2.08

what can i give up
and what can i hold on to?
the lead wings
singing songs of old times.
breathing dust in my face
and pretending it's life

tonight i lost

stuck in the rut of my head,
fucking myself over.

i discovered punk in pieces, the first being style. faded black and white photographs of girls with black gelled eagles' nests of hair, eyes heavily outlined like in my grandmother's beloved edward gorey books. glimpses in movies of red mohawks, army pants, studs. but most importantly, my conception first grew from C's ever prismatic mind, a flowering of nighttime, intoxicants, beautiful violence, feral behaviour, childlike fun, and of course, mystery. the girl dressed in a yellowing wedding gown, with a rat on her shoulder telling c she didn't have jack shit when she was her age. the art of lacing a safety pin through a part of your body, control of pain, endorphin rush, decoration. the disregard for rules, in attire or attitude. the discovery of expression. the beauty of c, eyes rolled back, goldfish orbs suspended in egyptian kohl, expression that of a silent movie sufferess, face white, blue green mohawk reflecting the bluegreen lovebirds perched on her shoulders, pecking at the glass beads hanging in little braids at the sides, ornate lingere showing through her translucent cut off ancient t-shirt, old brown black crinolin skirt swarming around ripped up fishnets, diving into old army boots. grinning skate boys, dark smoky bars where there was always a way to get in underage, and the feeling that as the sun set the day was rising. like most things directly of this world, the reality caught up to her dream, and as time shifted and syracuse rained, as people changed, the bars closed, and the music focus shifted to hard core, she sequestered herself to her rooms in the best bitter tragedienne manner she could, refusing to forgive the changes. she was perhaps 15.

oct 07
a little fine whiskey to mellow the constant burn
at the back of my throat
and the saltsting
in the eyes.
how many mistakes wrought
suns set to rise again
if man's memory were not faulty
our lids would never wish to open again.
someone described surfing as living purely in the moment.
it made me understand it as a philosophy,
as religion
as hope
wave cupping ever moving gliding crashing peace.
rising and sinking in neverending rhythms
from the berth that first spit us on land,
groping, hairless, pale,
wishing to go back home.

tonight i told someone a story of my life i had never told anyone before. by the end of it, they were asleep. i don't mean for these things to keep me up, they just do.
i got up and put on my underwear, hat, clothes. of course i got caught. these things never run as slick as you want them to.
on the way home, i felt the cool night air. i passed the lovely sound of the scrapyard crushing metal in the midnight hours. the concrete factory still and stark with it's chutes and ladders cut against the pink sky. water flying uselessly on a shaved city midian. a homebum plastered against a wall, the same place for days across from the american steel warehouse like a greasy wad of chewing gum, stuck. unidentifiable, inanimate. like the lost piece of conciousness in the back of my head. he is what i would have been, had i stayed in the bed.

this world is a confusing place, at best. at worst it is a hellish nowhereland, where we drum sense into ourselves hoping to cast out the demons. we use intoxicants to give ourselves a vision of a place beyond it. and then. then we grow on the faith of those dreams, construct a place we think we are safe, till it all comes down in a stack of straw. the angels still live above, calling down, and we cry upwards that they still don't see the deal as it went dirty behind their backs.
Volatile Life. replicants of times before, where is my heart in all of this? i've lost sense of everything. M. says, what i would have said. no kids, no peeps, no problem. chaos of life prevails, love rules all, with an iron fist or no. the gentle times come right after so who cares? there are always worser wolves, and so you get caught in a laberynthe that only spirals downwards. above sunlight, somewhere. who ever said there is justice in a deck of cards? so we let the hands play where they will, regardless of ourselves, after all, we are just one card, and definitely not a queen.

but then the pawns come in. small, ignorant of what the kings and queens chose for them. playing out the needs of their soverenty. imitating the wants of their elders, sacrificial game for all but the most cautious of heart. we are the reverberations of all that has come before us.

In the beginning

october 2007
It's like a jump. i think i'm unused to moving the blocks of my life around. free fall, stomach drops out, wind beats and tears at the details, rearranges the silhouette. i await his hurt in the morning. how many times have you saved me O? from my crippling alcoholism, from my miserable heart, from my craving body, from my volatile mind? how many times have you steadied the keel, only to send it spinning? how many sunsets have we watched, sunrises slept through like two contented mice in a burrow? why the fuck am i doing this, am i that fickle and selfish? when frustration gnaws at my belly when we're together like a rat, is the snakebite of loneliness any better?is the pathetic truth that i am still angry at you, after all this time, i can't forgive? have i ever even faced my fear of you, of the you that you fear and dislike as well? and how am i supposed to separate the two when they live in the same body? your strange memory.. don't know september from november, a shove from an explanation. how many dreams am i crashing like ninepins right now? why is life so unreal, i feel like i'm not even here, like i lost my I. there is nothing but a floating shadow. but i'm trying to find me again, i swear.

beware the imprints made in youth
the sweat that slid from pore to pore
the finger grips
an open door

Once upon a time, two people met.
they neither panicked,
nor withdrew.
they fucked on legions
of dreams, they made themselves
out of shredded skins she tore off his
back in a fury of shaking love.
they fucked in every corner, back alley,
treetop, and sidewalk that NYC could
afford, and still they taxed them in the
length and breadth of their love.
Bored with unhappiness, they eclipsed.


this is not a sequential history, a day to day confessional, or a mission statement. it's simply a bunch of stuff i've written over the last few years that i figure i can back up on this seeing that so many filled books of writing i've done have been destroyed in various ways. i'll explain it better another time, i'm sure it's written down somewhere.

hi.