Wednesday, 29 September 2010

for those that were with me, there, in the field

we vibrate in such ways

and to keep ourselves from shaking out of control, or

losing that way that

we vibrate

we must find others that quiver in the same


of way

and maybe we find someone who is so close to the same

that we carefully contort our frequency to come close to theirs

and they do the same

we place delicate fingers on our dials, tweaking with such


that we are alarmed when someone might want to turn them for us

we reject change, unless it is one or two notches away from where we already are

I am 19 to 24 years old, and I shiver without Q's sometimes and

try not to repeat myself

I have spoken to mayan gods from inside a tent, borrowed from Tom, for the purpose of keeping me warm and out of the rain. He gave it to me in good faith and it was almost destroyed by the gibbering wonk.

but I stood my ground, and picked it up with brainwaves that shook the goblin that had plowed through it

the god spoke to me in murmurs.

it said

mumuh muhhuhmmumhuhhh

and I told it, lying, that I understood.

but I could've. (understood)

I could've lept from the top of spinning slides onto carpets of christmas lights, held up by fingers of joy and acceptance

I could've been shot by cannons of infinite death and the humming void and it would've bounced off my crystalline shell and dissipated without harm to others.

I destroyed minds with thoughts of divine perfection

I was buddah

and so were you

and there were geniuses with brains full of undead plants, telling stories full of guitar strings and the remnance of a cosmic infinity band that played brazilian soul and let us know

that we were right where we needed to be

our resonance was perfect, for at least two hours.

and if I close my eyes and warp the past, as I always do, we were perfect from the start

we shook together, on that english field, surrounded by every freak that wanted to keep a secret

and we failed at that

but at least we saw the laterns float away in droves, laden with the wishes of hopeful deviants, unaffected by the hatful glare of doubt, and fear

a week later, I floated off too.

but I carried a lantern with me

Monday, 27 September 2010

happy birthday Joe Stohlman

is it a tick?
or is it a tick?
or am I imagining it's a tick?
I am punctuated with
severe pauses that
force thought of empty thought
strangled artistic endeavor
this page, my words are
released into the mind space
in patterns of delightful
at the same time I am ruined
by my own lack of thought
I can't think
there is only a feint buzzing now
drowned out by the incessant ringing of my
ruined ears
I am a scared puff of whirling
unwilling to save myself
from being formed into
rings of
unnecessary candor
flailing out my grey fractal thoughts into a pit
which I made for myself
so I can sit, and be

Wednesday, 15 September 2010

the morning routine

when I w w a a k k e e up
I lie in my bed
and lie
to myself that I don't need to
get up
the warm sheets that I cling to
never judge me for having a bad month
"just stay a while longer"
-they say
just like the body that's never
to me
I roll and turn, trying to find the elusive vein of sleep that I lost when I woke, and eventually I give up
I wander around the empty
s p a c e s
in my thought
filling each one with humming nothing
and then I get up
I look over my shoulder at the
chance that someone might see my lonely shame
and draw a cigarette out of my dwindling pack

I stole it from my parents
not the pack, but the indication that might let
me buy one
I move
and open
locks that
keep me in
I think about what I'm doing
and light up among trees and
dirt and leaves and the remains of my feigned apathy
and I think about you

we sat once, outside the dance hall
and the talking heads around us jabbered like a quivering blob
they said hurtful things but
we couldn't be touched
because we thought we had each other

this is usually when I cough,
and choke on your memory
and I couldn't describe it, I just
don't remember the words


when I look people in the eye
and they steal my energy
through opened valves of the iris
and black nothing in between
I can see you
and when I looked in yours
you just gave it back to me
with more than I needed
so I developed a taste for it
and that addiction causes
these horrible withdrawals
that I satiate with more smoke

Tuesday, 7 September 2010

before I forget

I finished my cigarette

And that

End that

I flicked off

It layed in a pile of dead leaves and dirt and decomposition

That I put there

Over years

And that I couldn’t be bothered to clear

And as it died it hummed and lived on through the wind

Unwilling to give up its last moments

Pulsing with somber orange energy that

Just killed me when I thought of what I’d done

written in a notebook, out of frustration

with what screeching halt
stops breath and doesn't think
the hyper flavored tongue
as does the ended
fluttering over a gas leak
that blends our vision and
speaks to us in tongues
it licks us,
its wounds
with such powerful care
that it might tear us
away from the scars
that we call our home
and if it doesn't make
or use phrases that we hold
to the light
to reflect
a knowledge
of these
words that
creep down feted alleys
in the wrong part of
our minds
and will only open to us
if we are broken, or torn apart, bleeding and

clamoring for a word
better than GOD
better than INFINITY
and unwilling to admit
that it cannot exist
especially among our
terrified wills
unable to defend ourselves
with any thing but
ignorance and gritted bliss

it is a mirror,
stacked face down
shining through slats
of lacquered cherry
put there, mercifully,
by mom and dad

so forgive me if I get lost and can't return your calls
god has me now, and he
is taking reparations for all
the belief that I have
denied it thus far

I am a lost nothing, being
shoved down a larger, bigger
that is angry with my apathy
and nihilism

I can refuse it
and write, sleep, love, smoke, drink
but it doesn't ever let up

its waves are arms with ten thousand fingers each
its tide is a feeling that sends us down

it is laying on the ground in the rain
cold and grey
flowering through the sustained disbelief of
philosophical misspellings
and under-used silence

it shows through your eyes,
who I write about especially when I am not writing
and it causes me to invoke nothing,
and confusion
more than the everything it is

I'm the quill, undipped
because the answer is so busy looking at my

and you are the page that I'll never write on
because my handwriting needs