and music lives. The beat and popping sensations like a virgin destroyed or freed and I am with Elena and she massages my spine and my temples and Elena soothes me and Elena rubs my neck and I fall asleep and Elena is there and she sleeps next to me. When I wake up I leave. She dreams of someplace else. Somewhere she is still whole.
I go home and take a shower. The exterior is clean, cleanliness only goes epidermis deep. Why am I so self-deprecating? Deprecation is violent. Ennui needs violence to whisk it away and I commit self-violence to free me from my self-stricken bonds. The modern psychiatrist seeks to cure unhappiness; the common unhappiness of living has become regrettable. How are you so strong? You are such a survivor! They say this and you must exaggerate this in you. Do they know how to deal with masochists? Freud is dead. I’m fine with him being dead, not his complete death where not even the dust of a corpse remains. Happiness is the drug. The medication, a supplement. You will cease to understand yourself as you create a persona you become lost in. What darkness lurks deep? Who are you? These clichés no longer matter, they are all that matters. The only knowledge that matters are self-knowledge as the lama says. Not Chopra, he forgets what is human and his divine emptiness fills to the brim with rainbows, rainbow colored shit. All I need. All I need is to understand. Fuck all else.
I’m reading By Night in Chile and wonder if I was meant to live in those punishing time, those glorious horrible times in a gloriously horrible stretch of land. Meant to, crawling up walls, stone birds perched, ancient texts, Bolano and a priest. Where are you Roberto? Poetry is shit. I write a poem about the night, delete it, empty my recycle bin, 3 am and I am asleep.
Dizzily I fall off my bed and dance across the room. I pour a cup of coffee and sink into my couch, my body falls endlessly into the cushions. I drink the coffee. Sip after sip after sip.
This coffee! This is the greatest fucking coffee I’ve ever had. Oh my god I’m so in love with you, a pleasant smile on, in love all the way. Who wants waffle cones? Why is everything brown and murky so yummy? This coffee is damn good. Warm down my stomach churning, probably looking like shit, another cup and I’ll be pissing every hour. It worries me that days must continue when all poetry in the world can be found in the morning sipping coffee. I must go on now. We all must go on. Hot coffee transforms the essence of being like a penetrating will into the swollen motherlessness of life we hang on like a crutch with our fingers resting on the little edge, to stimulate the world into consciousness until you feel it and I feel it and it comes.
What is it I think of when sipping the mug of light? That the only thing you can trust is your dick, but even that lets you down in the end. You have empty hopes with empty genitalia, you sit up and lean on a wall as a dizzy spell comes over you, in the moment of dizziness you see men with holes in their backs spilling acid, leaving trails that follow them through dead streets that smell like formaldehyde and semen. Semen? Whose Semen? With alcohol breath and raging cocks, they move across blurry lines; this they can count on day to day until time sprinkles it away. Too soon. We have not come far enough and now what is left? The curtains spread, the cunt closes, the door opens, the day scares away night. Here we are awake and in need of coffee to keep from lulling into the certainty of sleep, certain that not waking up isn’t that bad of a thought or half-thought or full contemplation. So we sit on the edge of our seats waiting for the climax to occur, but sex and novels give us the wrong impression of life and the climax never occurs. We sit and sit and sit. All when flags need to be burned and put with the cremations of fathers who first put spots on maps, when abysses need to be danced wildly upon, and when there is still passion at the bottom of cups never finished. Make me move fragile wings I will not fall into numbness again!
Bedroom Readings
When bored (or high spirited)
I will recommend de Sade to homely girls;
Their reaction, their disgust marks me
With infinite delight (not that I like the Marquis)
Yet the few, who turn their brow with intrigue
A stained baby blue dress
A sewed shut clitoris
Proclaiming liberation of body and soul,
I fear for them,
I hunger after them.
I will recommend de Sade to homely girls;
Their reaction, their disgust marks me
With infinite delight (not that I like the Marquis)
Yet the few, who turn their brow with intrigue
A stained baby blue dress
A sewed shut clitoris
Proclaiming liberation of body and soul,
I fear for them,
I hunger after them.
Nakedly waiting her removal from earth
She spins webs into her veins.
“Let me stay, just for a little while longer, I need you right now.”
“You don’t need us.”
“Yes I do, please.” And please and please. And a week later she lies as a nude. Removing everything, the nude becomes the place. There are four others, A Lot with an open mouth full of weeds. Lot pulls his dick out as Ariel lays in a tub of water, silver water, still water for mosquitoes to stick it in like they are fucking skin, the mere idea of the mosquito’s penetration tangles feminist panties, and there is Lot and he is stroking his dick getting the pecker hard (Lot has lived his life acting hard, a true Iron Man) with Ariel waiting in the tub semi-there like a sex pistol’s groupie legs spread wide, awaiting in a drugged out state in a kind of sexual anticipation formed from the annihilation of the superego back into the abysmal water from where it was form, back in the half-baked womb. Annihilation all up in here.
But he comes in, not Lot, the good guy, the one who watches her even as his own presence he feels erodes with his friends and he pulls out his knife threatening Mr. Lot who continues to stroke his penis although more furiously than before, adrenaline springing it to life. Reluctantly, more half-heartedly, not to mention the presence of cocksureness, he left.
“Let me stay, just for a little while longer, I need you right now.”
“You don’t need us.”
“Yes I do, please.” And please and please. And a week later she lies as a nude. Removing everything, the nude becomes the place. There are four others, A Lot with an open mouth full of weeds. Lot pulls his dick out as Ariel lays in a tub of water, silver water, still water for mosquitoes to stick it in like they are fucking skin, the mere idea of the mosquito’s penetration tangles feminist panties, and there is Lot and he is stroking his dick getting the pecker hard (Lot has lived his life acting hard, a true Iron Man) with Ariel waiting in the tub semi-there like a sex pistol’s groupie legs spread wide, awaiting in a drugged out state in a kind of sexual anticipation formed from the annihilation of the superego back into the abysmal water from where it was form, back in the half-baked womb. Annihilation all up in here.
But he comes in, not Lot, the good guy, the one who watches her even as his own presence he feels erodes with his friends and he pulls out his knife threatening Mr. Lot who continues to stroke his penis although more furiously than before, adrenaline springing it to life. Reluctantly, more half-heartedly, not to mention the presence of cocksureness, he left.
Paragraph Politics
The Revolutionary
At eighteen, Daniel Zurich, witnessed his first death. A fight broke out over a box of chicken nuggets leading one man to shoot another. Daniel was eating a cheeseburger. Three days later Daniel read Karl Marx for the first time. During the next five years Daniel would become intimately acquainted with the work of Bakunin, Lenin, Voline, Proudhon, Engels, Kropotkin, and other socialists, communists, anarchists. At thirty years of age Daniel founded IWUF (International Workers Union Front), it was short lived. Daniel became increasing frustrated at the world. Corporations abused the proletariat. The capitalists controlled the government. The poor were uneducated and killing themselves, for money, in gangs, for honor that never follows.
Daniel Zurich would die at the age of forty in a car accident driving on his way to San Francisco for the first time.
The Nation
Children wave their flags in the air like warriors readying spears. Bombs burst in the sky. Bombs burst everywhere, but there the flags are burning and books are turning pages for new phrases of worship, here the dye runs red in altar stages for peons who fill baskets with allowances and tumble heavily into their cars. They are evil, we know. They are evil, ok we all know that. A shit storm needs to happen. A storm that will tear up all the dandelions and expose their green soaked capillaries. Ready the spear, boys. We have a traitor and terrorist in our midst. Strike everywhere, but the shadows. We call out to you from the shadow.
At eighteen, Daniel Zurich, witnessed his first death. A fight broke out over a box of chicken nuggets leading one man to shoot another. Daniel was eating a cheeseburger. Three days later Daniel read Karl Marx for the first time. During the next five years Daniel would become intimately acquainted with the work of Bakunin, Lenin, Voline, Proudhon, Engels, Kropotkin, and other socialists, communists, anarchists. At thirty years of age Daniel founded IWUF (International Workers Union Front), it was short lived. Daniel became increasing frustrated at the world. Corporations abused the proletariat. The capitalists controlled the government. The poor were uneducated and killing themselves, for money, in gangs, for honor that never follows.
Daniel Zurich would die at the age of forty in a car accident driving on his way to San Francisco for the first time.
The Nation
Children wave their flags in the air like warriors readying spears. Bombs burst in the sky. Bombs burst everywhere, but there the flags are burning and books are turning pages for new phrases of worship, here the dye runs red in altar stages for peons who fill baskets with allowances and tumble heavily into their cars. They are evil, we know. They are evil, ok we all know that. A shit storm needs to happen. A storm that will tear up all the dandelions and expose their green soaked capillaries. Ready the spear, boys. We have a traitor and terrorist in our midst. Strike everywhere, but the shadows. We call out to you from the shadow.
Avenue by A Hundred Lakes
We stand still in showers picturing
Fake photographs with our friends
The miracles they bring are gone
What’s fading in?
Pick out of ourselves landfill yellows
And we parade across the street
With twigs falling from our teeth
A red filter to stop the light
From fading in.
I wrap myself with branches in the closet
Finding a way to find a way through
We’re stuck in cars on tables
Chairs bending like snowflakes in the wind
Those are drifting in.
With the kids. With the kids.
I’ve found myself a whole new home
A hole to fill the home I left behind
Where are the kids?
Are they in trouble, again?
I’m drifting in.
Fake photographs with our friends
The miracles they bring are gone
What’s fading in?
Pick out of ourselves landfill yellows
And we parade across the street
With twigs falling from our teeth
A red filter to stop the light
From fading in.
I wrap myself with branches in the closet
Finding a way to find a way through
We’re stuck in cars on tables
Chairs bending like snowflakes in the wind
Those are drifting in.
With the kids. With the kids.
I’ve found myself a whole new home
A hole to fill the home I left behind
Where are the kids?
Are they in trouble, again?
I’m drifting in.
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