i want to be

sick in new fashions,
want amputation. obscure beating pulses.
trash accumulates in the compost,
soiling plants. ennui spreads,
a swollen culture,
disease eats well in hot places

hand gun

i think about myself like a raft and i think about water
panic is a rash, it is order confirmations and quiet vomit
in the company bathroom. she says that yoga
is an escape from sorrow
which is an escape from everything other than itself

i might be finished writing poems.

which sux.
drawing though.

s&m

the death-wish is a wish. the death-wish affirms life. the life is the death. being and going. sweat on a cardigan. sirens call from the edges of cliffs that hedge against the water like water of memory, the beach you would run on in the morning and the holy broadening or breaking. impulse control, shattered lamp, blood and fingers, holy, what is bared, control, abuse and fatalism.

google results

Results 1 - 10 of about 6,710,000,000 for no
Results 1 - 10 of about 1,450,000,000 for love
Results 1 - 10 of about 664,000,000 for yes
Results 1 - 10 of about 612,000,000 for sex
Results 1 - 10 of about 476,000,000 for death
Results 1 - 10 of about 463,000,000 for god
Results 1 - 10 of about 226,000,000 for television
Results 1 - 10 of about 226,000,000 for gay
Results 1 - 10 of about 75,300,000 for happiness
Results 1 - 10 of about 37,700,000 for enthusiasm
Results 1 - 10 of about 18,400,000 for sadness
Results 1 - 10 of about 10,100,000 for boredom

hell-themed

there were birds in the trees at the airport
i noticed them
you noticed them
i touched your hair
small-bone creature

too much coffee

i am shivering and sweating and my heart is beating too fast.

my face went numb and my neck went numb.

now only one side of my neck is numb and i am eating a salad very slowly and reading about the enneagram.

*
*

an update:

one month later.

my neck is still numb.

po@-0i9ghotpink.

no longer sadly
no longer seeing ghosts

forfeiting security for something i remember to be valuable though i have forgotten what it is.

do not need to see.

the question of terror.

your sins are the sins of the world.

you are in them and of them.



private words in a private book on the very softest paper i have

***

intimacy detached from libido:

the toddler kiss

***

ennui: bordem of the soul.

***

rx gobble

projection screen

the audience knows

we can have it all

***

twilight pleases

nothing hours

***

refrigerator garden:

limp funks and magnets, the garfields,

the dangerous grass

***

i can trace your departure in ink

i can get away fast

all of it

it's friday but i do not feel the sun from the weekend, i feel the gap from the weekend, weekend widens into a zombie eclipse,

i want my lips to be kissed because it is a habit to want it
all passion dies
but death is not always passionate

the flourescent sitting journey,
open mouth,
eating spiders as we sleep
on a mattress with the cover unfolded,
padding exposed,
that corner could be all of it.

WE WANTED TO SAY SOMETHING BUT THERE WASN'T ANYTHING.

this is how i want to put myself onto you

i am sore with desire
in a filthy kitchen
cat piss on the couch
these elliott smith songs aren't working anymore
i do not want to be a woman
i do not want to be a boy
i want to kiss the champagne in the kitchen
i want dull promises
i was in a nonsexual relationship
with a woman who loves mariah carey
and the boyfriend i helped her get
now i am in a nonsexual relationship
with a woman who collects pigeon parts
she could mop the floor with my face
i am profoundly dysfunctional
but have nice penmanship
i am tame in a cage
i want electrocution or at least to be adopted
i could be the part of a mangled bird,
you could collect me.

26

there is no one to share two am with you
two am will not even be among
your own memories
memory--failed word
nothing-having--exasperated success
the illness could push through you
until you are 35
and then throw you back to now
in the crook of two hours
two am
here is a tedious landscape of malaise
within the small room you did not paint
barely chose
you are alive and happy to be
but there is no one to share 26 with
you do not understand how others
can work and stay together
you have only been swimming through the murk
on which others position their water skis
what do you think of brazil
belize
do you travel
you do
at two am
you fly through your own moonlit warehouse
bay windows, scrawling roots
insect bite
tinnitus like cicadas hums
chorus of cricket legs
ambulance chorus
plastic braceletes
blow jobs
scarves
the broken lamp
cavities and bills
a 26-year-old fruit fly on your lip.

i am a miner
my city is cold
i am digging blind
i am sleeping with pens
in my hand
in my jacket sometimes
wake up
and brian eno is playing
it could be one am
or five am
i could have died already
but missed it
because i was stoned
and curled up by the
space heater.

it is 2:14 am.
i want a drink.
we got nuthin in the house
ive been sober, i don't want to be
you call me on the phone

i want you to talk to me
you say
were you sleeping
when you call you are three shots in
i need something
it is heavy on me
i am 26 and have nothing
i will be 36 and have nothing
i want sweaty hair and no fat,
coddled, harsh a so close hold
it is 2:19 you are sleeping
you are really far away
to say i would throw away everything when i already have
isn't much
but is what i have,
i will
i want to be a farmer
i want liquid colors, sun and small bugs in my clothing
you can only play jazz when it is quiet enough
i want one hot shot of whiskey in my throat
to go down into my stomach and remind me of
what it is like
to sleep beside someone who mixes up into dreams
splattered sepia tones
to be like that so hard tones
here is how: sleep until you can't anymore and then,
when you wake up, get high go back to sleep and then then,
when you wake up that time, lift your pen,
it might be ready,
it probably won't.

my nest is shallow.

i have a shallow nest on a few dead branches on a dirty moor and you are trying to land, you are going to break this thing down.

"you don't care about school or work or what i do..."

we are in the car, "no, i don't care what you do for money. i don't care what money you make ...

"no, i know you don't. it isn't that. i can't explain it."

i understand the compliment you are trying to give me but i also get a suspicion that you are using me to learn how to be a dropout.

i don't know, it isn't a choice.

if it is, it is a bad choice.
maybe, i don't know.

a holistic body healer woman told me in whole foods that i should stop saying i am sorry and should get rid of my insecurity because it is causing me digestive problems and i said ok i will im sorry and she recommended a 27-dollar bottle of powdered enzymes and i bought it.

what the fuck?

i have been keeping a calendar for signs that I Am Alive that include such activities as

i wrote that bio, i did my laundry.
i talked to david on the porch like forever

6:39pm. "if u feel like tryin a day this week, i will match you. sober to sober. dont kill yourself i need you, sorry if that is creepy and selfish. love is stupid but loneliness is impossible."

i am in this cubicle
i just threw up
i don't understand physics
or how to be a responsible person

stoli, needles

8:23pm. why am i so totally obsessed with you? Not like that or anything. But seriously, you stay really active in my imagination. It kinda makes me feel crazy. Maybe i just need to write a novel about you. I dunno j.

8:38pm. im sitting in a dyke bar by myself. i dream about cola every night, im still there. strange.

8:51pm. lets trade. U can become selfobsessed and i can love living in cola. Wait, thats the way it is. Syke. I dont love cola. Just kidding. im reading stevenson for class and drinkin alone listnin to jay reatard and thinking about u every 15 mintues. Is this normal 4 u to always b on my mind and stuff. What am i willie nelson? Have fun at the bar.

10:02pm. the bar sukt im going home wiht stoli, otherwise alone.

11:16pm. stoli and strawberry. my hair is stringy in the window reflection. i invent intimacy in my dreams, my dreams are the closest i come to not being alone. you are that summer feeling.

11:49pm. he opened w a version of that in charlotte id never heard b4. Ur message made me cry 4 a minute. I guess im kinda drunk. I wish we could all live in some lush fantasy with a real god and real love and no more offices. down down. Gonna die for my fantasies.

12:12am. xanax abuse just put needle pricks in my arm to make blood. saw two men in the alley smoking something that made them feel goood they looked happy, maybe they are.

7:07am. maybe they were happy. Smoking cocaine makes me sad. Wasted money on a ball and a half last week. Xanax is better-cheaper and it wont kill u as easily. Fuck drugs and they withdraw and shoot cum at you. Do u know that baraka poem that starts with the same line, just sub poems for for drugs. When u tell me about cutting yourself it makes me wanna hold u and tell u lies like itll be ok. Its never gonna b ok and this is one reason i suck at love in any form. My parents made me wanna b jesus but i ended up like a poorly written kafkan christ-invert character. Then i remember early death and hospitals and death without money for hospitals-the murkiest corners of faulkner and mccarthy and df wallace and i prematurely shroud the hunger artist's display cage. This is one way i alays fail at life and loves. And im probably wrong about it. Wrap your wounds in whatever cloth-its all made in sweatshops in miller's china.

9:48am. my stomach hurts. my body hurts. i want to live in a place without body parts.

my crime against community

it is a word like love
or an idea like love
or a word like idea
i'm not sure
i go with jc to the lesbian bar
spend some more money on vodka and i go home by myself.

i will work on the interview and go home at eight or nine and ignore
neil young says love is the question, love is the answer
i question his circular logic
it is that i work where others buy houses and make families
it is that i picked truth over beauty and that i believe in
neither of these things.

bravery

i know that i am stressed out because i am having dreams about catching planes and losing keys and abusive relationships and trying to mask morbid ideas. i only have one reader, and he might not even be a reader, and this blog could already be corrupt. i am trying to learn how to be brave.

i sent a pitch to an editor out of my league yesterday and am anxious like most people get about dates. i hate the sick flourescent noise of the place i work. i hate that i am too poor and busy for comfort and that comfort would destroy what i want to do. i hate that i am not sure whether that is true or i am just saying that so that i can justify being a fuckup.

the night that i broke up with andy, i was sitting outside and some woman i barely knew had a Big Talk with me about my drinking and self-worth. she had been a prostitute and drug addict but now she was a sitting-pretty queen sort of woman with long juliette hair and a big round body. i think that i am always thirsty in a chronic kind of way. i keep waking up in the middle of the night to examine my flaws. i didn't know how to explain to the woman that i am co-dependent on alcohol at this point because the wild and toxic next-day feeling is the way that i am brave and it is how i tear open the voice and that it is impossible to access or if not, hard enough that i do not know how else to look, it is like asking someone to kayak sober off of a waterfall. i don't know whether i will be able to do this but have bet or spent everything. maybe i will be able to do this but i am not sure.

 

borderline

i hyperventilated and pleasure shot through me like caffeine
we watched a movie and held each other A kissed me took me home i am still cold with panic i am in my room alone with nick drake and my hunger.