"After which, obviously, he will become president of the United Nations, train a flock of African gray parrots to perform free colonoscopies in the developing world, and launch himself into space in order to explain the human heart to aliens living at the pulsing core of interstellar quasars."
this is my lockbox. wrap it up and throw it in the river, rusted shut til kingdom come, water-proof lockbox.
self-medicating.
wind storms that grow dreams about pema chodron and snorkeling on the shell collector's beach. hesitant steps forward, yoga steps back (at least the shakti flows freely when i live this close to the center). tall lanky ones and plaid cranky ones, mustached and bearded and telling me stories about things that i've heard somewhere else before. yamuna ramakrishnananda clouds. self-editing. maybe i'm looking at everything that makes a sound. or maybe there is something else beneath the surface. studies in lady love, and it making sense in light of my personal philosophy on beauty - i've always declared that it is possible in everyone; why not now? still rabbit-hearted and falling for the wrong ones, but maybe this is the karma i deserve. genuine and generous of heart: teach me how to love indiscriminately. big sounds - there was a crack in the planet - and big moves. heart chakras and root chakras opening wide up and out blasting like cosmic breath into the atmosphere.
distracted and distracting (myself) with svarga dvidasana and bakasana. hamstar refugees. reese's pieces and bhujapidasana. baking and brewing and drinking gnarly head (oh gnarly head). planning to run half-marathons. nepalese travels with farsi for lunch. jade 50. exploring the bounds of a binary identity. i think it’s not so much the gender of a person but the person that inhabits the body, and that making all the difference. changing my whole world view. giving me the spark that i needed to restart.
at night this house sounds like a humpbacked whale. sea songs stuck to the inside of my head, echoing around the caverns and corners of the foggy gray cave. it'll get eaten some day, by rotting bricks and mouse hole tunnels and the city building inspector, but it'll live here in me forever. a return to 2006?
in penelope cruz' spanish curled english: i am a pleasure delayer.
teaching myself to trust my instincts. breathe in, breathe out. i have to follow my ribcage to concentrate, but it helps. oh, i have lived for ages i'm a thousand turns of tides | i got sixteen hundred tigers now tied to silver strings | oh the mighty heart will sing | oh, the mighty heart will sing. just when i thought that i was going home. i tried. i really did. {i feel like this no longer applies. which is a good thing, right?}
pleasure delayers with a bit of social anxiety won't always end up as old maids. this is my social mantra. fuck, i'm taking up mantras for everything. this is where we put the butter; kitchen mantra. teach yourself to play piano; fruitless pipe dream mantra. writing so as not to feel so toxic; anxiety mantra. (i knew it would come out eventually). speak nice, think nice, think global, act local; humanitarian mantra.
dolla pints, vintage style. red frenchies at barriques. green amber with dinner. regina spektor is a raging feminist with a different kind of voice to shout with.
talking bear mountain picnic massacre blues [bobby d]
get rid of me [dj khaled]
love [parachute]
love & mathematics [broken social scene]
favorite food [tokyo police club]
with a heart attack on your plate | you were lookin' back on your days | how you spent them all in a blur | when they asked if you were for sure | i'm into the woods | i'm down on my life |
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Thursday, April 1, 2010
big goddamn river blues
cried all night til there was nothing more
what use am i | as a heap on the floor?
o-o-old habits die hard
oh, when you got | when you got a sentimental heart.
that, and luda. billy bragg. sara b.
songs of the week.
hearing from: the jungle. mr. habermann. my own personal puerto rican diaz and the girl who wrote the lightbulb story (or maybe she's the one with the circus in the forest). sethela. running with happy dogs who jump up and down and stay by your side. wall-e and eeeeeva. walking home on e street. protests in the square.
angry red scratches from prickly bush branches in the west virginian mountains. climbing in altitude til we get to the sky [muir and whitman were right - the restless and rattled and un-nerved folk will return when we need to feel the sun beams in all of their full-dazzling] drinking too much in the nighttime on rooftops where you can see the monuments on all sides. peanut butter and banana smores. stream beds and reminiscing over the sidewalk revolutionaries (forever in my head with amsterdam and the lord of war, up in the heavy air, down on the street yellow lights flashing, leaning in on the dock with the thunder rip rolling along the lake, river floats and river kisses; rivers, generally speaking.) van morrison.
shorts - not the pants kind, but the story kind, the movie kind, the life kind. salsa dancing with crazy m under an eritrean moon. jumping the trolley rail on H. saki and sushi. strawberry tea. thinking maybe i already had my chance and it didn't work out so i won't get another and contemplating eating egg salad sandwiches by myself until i'm the same age as betty white (88) even though i probably won't live much passed 43 and then who will eat egg salad sandwiches when i'm gone?
jumping from bridges.
what use am i | as a heap on the floor?
o-o-old habits die hard
oh, when you got | when you got a sentimental heart.
that, and luda. billy bragg. sara b.
songs of the week.
hearing from: the jungle. mr. habermann. my own personal puerto rican diaz and the girl who wrote the lightbulb story (or maybe she's the one with the circus in the forest). sethela. running with happy dogs who jump up and down and stay by your side. wall-e and eeeeeva. walking home on e street. protests in the square.
angry red scratches from prickly bush branches in the west virginian mountains. climbing in altitude til we get to the sky [muir and whitman were right - the restless and rattled and un-nerved folk will return when we need to feel the sun beams in all of their full-dazzling] drinking too much in the nighttime on rooftops where you can see the monuments on all sides. peanut butter and banana smores. stream beds and reminiscing over the sidewalk revolutionaries (forever in my head with amsterdam and the lord of war, up in the heavy air, down on the street yellow lights flashing, leaning in on the dock with the thunder rip rolling along the lake, river floats and river kisses; rivers, generally speaking.) van morrison.
shorts - not the pants kind, but the story kind, the movie kind, the life kind. salsa dancing with crazy m under an eritrean moon. jumping the trolley rail on H. saki and sushi. strawberry tea. thinking maybe i already had my chance and it didn't work out so i won't get another and contemplating eating egg salad sandwiches by myself until i'm the same age as betty white (88) even though i probably won't live much passed 43 and then who will eat egg salad sandwiches when i'm gone?
jumping from bridges.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
re: stacks
And don't get me wrong, dear,
in general I'm doing quite fine
It's just when it's summer in the city,
and you're so long gone
from the city
I start to miss you,
baby,
sometimes
screwing and biting to get back at something i never really got to have in the first place. being okay around old friends that disappeared for a while. buying plane tickets and paying for workshop classes (god, i hope that one is worth it...) wearing the fleece, and flip flops.
the history of bop (hey pork pie pork pie, hey pork pie) his imperialistic kingdoms are coming. more likely on the pavings of the city under tragic rainy telelphone poles suddenly realizing that life is strange, the three stooges do exist, that in 10,000 years that all the goofs he felt in him were justified in the outside world and he had nothing to reproach himself for
bonk. boing. crash!
skiddly-boom. pow-slam.
bang BOOM. wham blam crack.
frap.
kerplunk clatter
clap flap plap slap map splatcrunchcrouchbongsplatsplat! BONG.
It's the sound of the unlocking
and the lift away
[if only i would have told you]
Your love will be
Safe with me.
[i love allen ginsberg. let that be recorded in heaven's unchangeable heart.]
in general I'm doing quite fine
It's just when it's summer in the city,
and you're so long gone
from the city
I start to miss you,
baby,
sometimes
screwing and biting to get back at something i never really got to have in the first place. being okay around old friends that disappeared for a while. buying plane tickets and paying for workshop classes (god, i hope that one is worth it...) wearing the fleece, and flip flops.
the history of bop (hey pork pie pork pie, hey pork pie) his imperialistic kingdoms are coming. more likely on the pavings of the city under tragic rainy telelphone poles suddenly realizing that life is strange, the three stooges do exist, that in 10,000 years that all the goofs he felt in him were justified in the outside world and he had nothing to reproach himself for
bonk. boing. crash!
skiddly-boom. pow-slam.
bang BOOM. wham blam crack.
frap.
kerplunk clatter
clap flap plap slap map splatcrunchcrouchbongsplatsplat! BONG.
It's the sound of the unlocking
and the lift away
[if only i would have told you]
Your love will be
Safe with me.
[i love allen ginsberg. let that be recorded in heaven's unchangeable heart.]
Sunday, February 14, 2010
held together by water
and to know you is hardly wonder | to know you all wrong, we were | (OOoooooooooo | (OOoooooooooo) | really too late to call, so we wait for | morning
i ran on your name today. you, fucker.
sometimes i run because the weather is so warm (after a long winter) that i am intoxicated - like all the mitochondria, in my skin and my feet and on the inside of my lungs, they've all turned the sunlight into wine, just like galilei said. sometimes i run because i don't know what else to do with my limbs. sometimes i am sad and sometimes i am angry and sometimes i just need to push myself forward. today it was you. smashed the souls of my shoes into the snow. up and around and over the banks, in front of cars that were in a hurry to get somewhere else, away from my house and back again even though it still doesn't feel much like home and more like a prison in the middle of a prison-city. and then when i was done running, i walked. cause otherwise i'd be down on the sidewalk [curled with my teeth against my knees | scratching at my consciousness | like a bitch with fleas]
stretching angles and elbows around ankles until the muscles are straight and i can feel my self center. breathing the beautiful ache into releasing (mind over matter). sleepy dogs who love me regardless of my emotional dysfunction. lonely lonely, here with me. really early morning on highway 70e. saturday mornings that remind me of state street. the sound of nighttime snowplows.
who knows | who knows? | i may come home | yeah, i may return
[the funeral ] - liz lee
[beautiful girls] - deertick
[itch] - ani
[skinny love] - bon iver
[california pt. 2] - vampire weekend
it was lost in the street;
says, i huffed and i puffed | and i shooed him away
hell, i stopped the sunset in the middle of the day | i watched him grow wings,
fly away
i ran on your name today. you, fucker.
sometimes i run because the weather is so warm (after a long winter) that i am intoxicated - like all the mitochondria, in my skin and my feet and on the inside of my lungs, they've all turned the sunlight into wine, just like galilei said. sometimes i run because i don't know what else to do with my limbs. sometimes i am sad and sometimes i am angry and sometimes i just need to push myself forward. today it was you. smashed the souls of my shoes into the snow. up and around and over the banks, in front of cars that were in a hurry to get somewhere else, away from my house and back again even though it still doesn't feel much like home and more like a prison in the middle of a prison-city. and then when i was done running, i walked. cause otherwise i'd be down on the sidewalk [curled with my teeth against my knees | scratching at my consciousness | like a bitch with fleas]
stretching angles and elbows around ankles until the muscles are straight and i can feel my self center. breathing the beautiful ache into releasing (mind over matter). sleepy dogs who love me regardless of my emotional dysfunction. lonely lonely, here with me. really early morning on highway 70e. saturday mornings that remind me of state street. the sound of nighttime snowplows.
who knows | who knows? | i may come home | yeah, i may return
[the funeral ] - liz lee
[beautiful girls] - deertick
[itch] - ani
[skinny love] - bon iver
[california pt. 2] - vampire weekend
it was lost in the street;
says, i huffed and i puffed | and i shooed him away
hell, i stopped the sunset in the middle of the day | i watched him grow wings,
fly away
Sunday, February 7, 2010
akimbo
If you call me | I won't be home
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
hiding across the street from the abandoned police station. from a perfectly interesting possibility (because i'm still stuck beside the one 200 miles to the north, 1200 miles to the west, across two oceans and several continents) and away from the snow. wearing heels every day and staying up compulsively late. working -by association - for big pharm, combustible cars, dangerous oil. the media king, a midnight radio monopolist with his fingers in every dirty pot of gold. yoga, unless i'm lazy. too much coffee, not enough sunlight. coconut skins, vampire weekend, and cosmic love in a blizzard, for the brokenhearted two years too late.
[they cared, right? i'm not crazy?]
distracted and wordless.
wishing i were on a different continent because it might have changed everything this time.
pulling my hair out by the roots.
falling asleep on my back, limbs akimbo.
MFA v. PC (i live in a land of non-lucrative acronyms).
put me back in a place where i've no option. clearly my self-control is kicking in for all the wrong reasons. take the world away from my finger tips and make me fight for it again. every day. hot and out of my element and fresh-faced from the lack of an alternative.
surviving. survive(d) paradise.
I'm hiding from the kingdom come
hiding across the street from the abandoned police station. from a perfectly interesting possibility (because i'm still stuck beside the one 200 miles to the north, 1200 miles to the west, across two oceans and several continents) and away from the snow. wearing heels every day and staying up compulsively late. working -by association - for big pharm, combustible cars, dangerous oil. the media king, a midnight radio monopolist with his fingers in every dirty pot of gold. yoga, unless i'm lazy. too much coffee, not enough sunlight. coconut skins, vampire weekend, and cosmic love in a blizzard, for the brokenhearted two years too late.
[they cared, right? i'm not crazy?]
distracted and wordless.
wishing i were on a different continent because it might have changed everything this time.
pulling my hair out by the roots.
falling asleep on my back, limbs akimbo.
MFA v. PC (i live in a land of non-lucrative acronyms).
put me back in a place where i've no option. clearly my self-control is kicking in for all the wrong reasons. take the world away from my finger tips and make me fight for it again. every day. hot and out of my element and fresh-faced from the lack of an alternative.
surviving. survive(d) paradise.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
trickle down
selling my soul for the rent:
it has come to this
finally.
or, so soon?
i am stretched thin, faltering far from a body of water that matters (no lakes no nothing no salt & the sea in my sleep)
and writing little
to none.
social miscast
sitting on the outside | hands dry | eyes wide | quiet, because the cat | got my tongue and took | my fingertips with it.
i don't think i like DC, in the end. when i realized that i've been living on lakeshores and seashores consistently for five years, this made sense to me: there is no water. the potomac doesn't count for shit and i'm drowning in dry land. people are beaten down or they are the ones who have been doing the beating, and i'm not interested in wielding a bat or a broom or anything else that would blossom and bruise [on your skin]. friendless, in a social climbing city. (500) days i've been uncomfortable in my own bones and i'm tired of it. tired of tolerating. i want to be in love with a place again.
where is doctor parnassus?
he's been hidden away like mcwatt and
the devil,
and the three of them must be having some kind of raucous discussion because
man!
what i wouldn't give to low and twist in the gravitational winds, to dive
and deliver, my wings at great
dystopian
dizzying heights (meaning mountains and gravity, minus the fall).
off to find a wellspring.
it has come to this
finally.
or, so soon?
i am stretched thin, faltering far from a body of water that matters (no lakes no nothing no salt & the sea in my sleep)
and writing little
to none.
social miscast
sitting on the outside | hands dry | eyes wide | quiet, because the cat | got my tongue and took | my fingertips with it.
i don't think i like DC, in the end. when i realized that i've been living on lakeshores and seashores consistently for five years, this made sense to me: there is no water. the potomac doesn't count for shit and i'm drowning in dry land. people are beaten down or they are the ones who have been doing the beating, and i'm not interested in wielding a bat or a broom or anything else that would blossom and bruise [on your skin]. friendless, in a social climbing city. (500) days i've been uncomfortable in my own bones and i'm tired of it. tired of tolerating. i want to be in love with a place again.
where is doctor parnassus?
he's been hidden away like mcwatt and
the devil,
and the three of them must be having some kind of raucous discussion because
man!
what i wouldn't give to low and twist in the gravitational winds, to dive
and deliver, my wings at great
dystopian
dizzying heights (meaning mountains and gravity, minus the fall).
off to find a wellspring.
Friday, November 27, 2009
just a gambler at heart
The brick front outside my window | is unraveled like a fault line crawled up its spine | and now that the sugar maple shed all its | squirming starfish leaves, | they crawl and shimmy | in the puddles between | the stones, looking
for
their
missing
legs.
they gon’ put you out on the streets lorena | they gonna sing and dance upon your grave
sassy DJ flirting disasters. realizing that i am the owner of a marshallese heart. samantha power on the subway. electric dreams [it’s weird how much i miss you sometimes]. being restless and uneasy because i can’t find a coffee shop; i might have found a coffee shop...the potter's house. rosemary & garlic mashed potatoes + gin & mango juice = thanksgiving dinner. yumberry grapefruit yogurt. trans-atlantic african phone calls. the OC season four, and all the music that came with it. tutoring for t.i. and speaking espanol with carlos. dangerous almost missed messages.
k'naan. jambo. wander.
winter doesn't know where i been. neither do you, and it makes me want to break through the walls. speak it all out loud, every word. every night time minute under those goddamned stars, the songs that stuck to the underside of the pandanus leaves, the intense sense of melancholy that comes over a person when we begin to embody an island. how every breath was hot and crowded and why i never quite recovered from kabul's and that i carried it half way across the world and how angry it still makes me to know that. tension mounts when i hear howling from the walls, the ceiling, around a corner, and the fucker about that is really knowing she's still there being smashed against the window pane. my bones ached in fever for 3 hundred and twenty-four days and NOW. now they don't know how to be warm anymore.
i don't know how, anymore.
i am still underneath that tin roof, rain drumming a ruckus out and the hermit crabs crawling in the walls, looking for someone who was ready to leave and never did. the island ate me up it loved me so. the chorus rises up when i walk around in the dark, but no one is going anywhere together, no one is going to sing. we move [night moves] for different reasons here.
and i miss my friend.
i miss the baby and kuuj jidikdik and wotje and how he went spearfishing for us even though he still needs help with algebra. drinking shitty coffee in the sun. dancing at adma's. kejanjan ukulele. riding the beachcruiser to the airport in a rain storm. memorizing the bends in the road [this is what i miss of everywhere i've ever been]. what worries me, you see, is that i will make sense to no one no how never will now that this has taken part of my soul and changed it. i was and now i am something else.
but that sea is just a gambler at heart | tossed aside the weary
for
their
missing
legs.
they gon’ put you out on the streets lorena | they gonna sing and dance upon your grave
sassy DJ flirting disasters. realizing that i am the owner of a marshallese heart. samantha power on the subway. electric dreams [it’s weird how much i miss you sometimes]. being restless and uneasy because i can’t find a coffee shop; i might have found a coffee shop...the potter's house. rosemary & garlic mashed potatoes + gin & mango juice = thanksgiving dinner. yumberry grapefruit yogurt. trans-atlantic african phone calls. the OC season four, and all the music that came with it. tutoring for t.i. and speaking espanol with carlos. dangerous almost missed messages.
k'naan. jambo. wander.
winter doesn't know where i been. neither do you, and it makes me want to break through the walls. speak it all out loud, every word. every night time minute under those goddamned stars, the songs that stuck to the underside of the pandanus leaves, the intense sense of melancholy that comes over a person when we begin to embody an island. how every breath was hot and crowded and why i never quite recovered from kabul's and that i carried it half way across the world and how angry it still makes me to know that. tension mounts when i hear howling from the walls, the ceiling, around a corner, and the fucker about that is really knowing she's still there being smashed against the window pane. my bones ached in fever for 3 hundred and twenty-four days and NOW. now they don't know how to be warm anymore.
i don't know how, anymore.
i am still underneath that tin roof, rain drumming a ruckus out and the hermit crabs crawling in the walls, looking for someone who was ready to leave and never did. the island ate me up it loved me so. the chorus rises up when i walk around in the dark, but no one is going anywhere together, no one is going to sing. we move [night moves] for different reasons here.
and i miss my friend.
i miss the baby and kuuj jidikdik and wotje and how he went spearfishing for us even though he still needs help with algebra. drinking shitty coffee in the sun. dancing at adma's. kejanjan ukulele. riding the beachcruiser to the airport in a rain storm. memorizing the bends in the road [this is what i miss of everywhere i've ever been]. what worries me, you see, is that i will make sense to no one no how never will now that this has taken part of my soul and changed it. i was and now i am something else.
but that sea is just a gambler at heart | tossed aside the weary
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