All People Are Just Recycled Faces

C G Poem 73

2009-05-23T11:54:00.000-05:00

fairy tales finish

crept-checked brought

considering...

unable alice

clear!

computer generated magnetic poetry poem 71

2009-05-22T12:58:00.000-05:00

Hope

zigzag were ye

exclamation sighed near

writing turns

computer generated magnetic poetry poem 67

2009-05-14T10:43:00.001-05:00

twinkled trials

slippery moon

possibly lose lady

talk

repeat

5 Tibetans and a Woman

2009-04-03T01:38:00.001-05:00

In those after yoga moments, I would want to write about those hands for days.
And those other parts, piece by piece.
Reduce you to a sum after I turn me down to simmer.

All of them?
What
could you possibly
say about my
kidneys
you’d ask.
(so much)

In those after-yoga moments; the ones I am forgoing now in place of newer moments involving real touch and not pseudo-feeling, you are finally here –
well in there, while I am here, because you cannot expect me to write you with accuracy if you watch –
and suddenly you are here. The fans have told me it is time to prepare. In two swirls, I hear the water and with it, the door. Hall on. Haul off.
Those toes, without pit (pat) meet the floor in creaks from old bones or old wood and you want to sleep (it is late) and I want to write (it is late) and this right here is the root of our fundamental difference.

Lay still
and I will paint you
in fine ink
with fine letters on
expensive
parchment.

In those after-yoga moments [I am the mourning] when I lay heavy and breathing
(belly, belly, belly)
corpselike but warm and still breathing
(chest - no, BELLY, BELLY)
I think about nothing – the gravity of the situation, the sweat beginning to form but frozen in that moment after conception and pre-birth; the water has broken but still no baby – and in nothing I think about her [the knight]
a satellite (two buttons & hello) away working, drinking, being (doing) and me just breathing
(belly. belly.)
against the music.

You say
you’d prefer
if I did it
with ball-point
bank pen (blue)
on a napkin.
You are practical.
I am internally
extravagant.

In those after-yoga moments, I give my self for parchment. I write in red ink between vain lines,
calling out to Greek gods as Christ has abandoned me to the sin (say some)
Hark! Calliope, Erato, Polyhymnia, Euterpe!
calling out to the earth as the Greeks have abandoned me to the folklore
Exalt! Sun, Moon, Fox, Rabbit!
calling out to me in my temple as nature has burned me
meditations on an ohm to channel Kundalini

And I say those words blaspheme
Helios, eros, Persephone, Artemis
These, my new friends,
Tree, Water, Fire, Ground.
You need more,
I say.
You are confused.
(it is late)

2009-04-03T01:35:00.000-05:00

In the dimples
of your lower back
where I put my thumbs,
  my tongue,
where your skin gathers
and separates and allows
a superficial union of
our bodies, albeit small,
discreet and undervalued
next to those other places,
those substantial places
where two become just
the one by means of
divine multiplication,
a small bead of sweat grows
product of the sweat
I pour into you
and I catch a glimpse of us
reflected therein.

I taste the blue arteries (veins??)
  bud by bud
as neon borealis against the pink
the pink against the translucent white
I taste the hairs
   I taste the pores
   I taste the cells
   I taste the silence-
and where there used to be silence,
the breathing- the in and out
of life, mine and yours-
and where the vocal chords
used to be open, bypassed in breath,
their vibrations.
   I taste the decibels
I feel them in my bones
my digits, my limbs, my core
I feel them in your bones,
your muscles, your organs, your glands.

In the dimples
of your cheeks
that appear and disappear
where I put my lips,
  my own dimples,
where the heat radiates
from within
this fire combination of
my body and yours
originating from those other places
those substantial places
where you come together and
I come alive in the movement,
there begins some type of ending
that coats each nerve in wax
  and pins
to isolate and test,
throwing out the bad ones
and reinforcing the good.

327

2009-04-03T01:31:00.002-05:00

A placenta misplaced
in the mag-glass oven of an anthill
slinks and globs
like the girl in class
   with the small mustache
   and horrid accent.
I watch the speedy angle
at which her shoulders clamor from her hair
till she becomes the hill
broiling her own placenta within
moving now both inside and out
like amoebas
   or flan

Blue (revised from Sept)

2009-04-03T01:30:00.002-05:00

it was conceived inside
of spare whatnots and parts
near the joints

escaped from beneath
tooth-carved nail beds,
tobacco-like in texture
vine-like in form
provocative like
the itch of ivy
or seduction

the blue is creeping
from the tips
and spreading
up the fingers
up your arms
like i should be

On the Essence of Being

2008-10-26T20:18:00.004-05:00

i am

not i

am i

am (not)

i am what

i am

not i am those things

because i am

not i

because i am

(not)

because i am not i what am

those things

what things

not i

am not

Prius Serious

2008-10-18T21:01:00.002-05:00

look at that cool

Prius

!" she said.

i did not know

how SERIOUS

it was

but

-believe me-

it's that

SERIOUS

Second Coming (first draft)

2008-09-23T13:01:00.008-05:00

You are Jesus

on the cross

legs together

arms spread

but with the hair of a

90s lez

& beard of a

post-hormone tranny

Pause

for em-PHA-sis

Glow spreading

Cornet-wielding angels

DOVES flocking to raise you

up up

till the ceiling fights to constrain you

This vision, my vision

O Holy Christ-Professor!

I/Am/I saved??/!

you talk about

marbles

And your fanfare is over in

second-hours in

a flash

****

borderline blasphemous? maybe, i know but shh don't worry. this is exactly what you would have written had you been there. promise!

2008-09-23T12:58:00.003-05:00

2008-09-21T10:44:00.003-05:00

As tagged by Laura

6 Unspectacular Things About Me:

1. I'm really good at procrastinating (this is what is happening now)

2. I will be a bartender/bike messenger when I go to grad school in NYC

3. I often feel uncomfortable in situations where there is no music playing when there could be

4. Cooking is one of my new favorite obsessions

5. The last time I watched TV was a week ago today, before that, a month

6. I really want to take up bicycle maintenance so I can repair/tune/maintain my current bike.

I choose to tag:

Mel

Charish

(and i would tag jenna but she probably would not see this for several months and then wouldn't do it because she hardly ever writes anymore...)

Directions:

1. Link the person who tagged you

2. Mention the rules on your blog

3. list 6 unspectacular things about you

4. tag 6 other bloggers by linking them (or less if you don't know that many people like myself, I won't judge you)

2008-09-09T19:48:00.000-05:00

some days

i love ever

yone

those poetry readings

2008-09-08T20:18:00.003-05:00

we got there first

before me

& sat schizophrenic

us-whisps in booth

She, Veritable Step Function

2008-09-02T18:13:00.001-05:00

she can be described

only piece-wise-

the pieces that go here

the pieces that go there

the piece that stays with me

she doesn't know i've stolen

Blue

2008-09-02T18:10:00.002-05:00

it was conceived inside

near the joints oozed

from beneath groomed nail beds

and on in squiggles

like waves like

vines of poison itching

the blue is creeping

from your fingers and

spreading up your arm

like i should be

To the Woman with Invisible Legs

2008-08-28T18:15:00.004-05:00

They've appeared again

The feet of a woman born

of denim and desk chair,

at home in the arms of

some slip-ons.

I had forgotten them

while they were tucked away,

talking politics

of 17th century motherhood

with the cotton of your panties.

2008-08-28T13:38:00.001-05:00

she has been opened

on hinge

and her intestines

held on to

The Burial

2008-08-26T12:39:00.004-05:00

when you were touched

there began your

tragedy

one tiny raised ridge of print

from snake finger

tipped in Gold, based in

flesh [silver] bone

on colorless hair

then oh! the quakes!

we did not smell the ash-

grey trails blazing

there was no time to prepare

Untitled MLXXIV

2008-08-26T12:36:00.001-05:00

How are

you as a catch-all

your ghosts?

What are they

for everyone joined laughing,

smiling about?

and maybe better off.

Patrick of Democracy

2008-08-19T18:46:00.004-05:00

Patrick wears home-made distressed Levi's. They look dirty but I'm giving the benefit of the doubt because I do not know this man. I do know the type. What a head of hair he's got! You do not need to speak well or teach well to be a professor. You do not need to be in shape or possessing of supreme fashion sense.

But Prof Great-Hair, you lazy bastard, you! You embody your career. I assume you are smarter than you let on. Smart and well read. Your sensible shoes become you. If I should creep on you and find your number, would you answer? Your phone is leather-bound and on your hip - just in case, I wonder.

He laughs. Our eyes connect. I picture him as a mall Santa and that, too, is fitting.

this is my metaphor for being unable to produce any writings

2008-08-18T21:50:00.003-05:00

It's like an iceberg in here. Except below the surface of ice isn't just more ice. Below the surface of ice are flowers, dead flowers probably. Yeah, dead flowers. Flowers that have bent stems and missing petals and sad colors. Lovely flowers.

Below the flowers is more ice.

2008-07-26T20:09:00.002-05:00

aujourd'hui c'était comme feu ce sentiment. soudainment je me suis trouvée dans un rue et j'ai su.

il faut que le français soit* toujours dans ma vie.

*this morning we went into a place and Stephen and Laura went first so the man behind the counter spoke to me in english and I responded in french because it just felt better to me. I didn't say much. just a bonjour and a merci... a little bonne journée is all...and this man has the GAUL** to say to me "it's so good that you know how to say thank you in french, some of the people in west montreal can't even say hello or thank you" and I walked out of there radiating foul juices, so angry (so sad). I wanted to say that I could say a whole lot more than just thank you in french. I wanted to yell at him! I wanted to yell at him in french! I am not a dumb american. my chorus sang "of course you can! you can even navigate the tricky tricky subjunctive!" and I felt better almost instantly 'cause you know what. I sure can. What does he know? Con. Putain. This verb was in the subjunctive form.

** get it!? Gall? Gaul?? FRANCE! you know like francophone place like montreal. it made me laugh. she laughs at her own puns, that's so much lower than laughing at her own jokes it's sad. no it's awesome actually.

2008-07-24T23:57:00.001-05:00

Canadian hobo's don't want your money, they just want you to put them in a cup or a poster.

this what i learned today.

2008-07-16T13:33:00.005-05:00

I wrote a poem today. It started:

I am writing you a left-handed poem

because everything is backwards...

but it went downhill fast from there.

you were not the you,

in case you wondered.

around 5/6 of the way through

i salvaged it i think

created some interesting

...yet thought provoking...

statements

had some good lines to try and fight the wealth

of bad ones

but i ended up throwing it away

because i hated it.

i wrote that poem with my left hand

but not all poems written with the left hand are

left-handed poems.

this was not my poem.

Lessons Learned from Drunks #13

2008-06-06T14:59:00.001-05:00

when you piss and

miss the toilet,

it is advisable

to start again

maybe in a new stall

2008-05-14T21:18:00.003-05:00

know what? i really want to write you a poem.

why did i take this job? (based on a true story)

2008-05-08T09:59:00.002-05:00

"I thought it was a myth!" said the man after he witnessed the solvation of the rubik's cube.

I made up the world solvation.

Abracadabra

2008-05-03T00:08:00.003-05:00

Into his hat he cried "Please and Thank You!" and waited several minutes before the audience's jeers and cries of hatred burrowed into his skull. Now he works in a cubical and finds himself resenting every rabbit he passes. Magic his ass.

Husbands

2008-05-02T23:50:00.000-05:00

As it stopped, a woman on a train stood up promptly at 6h49 PM and announced her full name and destination. She gave her name again to the conductor as she exited and again to the man on duty in the train station. While she whistled a tune on the way to her mother's house, she wondered if she had remembered to lock the windows and if the hitman had arrived on time.

While Waiting For A Meeting

2008-04-30T10:39:00.001-05:00

I wrote this for Charish* and

I hope she likes it

I wrote this for Charish and

I don't care if she likes it

I wrote this for Charish and

It is hip-shaking

Eye-raping

Cookie-baking

Tic-Tac-Toe good

To what does she owe the honor?

*this looks like char-ish to me. char making not the chair sound but the burger king burger type of sound. my apologies for poor spelling. this is a great way to distinguish a person from an abstract concept.

Story of My Life

2008-04-28T20:03:00.000-05:00

A grandfather sat his grandson on his knee and prepared the small child for a story. No one asked the child if the child really wanted to hear a story, or if it really had the time for a story, or if there was something more important the child should have been doing. The grandfather merely captured his progeny for selfish purposes and all others occupying the house stood witness as it happened, doing little to help. Each of them had had their turn, and each of them wished that someone had spoken up on their behalf. Even spanish-speaking house-cleaner Maria had heard (yet failed to comprehend) her fair share of grandfather's stories. Now it was time for the grandchild's initiation. His very first. With a toothless smile and slightly crazed cough-infused laughter, grandfather prepared himself. "There lived a boy of seven married to a dishwasher named Sue in happy unicorn land..." Grandfather began. And the grandson began to cry, not only because grandfather was a scary man, but because his story was ridiculous.

On Death and Dying

2008-04-27T10:27:00.001-05:00

If Cancer spoke a language it'd probably be French because that's what they speak in Switzerland. Then again, no. Well, maybe. If it did, we'd be pretty similar. Both of us would speak French, and both of us would be possibly fatal.

Logic

2008-04-24T11:25:00.000-05:00

buying hummers helps terrorists

Truth Revisited?

2008-02-09T19:35:00.001-06:00

it is necessary sometimes to sit down and remind me who i am, what it is i do, what it is i need.

otherwise i find myself wanting, craving tragically silly things.

Truth

2008-01-26T22:28:00.001-06:00

I hadn't written in a while.

438-Doesn't-HELP-at-all

2007-12-19T16:23:00.001-06:00

Bruce is in the hospital.

I don't know what happened. I don't know when he'll be back.

I just keep hoping they'll treat him well and remember to call him Bruce instead of anything else.

And most importantly, I hope no one makes fun of him.

Because he's a pink computer.

And his name is Bruce.

On Writing

2007-12-18T18:08:00.000-06:00

The best and worst part about being back at my house is finding all of the old files and papers lost in the move. It's mostly a lot of old stories, half-written and unfortunately not quite halfway decent. I've decided, today, that poetry, is subjective. If you say it's good, then it is, mostly 'cause it can be about whatever. Everything and nothing in convenient free-form. But these stories? Isn't it funny how things can seem really good when you're in the moment...

Funny-haha, but mostly funny-depressing-fact-of-life. Definition. Artist. One who's creative work, in any given medium, withstands time and is still good after multiple viewings.

Alternate definition. Artist. Not...Me...And if you want to know a secret, I still lack the fine motor skills to color inside the lines. It's okay though. My world is colorless. Or maybe it's lineless. I'll never know. I'll never tell.

Actual definition. Artist. Not important.

I found the beginning lines to a story I wrote. Just the first few sentences but the whole story came flooding back to me. I never got it on paper. It's better that way.

It was the story of a guy named Milk.

And Milk was afraid to be alone and therefore managed to spend every moment of his waking and unconcious life in the company of others, often strangers.

Milk meets a girl.

The girl gives him AIDs.

And tragically, in the end, after all of his carefully measured efforts to never spend one second by himself, he dies. In his sleep. When the girl thought it was safe to just step outside for a quick cigarette.

And after the funeral, she finds out she's pregnant.

I couldn't decide whether to let it stop there or to finish with the AIDs related death of mother and unborn child. That's probably why I never wrote it down. It wasn't his real name, you know, Milk. I gave this guy such an elaborate history all to prevent giving him a real name. No Charlies or Daves for me. No sir.

Remember that time I wrote that whole piece without ever giving a name or gender to the main character? No, of course you wouldn't. It seemed like a great idea at the time. I was proud of that.

This story, my Milk story, was a masterpiece of thought. Still is. And I won't ruin it by putting it on paper. That would require an artist.

Not...me...

Dear Blog --

2007-12-15T10:23:00.000-06:00

So you're not my primary blog. I haven't written since October. If my posts were food and you needed them to survive, I might've killed you several times over; and for that I apologize but I mean all at once life is beautiful and life is a whore.

I'll try and do better, I will, but I make no promises, okay? I've got another site to maintain, plus a journal that consists of -- get this -- paper and ink. Not to mention those other things I do during the day when i'm pretending that my mac isn't my life.

Happy Holidays. I'll be back before the new year. There's just not enough motivation to do everything I should be doing and sadly, you're not at the top of my list.

Go figure.

-D

Stranger Danger!

2007-10-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

How dangerous can these people really be? Of course there are your rapists and your molesters and your murderers but without the bad, where is the good?

Coming out of a Meijer around midnight, I was greeted by two college aged blond girls. They were neither drunk nor on a different drug, but these two peppy children came to us holding out two bags of candy.

"Would you like some candy?" They ask.

And I, your typical almost-average-but-not-quite internet guide to life, give her a puzzled glance.

Do not take Candy from strangers. Do not get into strangers' vans. Don't talk to strangers. Just say no.

"Haha, no reason!"

Still more than puzzled, I reach into this bag and pull out a caramel apple sucker. It's important to note that if any of the goods in either of the bags were at all out of the wrapper or even slightly unwrapped I would not have, but it was all clean. All untouched.

Afterall, 'tis the season of hyperdermic AIDS needle caramel apples and poisoned popcorn balls.

We debated in the car about the reasoning behind this. Perhaps they were doing some sort of experiment about strangers taking candy at odd hours after grocery shopping. Maybe they really did find someway to poison the candy. Perhaps they were just being nice.

NAH! HAHAHA NO WAY!

Society does not train nice people. Buyer beware! Everyone is out to hurt you.

I'm probably not going to eat that sucker but hey, it's got an awesome story behind it.

Conformity at its Finest

2007-10-10T12:30:00.000-05:00

If it's good enough for Jason, it's good enough for me. All that needs to be said.