And even if only by a note like this, we answer.

2011-12-22T04:46:00.000-08:00

A shoe horn in a ship of nipples.
Constantly envying the sensitivity and reactions.
Regretting being made of wood.

Circa 2004

2011-11-07T18:25:00.001-08:00

From the small handed, tiny fingered days of my life to the more recent scarred, chapped, rough handed ones, I've held tight to a love of literatue. At first I would puzzle over the idea that strange shapes could become written sounds, and I would write out nonsense novels and vignettes, pages filled with symbols and shapes that were never the same twice and always spontaneous in their eruption or inspiration. By the time I was four I was puzzling out The New York Times, the words didn't make any sense to me yet, but I could read them, I could preform magic.
In first grade when all of the other children diligently opened up their primers and settled down to puzzle through monosyllabic words shaped into sentances with accompanying pictures, I felt like a master magician who could clearly and quickly make sense of the mileu of assailing letters. Eventually (and I suppose inevitably) rebellious, I began to despise Jane and the running dog Spot. I plotted their demise in early writing exercises, I depicted Jane as a clumsy skater bruising herself on the ice, and Spot as a car chaser with bad vision.
There are a few things to be placed in this early pride and pleasure that I found in literature. One is that as a result of my early approach in decryption rather than comprehension I often attempt to sculpt sounds in writing and reading, and though this is helpful in poetry it rarely is in non-fiction or essays. Another is that upon finding a word I think of another possibly better word and elaborate until my writing is a Fifteenth Century spanish noble attending full court. Inside or perhaps beside those two, I've been imbued with a delicate sense of intricacy a love of fragile, malleable things.
The relationship I've developed with language is love-hate, my feelings seem too intense, too forcefully real to ever be fully represented with words, and words seem almost too flat to have ever been real. I find soft synapse rhythms in sentances sometimes, phrases, words, or new fields of meaning that make the hairs on the back of my neck perk up and turn my blood to carbonated possibility. I still fuel my days and hours with the sounds of little words that come into my head. I still despise the overly simple, that work that my age deems me capable of. I still search for the meaning under the shapes, and the confidence to preform magic.

2011-10-15T11:38:00.000-07:00

Is it better to let things go?
Or give in to that invisible hand tug toward contact.

Simple things cause such questioning.
Can't get past my past,
knees knitted together,
blocking tomorrow's access.

2011-10-04T11:21:00.000-07:00

There is no point.

It's not very comforting.

2011-09-23T14:58:00.000-07:00

Torrential stillness tilling this fluid architecture me wading in the quiet water fodder for indeterminacy, catalyzing the vacuum looming complexity
shot scenery crunching under the feet
hovering hands o'er the walls to feel for the heat
some sign of home
a sliver of purpose remaining
refraining from framing the present in the context of the future, nah
this suturing says so?
I can go slow
lie waiting for the moment
pregnant
to offer itself up

2011-09-04T14:15:00.000-07:00

Psychogeography of habit.
Habit at habitat.
Grab at that ghost.
Bristled host of analgesia.

The sparkled leaves that tease, tempt me to be a lotus eater, just another bird at the feeder fostering forensic reverence for evidence of synergy. Intuitively drifting back to falter, trying to treasure the unaltered.

Offered.

Sidling off wiled and wild again

2011-02-24T19:27:00.000-08:00

The Beatles are crooning, "don't you know it's gonna be - alright" and I watch the petals of the seedling on the window sill open infinitesimally for the sun. Motions so minute my eyes can't catch them. Just freeing the mind I'll start anywhere. The Built Environment and the legislature, the beautiful panhandlers, streetgoers, simple livers, manufacturers of daily culture, prime ministers of novelty.

The poetic and structural realms finally find common ground. I began plaguing myself with sex and art - ardently spurning demands made on me. State run Educational Institutions didn't teach me too much. I almost got away with learning how to do what I want and saying 'fuck all' to the rest. Then after I got out of the mandated educational institution it crystallized - there are things I want to do - so I rushed headlong off into worker-beeism and lolled in the luxury of academic navel gazing. Maybe that's more about this age. "What is it about twenty somethings?" Anyway I'm back in that plaguing myself with sex and art arena again - saying "fuck all" to the demands that don't feed me.

Sidelong glances at the Duke of Discipline generate no more than flirtation. No cessation of the lengths to which I'll go to keep free of confines. Hiding inside a word processing program that makes typing sounds with each key - hit and the dubstep in the headphones - don't you know though? This is wonderland. Anything I can imagine.

The storks were late that year. It was overcast and they knew that they wouldn't come - it was three weeks past their arrival and the villagers wondered what this omen was sign of. They went back to the main hall from the edge of the field where they gathered to furtively glance at the sky. It was quiet but there was an anxious tension as they walked - something ought to've been said but none were ready or willing to remark on the mystery. Too many possible explanations, mostly terrifying, that they couldn't face. An Unusual Mortality Event - except this wasn't mortality because there weren't any bodies of evidence. Just the longing left behind when a cycle skips a beat - the rise of tension - descent into distraction. Denial gaining traction as they buried their heads in the details of daily existence instead of addressing the anomalies directly. There hadn't been cherries for two years. The flowers couldn't bloom once the bees left. They had a few hives - without them there'd be nothing but grass - and they were tended by the most reverent of keepers, trained to tune in and observe closely the changes in their charges. But there weren't enough bees to support the orchards - they focused on the winter vegetables instead. The winter was long and starved - but this year if there were no storks to tend it would go easier. Still - the spring without the birthing would leave the villagers hollow. What was spring without the awkward tufted offspring of their partners to invoke awe?

2010-11-14T21:00:00.000-08:00

It's 9 and I'm crouching uncomfortably close to the keyboard in the dark. The whir of the heater is accompanied by tings from the dryer in the room outside my door and I can hardly bring myself closer to the paper and annotations and citations that should be pulling me.

It's not that I don't like my work.

I am distracted by false expectations appearing real, fears for the future.

There are footsteps above me and I hate them - the clanking of bottles and doors and acoustic guitar fluttering down the stairwell with peels of voice. A phantom Jim Belushi walks up the stairs - rips it out of their hands and smashes it against the wall.

I'm 22 years old and about seven months away from finishing college.

I want to help design a more effective and efficient infrastructure for society.

I feel overwhelmed thinking about where my job will be.

I have about two weeks left in the quarter and need to cement my plans to change into a different course of programming for the upcoming one.

I need to find a job right now but I don't want one unless it is related to my long term vision.

I need to figure out where I'm going to live come the dawn of 2011.

I question whether I'll ever be in a committed relationship again.

2010-03-25T12:12:00.000-07:00

I'm reeling - mouth wanting water but hands wanting keyboard 'n all I've got to accompany me on the coffee table's a black lighter'n nothin' to smoke with it.

Whatever.

I'll loom up obstinate and be happy without.

But really I'm just waiting for my muscles to feel like moving again when I'm penned by this tiredness hanging from my frame like so many weights, maybe it's just the sleeper in me, or the memory of the rain on the tin roof last night when I laid up - eyes wide - vanquishing half thoughts in the low light with words that make waves in the air.

And now a new day and I'm 5x5 and rising, high ambitions for a cafe - scanning papers - rubbing the embarrassment off my face remembering running into Trav as I peaked in the park. It's ok, I realized lots of things, standing in the parking lot of the co-op completely fried and scarcely capable of carrying coherent conversation, but the people surrounding me were all friendly knowns. A realization dawned on me that this magnetism I carry needs to be channeled and worked with more consciously.

No more:
hiding in a bower of books
mimsying with half thoughts
trying to understand

I'm in the knowing
so long as I remember
and make the music louder.

And as for my future? Legs spread wide for tomorrow? It's not bad to keep in mind.

Why can I be so lost? I think too much, s'that easy.

2009-12-29T12:56:00.000-08:00

And suddenly I get struck down by - fuck it.

Better off battling the beasts of repetition, soothing the rippled folds of mind until time -
twirls her many skirts and I trip up
dodge the subject and go running for some dusty passage way and a locked cupboard that I haven't looked at in years,
fears tumble out like so many tiny skeletons and I fall backward and leave the room as quickly as I went in.

Surely! It must be a sin or something akin to it to be plagued so!

That I can't achieve what I want even when approached with clarity and sincerity that this simple request of my mind is being neglected, no obedience, none at all.

Bats at my ears.

Bugs on my tongue.

Snakes in my belly.

Better off by the dirt and the vermes.

Blech.

Gugh.

Yuck.

Why can I be so happy? I like to arrange flowers, s'that easy.

2009-12-20T16:46:00.000-08:00

Were I to rip out the electrical chords attached to all the houses on the street I'm certain the most glorious silence would ensue and it would be heralded by all the birds and bugs who'd begin jittering to a salsa sound- which is actually silence- and then further- expound in the most joyful cacophony, so here we'd be. On my couch listening after I'd committed the act, patiently waiting, and then-

the sound.

Like a blender full of flowers and feathers, lacey spiderwebs and beds of tender vegetables.

Lick the beet juice off our paws 'n laugh.

Me being me.

'N You being you.

But here I am, eschewing reality again by carving out this pathway into the nothingness, into the nonbeing, and bringing back these unique artifacts, tossing them back and forth between my hands for a while before bouncing off to play with beats that I blast too loud in the house while everyone leaves to go to work and I spin and spin and spin with this freewheeling joy at being alive.

Figs and Wasps missive I

2009-11-09T07:15:00.000-08:00

For figs are basally monoecious, meaning that they can produce male and female flowers on the same tree but some have mutated and lost the ability to produce both sexes, become dioecious, or are only capable of one sex and need to exchange genetic material with another fig tree. In dioecious species the role of pollinators is integral to the transfer of genes necessary for reproduction. Pollinating wasps lay eggs and reproduce in the shorter stemmed fig flowers.

2009-08-05T18:52:00.000-07:00

Crooned by flute sounds in the basement.

Trying to get focused.

Thinking about moss.

And bears.

And magaZines.

"I was worried that I had had a vision"

2009-05-11T18:42:00.001-07:00

I'm not sure but this is perhaps the best way to begin. A man in the cafe speaks to a few empty tables while someone sings in French in the background. “God is real, don't ever deny that.” And I'm consumed with remembering the Devil's Club that I met in the deep woods just past the cedar grove. “If I believed in God, what would my concept of God be? An artist? An experimenter.” Ushered verses on street corners and silent planning in the rain. It's something to do with finding bones and warrens and compelled I pause and try to stop before I lunge and attack further, unraveling and going deeper. “You can be joyful without being oblivious.” The coffee is strong and bright, I've got cuts on my hands from brushings with oak and the warmth of my toes pulls me down from that thought on to the next, a question of love. Wishing I had corresponded more diligently. That I could “I was calm, I couldn't believe it, it was all so unreal, I'm just going to enjoy the fact that I'm calm after all these years” Her skin is delicately wrinkled, hand resting on her cheek like those plants that respond to touch and begin to grow together and her eyes are sunken and pull with an intense draw. I can be she, “there is the truth” I can also be he. And who do I write to? Do I write to you out in Amsterdam, bivouacked by brothels and jazz, sweet smoke and piers with ducks? Do I write to the Devil's Club and those who live in the den beneath it? Do I write to myself or my multifarious love licks, all those with whom I share an easy smile and a laugh, all those who I don't write to often enough.

Shift hipped I'll root myself and begin again. I have felt the flow of the universe as strong as a wind or a flurry of rain. “Why was that situation the same?” Her voice trembled. “What was in my head was that I was sort of worried, that I had had a vision.” And with that reeling realization it became clear, yes. There are steps, and different heights and levels of intensities and synchronicites and the crooning of a voice at an unexpected moment can provide the tip to the scale to cause the slow slide into bus mysticism and musky smile affairs. Chairs. That are seductive to me. In the same way that wood and harps, spring growth will arouse me.

Some lessons I've been learning:

patterns are present at all scales and respond to pressure by creating subpatterns to attempt homeostasis

music can be indeterminate

medicine is best if it's born of your bioregion

the idea of separate elements is poison

dandelions are dynamic accumulators of many minerals, they're working hard to heal soils

be: on the frontier, naïve, and a verb

2009-04-29T20:51:00.001-07:00

So whatever, I'm nefariously precarious poised between a sacrifice of my temporal resources for duty and integrity and this nagging vibration that pulls me closer to the soil.

Today I met a bee who was wrapped in spiderweb. I used my knife and with the very tip tore away the strands that bound him. He sat on my blade for a long time after and I imagine that after our frantic venture in freeing him he was resting and felt at ease with me. I dropped him off on a dandelion in the sun and went back to sawing apart a pallet.

I also:
sang flute songs to seedlings
hitchhiked
spoke briefly with my professor as he rushed away to do other things
played a rotten note on a trumpet
and finally

stopped.

It's in this stillness that I'm now cross legged communing with water and fire.

2009-04-05T03:24:00.000-07:00

2009-04-04T22:10:00.001-07:00

Or perhaps dripped down
tripped
I become slanted and bent toward outside forces, the vector of the moon pulsing in corrugated pressures 'till I'm whirled, swooning and spooned up against a slender tree that in its straightness fairly begged for the curves of me to burrow into the bark, blush at some bees, brush bracken against the soft of me 'till I burn with the contact and shaking.

I guess it's just spring and night and the moon is waxing. But my blood beats. And I like it.

2009-03-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

Skinning at night.

2009-03-23T08:33:00.000-07:00

Her stomach quivered and then a shift. Small fire light birds and bugs resting along the areas just outside of her reach. Thereafter, herein she moved closer and closer to the center. When her vision began fading black she swallowed and struggled to stand. Rotten strawberry sensations overpowering her insides. Institutional instructions on how to remedy the quickness of her blood and the blinding, “I wonder how the base of your neck smells.” Can't breathe, can't think, don't move.

Only spinning, endless motions of fields. Grass movements and cicada calls. Heat dripping down her chest. Demons of devotion flat footing to the wail and croon of rock songs at the bottom of her uterus. The cervical gates shaking under the weight of a battering ram. Half lit shots panning around the scene. Curves of skin and a mirage of feeling.

She took out a knife and dragged the coolness all across the heat of her. Slitting the hide of the situation, sternum to navel. Circling the corpse and making the final incisions before stripping the fur from the muscle. Licking the blood off her lip. Salting the skin. She strung the body up and suspended it from a high branch. Shuddered under the weight of her hair and collapsed. Cast into communion with the stars.

2009-03-23T08:31:00.000-07:00

2009-02-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

The dead beetle on the bathroom floor begs the question

2009-02-18T13:38:00.000-08:00

And the blood beat began to hit the chords in time with the line trapped tight along the inside of her thigh, she jerked, a sudden gasp for air and then a return to descent, soft wet, sliding, cool, and again that beat that causes her to be jerked back into the light and the air, a twist of arms, prayer
or something like it
FUCK
the bird's wing so bright in the daylight the beer can propped between two branches the
white cars
passing one another at the intersections the sudden appearance of a friend, the mood of the
song change.

The dead beetle on the bathroom floor begs the question, awareness, observation, what you will
it did
and does
with or without

2009-02-18T11:31:00.001-08:00

Monday's molecular mice (on parade).

2009-02-16T17:25:00.000-08:00

As with a gradual shift of perception it becomes infinitely possible. My finite relations recall the fall or firestep slip to moments of moss, branch kinship and a clinging, fierce! Don't way lay me! Stop speaking and let me my respite. Sun, and then this quiet singing that I throw back, out of the net of perceptions with a force that gullies on white caps.What the fuck.How'd this door get open, how'd all this air get into this dark chamber. I can't even tell how or when, just a sudden realization that I'm:

pooled, uncertain but pressed tight to these
pages in the book of hours, missing
[sacred monster]
almostsnowlightfeedingthe knife of the air 'till its blade is sharpened and I can draw,
slice,
a thick chunk of my hair, toss it into the flames with a ball of butterfly fat but before that I have to hike out to the spots where there's less, use my scalloped spoon to dig up the deserted, slurp some ghosts from a bowl of stone.
It's not this alone, to say so would defy or maybe bely other wanderings. There's still the viscera, gyration of my antennae, coagulating copulation that oozes from the sun sea of me, it's just the he or she, some Key I'm missing to get into the death drawer, shake out the scarves hung on the trees.
There's also the early bus ride, the stolen paper, the perfect rice, the familiar ache in my hips, light licks, perceived, tongued, or hung, just laid out in the hanging air like smoke.

[Or late in the quiet, that reckoning, a rehashing of those lessons learned, hurt feet soaking in a yellow bowl, hair strung down, strewn with detritus and sensation, hewed by Coltrane,
it's a shame only that he should speak God so fluently
and that its capacity is to completely break me.]

Well, not completely.

2009-02-16T14:56:00.000-08:00

Monday's molecular mice (out behind the mulch).

2009-02-16T14:48:00.000-08:00

Maybe it bears mentioning.

I'm pinned. Or poised. Pervasively precarious, unraveler of tangles.

I slipped outside, 'cept I can't really call it slipped 'cause I slammed the door on the way out but the birds! And the brightness of the light! I cut a spring branch 'cause its growth was so green and I hunkered down and got very quiet, just waiting.

It's really that I was sad. I was sad and sad that I was sad and saw the spring stretched out in front of me like a cat, or a bed longed for, and I rushed into it. I puffed up my cheeks and blew away those crumbs of winter, those tired questionings, and moved on to something fairer and composed of fractals and imperceptible webbing.

Now after that resurgence was indulged in I've returned to this room and find it wanting. There's no light in here. I have to follow the sun.

I think that's why I got sad. I don't know if I'm following the sun or not these days.

2009-02-06T17:15:00.000-08:00

Isometric head space.

2009-02-03T18:29:00.001-08:00

In the moon the boy's shoes were blue. They wrote with whale tongues and created giant sculptures which they referred to as gardens. It was not always this way. Once in a time when there were villages and towns they could gather freely in the middle places. Now everything was periphery. The shoelace dripped and in an instant became coated with crumbs that covered the floor, there was an orange tree, and a window with a white curtain, the window is open, outside it's not terribly warm or cold, a very neutral weather. A girl comes in wearing a red sweater, she asks the boy if he would like some milk. The boy says yes he'd love some. She goes to the kitchen to get it for him. He begins dangling his feet off the edge of the couch. She hands him a glass half full, (incase he should spill) and he takes it and holds it between his hands. “What have you been doing today?” He shrugs. “Looking out the window I see?” He shrugs again and drinks his milk. “I found a bird's wing today, would you like to see it?” The boy says nothing but shows a more animated stillness. “I'll go fetch it.” The girl leaves the room and returns with the disembodied wing of a bird. Likely a seagull. The orange tree is very vivid. The sky outside is very gray. The boy is struck with a sudden fear of the wing and his heart begins to race. He thinks quite loudly that if he touches that wing he'll surely die. “Would you like to hold it?” He wants to shake his head but his fear is too overpowering, he can't move. “Well would you?” He feels a hurt, like a clean cut but there is no sound and there is no blood. Only a swiftness and a sense of fragility. He is released and can hardly move, he curls up on the couch shaken. “Are you alright?" The boy doesn't move. “I'm going to call Molly.” She crosses the room to pick up the phone which is yellow. “Hey I think something might be wrong, will you come?” She hangs up and kneels down by the boy.
“Would you put that thing away?”
“What?”
“That thing.”
Her hand moves to the wing and for a moment he is almost overcome with the fear again but it is gone, fingers touch and nothing comes. The girl with the red sweater walks to the window and tosses the wing into the gray. He slides off the couch and says that he's tired. He needs to sleep.

2009-01-27T17:55:00.000-08:00

2009-01-19T23:21:00.000-08:00

2009-01-11T23:24:00.000-08:00

2009-01-11T14:01:00.000-08:00

Or maybe as the contents of my surface mind remind, I'm consumed by an apprehension for feeling, continually reeling, waiting for wine and mythic memories of hunts, I mention it often enough, my death parades and fierce draw to
corpses
Something like that, fuck it, I'm framed, can't do anything but relish in a ready assumption that so long as I'm writing it's ok. The gates, once constantly sweeping open to release a torrent now rust and rot.
Got nothing, but, this,
I suppose.