saboteur internale #2 [-]

(09/26/09 19:37:38)

ezOP

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she wanders into the forest again, trees bend
over her head, waiting for sun to penetrate
in stippled light with monet airbrush.

she comes from autumn fields, where rows of black
plastic are ready for berries, and onions ripen layer
upon layer, mostly water and scent and peering eyes.

Out the window, begins/gets up, this
Treble self; one part doomed to
Be scraped free, another part distanced enough
to be okra, grown too large, so we harvest the seeds.
mix it with some tomatoes
steam it in rain on a summer sidewalk.


the justinius sleeps in the double futon
dreams of childhood days Back when cracker jack
prizes actually meaned something.
Back when actual time had been spent in real sunlit
forests, where water was close and civilization
was just a short walk back, to the farmhouse
where she watches from behind the curtains
over the porch at your approaching form, walking in from
the hot fields to your cool home and her comforti..




he wakens, falling from the futon, drags the cushion
the pastel blanket with him. stumbles into her room
to find a light. she is talking hydrogen cars, solar panels,
foolish drug choices. the justinus stumbles out. he and jacobus
discuss oblivion strategys and spice up their keeps. she is outside
with her friends and the bottle, trades stories of children
with the tatooted waitress, small silver hoop in her lower lip, three boys
and the middle one tells her to get the loaded potato mom
you deserve it. the tatoo on her arm says love is a battlefield. that's after i
kicked my husband out for cheating on me. after she leaves
sylvia dons her mom's hat, disaproves of the girl taking her break
while she's serving. my mom would be shocked i don't
really like it, slyvia's mouth going wide as a dog
that just took a nice middle class robot server tude
from its owners plate. elle hears something like
djuana when she sang the song can ask
There is that aura
of asking again.

sylvia is working up to going home again
back into the cave she's carved. it's not
easy doing drive by coupons and dealing
with the things the news says about
why larry's out of work again and how no one
goes out anymore you're going to leave her
that much tip? well it's twenty percent
says elle and shows her the reciept i think
she was a good waitress.


back at home the lyric breaks out in you and i acne.
the metaphor takes off its clothes, walks around nude
begging for cover of bits. bytes. sugar calls.
she thinks about offerings, bargains. is he so cold
that things blew up or so hot they melted?


a message on the phone she will not answer.
he still doesn't get it. she's gone.

~

u can be here2


~

she has to remember to block messaging.
she's done driving that bridge.










the dream contained rebels who knew they were about to lose so they go out and set off a nuclear bomb in the artic zone. you gotta wonder tho, if perhpas their strategy would be more effective if they'd used threat before it got to the point of not caring what happened. the enemy is always from within, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. david foster wallace wrote his majestic novel infinite jest mostly in the third person. however the entire thing is to be read as if from the inside of the main narrator, a young man unable to communicate with his world in any way except thru the sport of tennis, where he is a beautiful, if flawed, player. so the whole exercise is an alternate reality type of thing for if this narrator had been able to type a coherent sentence then he wouldn't have been in the quandary in the first place. and since of course, dfw did write a work of fiction, the narrator can do whatever is necessary for the story to be told. he can even betray his own character, rendering it false by embuing it with enough reality to exist as a mannequin for actual reality. metaphors, rain o'er me. at least one third of you is a faded cohen song. the other parts spill white blizzards of gnatsong and memories Freshness, if not cultivated, not as they are fertile,
but as they are free."

dams and other lake makers

it's kinda rough
in a patchy way
how living with you now
calls back those years
we believed in something
greater than the power of need.

i mean my memories are sposed to be sacred.
heh. i only write this here cuz i know
you were never interested in visiting.

but it's difficult at best
for me to have those memories destroyed
each time you lie
with your face on the same pillows
we were lovers' beliefs clothed
in this our flesh. it is the time of dread
and prophecy and i had hoped to miss living it.


once, what i'd hoped,even, was some poetry, some leaps.
but i guess one can't stay airborne forever
and the side one lands on depends on one's
placement on the hill, yes? after all
wormholes are things of the mind and no one really wants to fall
into their future before it comes.

so when i love you more than i love me
it's actually easier to be in the same room.
do no harm. put the cracked bottle into
the cracked china cab, fold the poems into
neat squares and arrange them in the chiffarobe.
eternity of a mayfly love.




too bad i'm human. i could have appreciated that a bit more.
i just would like to get the sandspurs out of the yard
once and for all. they spread into metaphors, pop up
under rain and sun, hide themselves in bahaia lashes
and the curve of a belt, how ya doing? you ask
peachy i say. yourself?

i make a new rule, effective three seconds from now.
when you walk into my room, i get to ask any question i want.
one
























































two





























































three





























why are buying straight edge razors
and gauze and tape? why is your smile
the rictus of a naughty beaten dog?



le petite suicide? the almost but not quite?
nothing's changed since before we met.
the past might as well not have happened
you might have spent the past
in an asylum of your choosing
this time. or wait.
did it chose you?


you can thank the gods
or fate, destiny's li'l pinball
the shake of the machine
something threw us together
call it the god of need and gravity.

points clingling up on the counter.
what you fell out of with me
will happen everytime.
it is the way of the flower.
it is the flight of the bee.

i think i've learned something from it.
keep to your kind. i don't know
what you made of it. i think you need
to bleed a few more lives away
before you get that.

i should get over myself. learn to love
like the rest of the world. like i've
never loved before. i can maybe do that.
but you'll have to put those eyes somewhere else.
they remind me too much of someone i used to fuck.

rapunzel in the basement window

rapunzel in the basement window

she ties her hair into punk tree branches.bees and wasps circle red berries, matt's gnat swarm morphed to droning battle ships. two male cats snarl at each other. clips her kalpa bomb to her utility belt. heads for drinks and convo. paradise lingers outside the windows , palms up, sunset smeared over signs, waiting for a dollar. the signs are everywhere. no one freezes from the weather. most of her time is spent editing. the signs. meaning. layers. when you're in paradise you don't want explore what's under the coral reefs so much as bask in the unrelenting humidity. in suit coats and layers of makeup. size three black dress hangs on her mannequin body. her legs are tall and stretched by heels, gracefully propelling her through the restaurant's tables, with the practiced slightly tipsy and purposeful moves of a woman on the catwalk. her condescending smile shines on us all.

insect life

the men, the women, the insect life--
lisa gordon


voices turned to themselves
a murmur belief, a swamp.

inside one morning
glory, sapphire pressured.

fall into the cut boquet~
norhing harvests sweet as beauty.

he turns to the most desireable woman
in the world. some time later, turns away.

what happens is the rubbing of feet, the flutter
of wings, the spiral down as it veers up again.

grass fire drinking gasoline

(title from soul coughing)

she tells him ways to cool the burn
but they don't apply to her. hypocrisis
on the laundry floor. she yells desire out
of the room. independent opportunist
on the lee side of the bidet.

talking in the third person, detachable.
they're awesome, too bad they're dead.
the stuff that's coming out now, she'll never hear.

she likes to think about it that way.
tends to get ahead of things imaging future
before it occurs, then she's already been there.
flash foward to his new life when she's
got six feet and spider webs for a bed.


so it goes this way, sub and pro consciously.
bodily contact making end runs around respect.
she pulls the needle out of their veins. reactionay
symptoms display a cooling of global weather.

hurricanes veer north after making veiled threats
to coastlines. the iberian peninusula takes
off into the atlantic, petulant and humming.
there are olive trees growing in her arms

where the wild sea tosses her hair like silver
racetracks on fantasy's glycerine.
he follows, unsure of anything
except the need for glimmering embers.

equinoxical lexicon

mow the lawn as heat notches
into the evening. lite the last
of the charcoal., gassy . pull
sandspurs, earthy. displaced fire

ants crawl along the sidewalk, pink
sunrays split the new sky blue~
to the south and east, thunderheads.
in the west, first scythe of autumn.

smell of rain, cigarettes and weed.
you in a black spring coat, me in dali's best fall
jacket , exchange pleasantries and lies.

i want love that doesn't close its eyes

"get the most out of your blog"
says the green stripe in my dashboard.
commodity. use. why do i get upset
with the idea? is all of life actually only
a tit for tat? a scratch my back? metaphored
right here. right here in blogland
an application that must be exploited
to its highest degree. get the most out of it now.
operators are standing by.




()










he tries to make it sting less, a form
of comfort. says oh in acouple of years
you'll fall inlove with someone and stay
inlove for the rest of your life. he believes
this. she is old, the rest of her life must
be a very limited quantity. she says i don't think so.
i don't want to go over that cliff again.
and if i don't want to i won't drive near it.
and if i don't drive near it, viola, no fall.
the sea could dry up, the sea could expand
she doesn't want to know anymore. whenever she goes
to the sea she is reduced. maybe to fit more
easily back into its womb, maybe she makes
a card for a parameceum, a birthday card
with a poem designed to get the flagella moving
fast, so one side of the pond can move
to the other. destiny. the idea of soul mates
which she not only wants to believe but laugh at.
because the gods are malicious. the gods are sadists.
the gods are us and we wear the faces of kahn.

inlove. she snorts. when i was inlove i was blind.
my stomach always ached. i needed. i burned.
what is inlove but a way to say be my mommy.
in "infinite jest" the entertainment's known living star
tells us her lines were just this "i'm sorry. i'm so
sorry, i'm very sorry" for ten minutes. the idea is
that all of us want to return to the womb and mommy is the
murderer who takes us there. our mother kills us. a metaphor
too obvious to be anything but a psychological myth.
mother is earth. mother is acceptance.
mother takes you on a ride on kali's belt, devours
the life she gave you. clay pot. ashes to dust to flash
eating bacteria on the warpath of newborn.


listen it's ok. honestly, the wheel? it's ok. it means nothing
grinding on and on and on. just a story to tell
on the eve of mass suicide. the wheel cracking its spokes
because the wheel can chose to keep spinning.
so say the mystics. i think not. god said let there be
light and the whoeel broke. he dosn't want
to cobble it back together again. she's glad
that he's weary now. it means sleep is close escape
and the tomorrow will carry on in better spirits.
she believes. she believes in waves. but he knows
there's always waves within waaves. affeting the affects
they render. ok. sleep now.

title from dj

travesty axis



djuana sits on her wee balcony
jack on his front porch
tasha in her wee hours
finch in her cold perch.

lynze in her cave
calls to tara in her bole
crow sits on the knave
addiction, notsmith rehashes soul

and eden's lost in paradise
while fyodor's lost in hell
why not it could mean money
if poetry ever sells.

the dancer weaves and bobs with god
and names it new or old
with jewels from the ocean's chod
he offers in lieu of gold

way past in myth, are women faire
fuzzy raine upon a wriist
one for each night, a debonaire
st thomas walker twist.

why travesty, you rhyming twit
why axis, why disease?
an old monk's will left u bewitched
under dishwasher's tears.

there was time, fine points
of geeks reversing into sluts
and nerds into girls whose joints
required a quantum door be shut

this is getting out of skin
said jen, being blue tattooed
must you let in everyone
you think you ever knew?

why not, each lens of a flyeye
refracts a different angle
anarchic mythos will require
a lot of worms adangle.

harumph, aroused from silken veils
natalka at last speaks,
i'll be the judge of travesties
of which THIS "poem" reeks.

i gave it berth and room till worms
adangled in the creek. what are
we, fish caught, split and churned
then fried, left on the bar?

you don't get the metaphor at all
the author speaks. oh but i do
and not dead yet, dear natalka
rises with an axis on a spool.

and in that spool, the gathered threads
and in those threads the wooly worms
and in those worms the muse is fed
and in the fed is found the home.

stor y of zero

story of zero


(02/22/07 10:26:10)



i was a blur
you rubbed me out
a placeholder for the gathering rain.

the cold hole
seedless
not beyond
death but beside it.

holding like a baby
a blank mirror in a blank
sky dotted with whispers.

tango then crash

got some musics running thru
my head. my new baby comp got a virus
so i'm back to the old one.
i'm not allowed to have anything nice
remember?

stupid tarot sez and stupid horror sez
and i just am so tired of listening to the voice
of the gods telling me things i don't want
to hear. much less believe. so i ostrich

under my feathers, pretend i don 't want you
and if i say it enough times it'll come true.
anyway i think the things i have are nice.
if a bit careworn or a li'l bashed. lines
running down the screen, backlite going out.
torn paper lantern. squishy aching bedsprings.
my hips, turning fifty before the rest of me.
thank you ibuprofen inventor. and of course
the gods of weed. i have nice friends
and that makes up for all the other things
i don't have including a lover who knows
what the word love means.

sum ppl shdldnt drink

i am one of those.

em with elle

she takes her pieces of paper
binds them with ribbon and rake.
saunters along with a taper
to burn all the letters from sight.

i move scraps from page to pages
hope that someone finds them
somewhere in the long vast ages
digital and winding.

she writes with pen and paper scraps
i write with tapping fingers
but i bet we share the trap
of wanting things to linger

far past the time we're here ourself
far past the ages' gamble
a message to the future, past
like thoughts demanding ramble.

whenever its full. repost?

whenever it's full
Lead [-]

(08/28/07 18:24:29)

ezOP

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then go. after what
is the sink in your heat.

trialogic parsecs blinded by.
currents and the next dose of hormones.

tomorrow i'll wake with lower expectations
than today. but that's just the morning talking.

by midday the melanin kicks in and i'm all
damn these lines are etched. smile woman.

outside it's suck on a smoke
with the woman deciding divorce or counseling.

i offer tobacco and an ear. wonder what she
uses on her face. another day is another day.

i''m grieving it's true. not like you but i'm getting
closer. last fall i saw leaves burned with internal sugars.

this one, i'll be lucky to sing happy birthday.
the one who became the flesh bullet wonders

how long to go on before throwing the towel
into the mildewed spa. traipsing past a lost wallet

with hells too high to wear as a belt. understands
that a taxi ride takes a lot out of a minimum wage wallet.

so i drive. the sky is not as black
as what i'm moving toward

transcriibed pieces of trash

(1)

take 5 more minutes
reeding up the harbour's edge
coins flip into rain across water
beyond turtle and gator, eating other eating
reeds. body of a spinder
wings of flywho eats who i'd like to know
like the swamps in drew parks made of pot holes.
nothing's close in this town, but it's crowded
anyway...




(2)

she gets paid
for the magic in the manner
of psychiatrists and gypsies.
she wonders if this makes her
a capitalist whore. you're stuck
in the purest of blues, ok with
the guitar work but there's
no way you can scream cuz you got
the white man's blues. fat amerikans
and they skeletal kids, smell of beignets
and antiseptic.

the earring keeps demanding payment
"u think he desires YOU because
of a poem". the friday center
of the universe.
half life in a flip book sky.
he hopes, she refutes , he begs
the blonde with a direct wallet
to spare him the mob scene.

~

the drummer likes to solo. because
most other times he has to do someone's
limited beat of a song.



__________________________


there's a big fat zero comin for
the boy on the bike, and you
are a worse poet than comedian even tho
you got no laughs. just remember friend
a friend acts like a friend. doesn't
manipulate with last minute requests
clearly designed to wind up not
on the living room couch but in my bed.

the egg wants to ripen. coffee. hand
sanitizer. honey it don't matter
if that violin's out of tune cuz he
has both mics. no one hears you.
















(3)




what i wanted to feel
was all of you collapsing
into the flight of the heron
and the crow's cheep. it sways
the black thing, on the branch
above the bobbbing heads
of 2 doves as they companionably
toss triangle browned leaves
aside searching for tiny hard berries
which ripen upon then fall from
the faux holly tree.

they expect food, these glinting black
beauties, collecting in the branches
hitchcckesque, courting. some nests
are being built. a pair of brown swallows
encroach. scissor beaks chittering,
urban wings cut the sky, funk bassy.


scherezahde, how far ahead
you were for me. ahead of time.
somewhere off in the alt you inhabit
things go according to plan.
the doves confirm this, from the bowl
in the base of the tree.

a monarch floats by. also the crayon
yellow sun. wings also survive. and you
a piece of music running thru me
until my spring turns into crow.















(40009)

pome of the back of my neck

crow chitter, whistle. under bass wind tunnel.
time to adopt
a new name.

i took off wiht a backpack and a copy of kerouac
you didn't care if i lived or died. we were
that free for each other. yet we lived. we loved.
me melted into our futures chocked with hate and funky.



this morning i'll be early, but i'll try not
to make it a habit. i could be what ever you
wanted me to be but only for a while. to give
is to recieve. i am flush, this moment of rushing
hush. the tweet and charm of it.

no profound things to say, just witness
to profound acts of god. crow chant under jet
a mumbly mazy sountrack. a book in my backpack
for company.






(5)


if i called you
what would i say to you?

i don't think you loved me
it was you who you love.hate.

now you think about me
ever so seldom. melt into the floor.

it was like basically what you're
telling me is put on this mask
till i can breathe again, then maybe
i'll let you take it off. i can relate.

maybe in therapy you'll listen cuz
you'll be paying for it. all i know
is i believe you
can love , i just don't think
you can love me. and anyway
what's love got to with it?

your confession? u wrote that line
for another woman. my confession?
i wanted to be her.

the moon settles into capricorn.
another horned animal. those who delve
into mystery trouble themselves.
just be good puppets. get a reboot
or erase the things you already know.









(5649)





i think of the ways we could fail
and decide not to go there.

the apple is still god's perfect food.




















(66)

we get our blowers out
move sand and leaves
to the gutters. pollen
swrils in the air.

march has other plans
blows them back onto
the asphalt, glittering
and speckling the afternoon
golden. reaction to action
on a time delay.









(702)


requiem for rangoon

world beat down 49th st.
tl at 118th.

the sun is an hour behind time
the glorious day sows guilt on gilded
leaves, pollen ripe with goodbye.

time to settle in with imitation.

whitefish and cream cheese. it's a travesty
she wails. wallowed in mayo and tarragon torn.

she tries to buy the recipe. ships pass
and refuse to exchange lights. lips pass
over exotic taste, leipple light
sea sweet burrowed bottom feeder, goodbye!












(8)




i've learned to bob and weave
my head again, like whuuu, like du uh
can't you see i'm just playyyin

last night the melodrama continues
she is lonely and lost
she tells me, hates that she doesn't
have friends hates tht no one seems to think
like her how she's all alone. i suggest
counselling or a group, whre they're hiding
the same way.





(9)





there's a big fish in the pond.
it roils the breezeless water
shimmer sprinkling, stones tossed
from the cloud above. just beyond
the music for the deaf. a symphony
begins across the flat face of dark
pondwater, reduces it to chaos.

the weather rolls by, uncapturable.
gears of the water truck wind up
crow feathers perched in a dead mellaluca.
it's 124. time for work.















(10)

she's simply
disgusted with the whole
thing. it's out of the realm
of caring anymore.

thre's ledges on the therapist's
office buiiding. a crow picks
at ticks black against grey sky
traffic sloshes and hisses behind her.

puddles sling sleep at her. it
begins to sprinkle. she places her lime
green flip flops and unkempt toes
out the window.

the infinite labors

swallowtail on lantana drips petal
and destruction. no worries. they grow
again, season in, season out. proboscus
tongue , vector of immortality.











image






























i brought out the memories, stored
in manilla envelopes, with metal bifold tabs
to keep them closed, since i didn't want
the permanent seal of glue quite yet.
so as to be accessible, to be inhabited in future.

the first one i saw was you holding our son
on halloween, his first year. he's wearing
our daughter's discarded dance costume headpiece
a lion's mane. your proud
face beams at him, his chubby hand
reaches for me, behind
the camera, recording.

how is it i forgot it all duning
the intervening years? what was it
drove you from me and me from you?

some times i want to apologise for beginning
with you, since i didn't know what i wanted.
it wasn't your fault that we couldn't talk.
it was your moms. your dads. the almost crippling
the almost dead. i'm sorry i can't love you
anymore but i have borne enough
of the trauma they created.




no wonder these things are placed away
at the top of my closet, in beaded forties bag.
no surprise you took these photos from the baby
book i ignorantly left behind when i moved my
grandmother's things from our house, tore
my face from some, yours from others
sent them to me thru our daughter
so i could witness how i'd broken the family.
even then i couldn't blame you for it. i'm grateful
the man i left with was nietzsche.











image































that's all i can say about it.
in the few photos where i am
not behind the camera, i see a bloated
hausfrau, doe in headlites, pleading
for the car to swerve , unable
to move anywhere but into that bright
light.. destruction thru advancement
along a highway i hadn't meant
to follow. my guilt is venemous
eats at my gut. the light misses me
and i was left to find
my own way off the road.





















image
















































what do they want
these women who marry
you and bear your children?

what more could they need
than a safe nest and your fidelity?


















































image


































we talk of writing or domination
techniques. you say it wasn't so much
the sex she missed, she complained
that i didn't bring her, like,
flowers for no reason, or something
like i didn't have time to go over
the books , she said things like that.
i was in masters program for chrissake i was
earning a living while she stayed at home
and baked cakes. she grew flowers
in her garden for chrissakes. i tell you

i am not particularly into the dom
sub sexual scene though i do
undrstand that tension
creates the interstice where pleasure pain
neurons fire most exquisite. slow slow
quick quick slow. you drink jim beam with
a splash of seven up. wince at the warmth.

you think you might want to go learn
salsa tonight. or perhaps get into the hot tub
after the rain, when it's dark and watch
saturn approach the moon. she's just past
full, looking like her water's breaking.

i'm on a different coast frying chicken
chatting with hunter about smoking.
i would like to dance, but all the clubs
are closed. it frightens me how many
times i've heard this story. makes me
wonder how the girls i grew up with
wanted the same things mom did
and barbie and ken and the malibu beach house.

how did i get here, why didn't i do something
with my life besides go unwillingly into that dark suburb?


i come up with, like, one good excuse.
i was just trying to survive.

i can't even say it was love.
shouldn't you know what that is
when you're in it?
shouldn't it carry you away on
some sea of opium?

i was just trying to survive.
i'm sorry i took your youth.
i tried to leave as much of your dream
for you as i could.

i didn't rape you financially.
that's my only solace for taking you
along on my ride, the place i didn't know
i was going, the place you saw clearly
once the baby popped out.

we were always a good financial team.
it was written in the stars. too bad
i didn't know how to read back then.
i might have saved us both some trouble.







































image























outside sounds of a mower.
the plastic ting of a computer
tellling off its user. a knock at my door.
you come in with the sun in your eyes
i guess they call that smiling. are we going
to the beach today? i can't keep
the tears from my eyes. they have nothing
to do with you. they have everything
to do with you. i tell you
i'm writing. you ask do you always cry
when you write? i answer only
when i write the good stuff. you ask
do you want me to let you write
and i nod yes. so you leave.

















































image















what the hell is water?


some day i will recognise it.
it feels like the inside of her eyes
after she opened them onto
something beyond immediate desire
the thing that moves her further from
where she was born, closer to where
she was begat.


i was probably going to leave you then,
that weekend i went to my sister's. i must
have followed you over, you had a job
laying floor in a sports store at night.
you came to her house after. she gave us
her bedroom. i remember i did not
really want to be there, in that bed, with you.
i'd forgotten my pills before. it should be ok
i'd done that before. forgotten. but you'd been
gone a week. that's too long.
when i told you later that i would marry you
because i was going to go thru with it
this time, i am keeping this baby, you seemed fine
with it. i thought i was giving you what you wanted

i mean why not? i'd already gone to trade school,
finally got a good job, in the daytime, with benefits
like you wanted.even tho i am,
and always have been, a night person.
i'd put away writing at last. buried and scattered
in journals we moved from one apt to the next.
we put down the drugs. we forgot to pick up
the hugs. no one told us we were clueless we just
stepped into the prentender shoes, running from
disease and want and hunger like there would
be safety in numbers. eating the fat of the land.
become cows. raise our kids for the slaughter
and all those cliches. now she's at the gate
of the chute, the electric hammer at the far end
does its duty. she does hers. i did mine.
you did yours. tone? she wonders.
what in the hell is tone?






i was going to leave you
but for what? to where?
in those days i still believed in purpose.
in those days the purpose of the gods
interested me. biology does its duty.
it was in fevered dream i tell you

she's 6 months pregnant. it's hot
and she's just walked a few blocks
home from where her carpool ride
drops her, at the interstate, just before
the entrance ramp. she lives on
the other side, about a block up.
the afternoon sun is brutal. she's
beginning to bulge and huff but she's heard
that pregnant exercise is good for the baby.

when she walks into the door she only wants
to sit in front of the air conditioner, a wall unit
that blows across three rooms, trying vainly
to cool off the day's heat. he's already home.
agitated over something. she's not listening or
it's been too long to remember but the fight
gets louder and she's all like LOOK i'm
pregnant goddammit and he says as far as i'm concerned
you trapped me. she goes cold. quiet. steely.

she speaks thru her teeth.
listen fucker. you asked me for nine years
to marry you. and i always said no
marriage is for having babies so if we do
get married it'll be because we decided
to have them. if you think you don't want
to do this, then you can go. i don't give a shit
i am having this baby whether you're
in its life or not. if you feel trapped nows
the time to leave. and don't let the door etc.


she went into her room
took off the art shoes
and put on her mom boots.
and now she dances every
where in those damn boots like
they[re some red shoes from a fariy tale
she got caught in, only she
didn't know she wanted them,even,
she just suddenly found them and put them on
so yeah. dancing.

she doesn't really hate them, the boots.
in fact she knows how much they shape
her legs into the thing of desired, fulfilled.
she only wishes she could have traded
that desire for something she might
have wanted earlier, but didn't.

how not knowing what you want
becomes the most dangerous animal
in the jungle. and the most rewarding.









if rewards are what you're craving.

cranial restructuring

cranial restructuring
Lead [-]

(08/31/09 19:32:32)

ezOP

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multiple parallel inputs come
digitized on microwaves into
her head. she's not believing
bad news can travel so clearly.

as if the movie had to be replayed
in a moon with indigestion, half bumped
mostly pregnant. it wasn't enough
what she went thru with the old man
she has to watch the instant replay
with her daughter. funny she thought
the whole family thing came later.

always afraid of miissing something
the pokey li'l puppy ran down the hill
and bumped ahead of every one
but the fastest. she didn't know what she was
getting into. undereducated, badly fed
emotionally scarred . he might be a loser

but he's her loser. unless he isn't. he won't
ask her to stay. her mom
hisses in her ear,he's not good enough for you
he doesn't love you, like that helps one tiny
li'l bit. the pokey puppy grabs her blanket
and huddles at the mouth of the cave.
she can't speak to the lie inside her.










*(&(



maybe it's projection
but it's not the first time
she's been shifted from victim to blame.
all this irresolution, streetwalking
insecurity lookin for a home
a therapist, some soup,
a good night's sleep on a real mattress
might help. but it won't be happening
in that ghetto. it's a recurring theme

looks too familiar to the viewer
she can see the girl's trajectory,
a tragedy with cystic fibrosis lunge
like a persistent, radioactive aftertrace
resultant of her youth. the turtles go
all the way down, and, look
all the way up, too. she wishes
she were not so impotent. she wishes
she knew how to talk to the girl
like they used to, lying in the dark
after story and song, inventing good dreams.









({UUOOO)))































so i guess it's just
a thing. we have parents
and issue with said parents.

things go unresolved into the next gen.
no matter what we do
we fuck our kids up.
we want them to have it easier than us
so maybe it makes up for how bad we had it.


but the patterns need to feed.
and they do . taste this bread, it is my flesh
drink this wine it is my blood, this meal you've
prepared so many times, here on your table yet again.