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| 03:21am 11/06/2009 |
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She was beautiful. Yes, I made her beautiful, yes her beauty was sculpted by my whim and hand but she was gorgeous of her own accord. Almost reminiscent of free will. How completely, wholly beautiful she was. The conference was still about a week away when I finished her. She could not only walk and talk but she could respond to my movements and she could communicate. For the first three days it was all the basics. Once she knew how to perform various chores I noticed she began to show something like bride when function were completed. When she had accomplished some small, helpful task like organizing a bookshelf or mending a tear in the sofa fabric she looked at me, realistically soft green eyes, beautifully wide…with pride. This was the first I’d ever seen or heard of a machine seeking approval. Even previous models never looked at me the way she did. Maybe that is why I allow myself to call her by feminine pronouns. She’s not an “it”. She’s more than a device. She loves me, I know she does. At the time, before the conference, I didn’t give her too much thought, not in that way. I was impressed by her ability to look as if she was proud of completing things but I didn’t let the full rush of the implications flood me. I was busy and unconcerned with her for the most part, more impressed with myself for building such a perfectly function model. I dressed her in white because I dressed them all in white. Though her processors were all “female” in appearance I could never get used to dressing them like real women. All wore indistinguishable white linen gowns. I thought it tasteful and practical. That is how I first noticed what I would later call her “personality”. Two days before the conference I came into a room she was cleaning - she wasn’t alone, Q37, a prior model was there, cleaning as well – she stood next to Q37, holding the drapery cord. 37 seemed mechanically uninterested and carried on straighten up, dusting the desk and filing the papers I’d left out. When I entered the room Q18 turned to address me, holding the cord. She smiled, they could all smile it made them a great deal more marketable. I reached to take it from her, she looked straight at me and smiled, delicately wrapping it several times around her waist. Like a belt, it tightened the generic white gown and turning it into a near fashionable looking garment. The incredible significance of this event failed to strike me for several seconds. I was so taken by how humanly beautiful she looked. She was distinguishable from all other models. I couldn’t break my stare. |
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| this was already posted might delete needed copy blah |
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| 09:46am 09/06/2009 |
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Wait til humanity sets in. Just you wait. Deep breathe, sit and think on it. Honor the place on your alter where it’s imprint will be, years from now. For now, brave the world without it. Seek and be saught. Become one with the ravenous crowd. But cut some exit path. You’ll be left soon. Just wait til humanity sets in.
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| It rains! |
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| 03:21am 24/05/2009 |
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I'm feeling zen like a free, clear motherfucker, ready to begin again - excited, empty and awake; i'm alive inside. have no concerns about debating - just appreciate the ride! once did i catastrophizes but im ready to revise my over all philosophy and get back to what is me (like climbing up a tree or imitating all i see). so i'm rooting out the cause and i'll curtsy for an applause break - i'll concentrate on what's at steak - cause as i told you once before - i'm gladly empty and awake. |
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| i thought i posted this here before...i guess i thought it was too storyish and didnt. HERE: |
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| 11:37pm 11/05/2009 |
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Ouroboros 9/15/08
Worm, immersed in Home of dirt, was a lovely, writhing victim of perfect design. All that made Worm up was beauty. Home was gritty – Worm was smooth for squirming through it. Home was dark – Worm was free of lust for vision. Worm was whole.
I am the end of Worm who was The End of Worm. I consumed and became Worm. I was birthed not out of, but from within Worm, that Lovely Writhing Mass. To the best of Worm’s short ability to remember, Home was all worm had ever felt against the lanky, slime of Worm’s own flesh.
Then Worm struck Glory.
Glory was a warm, wet, corpse of sweet, decomposing ooze. Thought-muscles no longer sent signals of raccoon-instinct to the rest of raccoon-insides. Oh – what glory was the contrast to Home; gritted, granulated, glass – sweet Glory was such a pleasant piece of pulp to crawl through by Hero, Worm. Blood, long taken by the sun, muscles almost completely wept into Home, the earth. Glory rotted in the humidity’s heated embrace. What remained for Hero Worm to writhe through was soft hair and brittle bone, which slowly sank Homewards. With every pulse of body, Worm felt delight surge. Five hearts pumped double-pace to keep up with the joy of squirming through seeping Glory.
As worm felt, “thump” against Glory’s raccoon-spine the crispy structure split, allowing Poison, the source of raccoon-death, to spill. The Death-Source poured out on and into thin-skinned Hero Worm. Then time slowed. Worm lost all mental presence. Worm left Worm’s own living body – Worm gasped in Glory’s flesh and knew how to un-cap self! Worm found where Worm ended and started to devour this end the way Home had been devoured and the way Glory had shortly been devoured. Then the open end of Worm bled ooze of self into the ooze of Glory. Within a timeless lapse, cells regenerated and from the oozing end of Worm was “I” created.
Now Worm was “We” and “We” were Worm – two-headed, with two mouth-ports, “We” felt the weight of Poison’s guidance. No longer did We, Worm, have knowledge of up or down – only Time, which was movement. Oh movement! Every movement was as close as We, Worm could come to an understanding of love, as worm is such a victim of perfect design who does not need two – but only one for making more. Movement was love – was feeling and therefore, love. Love: a something that Pre-Poison Worm had no, no, no, concept of, was now known, but only understood by Worm, in movement.
Then, “I”, who is the second head of Worm, became so full of love for movement and for the self, Worm, that I was passion-forced to engulf my first head. Oh but unlike previous devouring done by Worm’s first head, when Worm’s End was uncapped – I became stuck. Rather, first self of Worm became stuck within ME! Thus the Me was born and thus, I, now the only Worm, was in and outside of self. No longer Worm but lovely, writhing, Circle, victim of perfect design. Worm was whole.
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| I dont know anyone in sanfran. |
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| 08:31pm 26/04/2009 |
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Some tick in the minds of San Francisco boys stirs me late at night,
asking “what if I were born a woman” and “where else is here?”
I can’t listen to them anymore. My eyes have started to close at six thirty in the pm
cause I’ve been up three nights coughing half-dreaming of wherever else is here.
Someplace in the pious mountains someone swears to no one that they miss me
and someplace else with deadly fresh pavement another swears the same.
Who believes them? Authors all, artisans of fib.
Who will cross check them for me, weigh their sighs in the evenings while I nap?
I cant prove honesty but I wish them so much well. |
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| don't? |
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| 03:00am 15/03/2009 |
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Don’t be in love with the sky
No matter what it looks like
at days edges.
No matter what it promises you
When you leave your body
Don’t tempt it’s allure don’t
Ask it to run off setting with you
Do not attempt to adjust vision
This is one
Do not attempt clarity
Come in
Breaker breaker
DO NOT provide service info
Don’t join the service
Love they sky like thy neighbor
But do not fall for it
Do not fall into it
It’s a long fall
Do not deify it
Do not put it up where it cant be reached
Do not try and attain it
Do not try and explain it
Do not love it
Do not live without it
Do not provide service info! |
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| a thousand thousand / raccooneyes |
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| 11:48pm 17/01/2009 |
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A thousand thousand
is how many dollars
i'd get if a friend of mine
were to win the lottery.
So much money that i could
buy what ails me a summer home
in vermont.
Even though i've never been to
vermont and i dont really
know if it's nice in the summertime
but it's got to have less brutal
heat than here.
And what ails me could sure use
a vacation cause it's ailing me
all the time. |
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| 4:10pm sounds. |
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| 04:07pm 03/01/2009 |
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some woman cooing to her dog outside,
running laps or after ducks.
the buzz-whiirrr television sound of
"get that phone away from me".
uhhh lawn mower.
saying "ow ow ow" with my mouth closed
reeling back on bedsheets, how long since
i've gotten out of them? too long since i've
gotten out of them.
and i swear i can hear the ants congregate
on my teacup on the floor. oops.
and some keys clicking. |
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| dead taste bud ow |
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| 03:10am 24/12/2008 |
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Write me something about how newsprint runstogether and makes a dainty pattern
when it’s a background. All the stories fade- letters are pictures on pages.
And give me more selfish time to say my “I’s”. I will I will I will.
Prolonging and manifesting, my will my will my will be done.
I’m sprawling out my fingertips on wood walls in wee hours waiting for games of chance
danger to take me hostage so I might play, fevered with the ends of my hands and gamble away the only part of me capable of speaking for the rest or for calming the rest, sometimes. I wouldn’t risk it – I’m in love with the callused twigs of arms of branches, homely and whole and holy and whole. I love them. Most times.
[guh patterns whyyyyyyy]
ps
merry merry |
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| Thinkology Major |
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| 03:28am 22/12/2008 |
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I want to tell Dorothy that it isn’t
Her fault for crying so much as she does
That I do it too sometimes.
That I watch her alone, in the dark, sometimes.
Or that sometimes I cry for her –
For her going back home and staying back home
forever. Maybe marrying Hank. Never leaving.
Creating more family, burying her dog in the yard
when it’s his time.
It doesn’t sound so nice
Sometimes there really is no place like it
But sometimes you don’t know where it
is at all.
Its got all the familiar smells and all the
people who were there.
And you and you and you.
But maybe you’re not there yet.
Maybe you’ve never been home. |
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| i think from 06? |
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| 03:13am 07/12/2008 |
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folding my bed in half
i'm folding my bed in half.
didnt think i had the strength
the thought once made me laugh.
but i cannot stare across
the wasteland of wasted space
and there's no chance if i roll over
i will ever see your face.
the pillows lye alone there
and the sheets have all but died
waiting for the body heat
that once warmed the other side.
but since the odds of you returning
are truly astronomical
i've made a decision that's truly economical.
folding my bed in two
i'm folding my bed in two
there is no one left to turn to
there is nothing left to do
So wait what's this you're telling me?
unfold my bed, just wait and see?
you say that there's a chance
that "my prince is yet to come"?
or at least a new-age renegade -
who would be a lot more fun...
Well too late! Ive gone and done it!
my bed is now in twain!
my nightly fears are vanquished!
(though the daytime ones remain...)
oh well - i've gone and done it!
with my strength i now stand tall!
my pride's restored - haha!
-oh lord.
i've made my bed too small.
hehe. |
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| cause |
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| 12:40am 11/11/2008 |
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Because: He’ll make a good husband, a strong, intelligent man with experience and convictions and assurance in his words that makes his woman weak-kneed with pride.
“That’s my man”, a family man. Intelligent and versed and educated without depth. Without worry. “I am a man – god is love – ground is where my feet belong.” He has superior boasting rights. His friends like him, they laugh at his jokes. His wife likes him, she fucks him often. His god likes him, he is blessed with a wife and friends. He is a good man. He asks the right questions. He asks the tough questions. He has kindness and understanding. He has foresight – he plans well. He has two children, he knew they were coming. They’re beautiful children, he made them with his wife. His wife loves their beautiful children and she loves him. He’s good at what he does. He’s good at his job. Sometimes he enjoys his job. He does a good job. He grows old gracefully. His wife grows old with grace. His children take care of them, husband and wife. He is strong in his old age. He is a fighter – he overcomes illness – he lives longer. His wife has always had health, she lives longer. His wife loves him – she has pride. He has pride for her and for his children. He spends more and more time sitting down. He passes on peacefully. He does not wonder. |
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| Honesty at night. |
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| 11:31pm 07/11/2008 |
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He is hazed and dazing off
and washing his hands after sex,
yelping during
he is numb and undriven, anymore
passionate in his denial,
in his faith in the hope of escapism
and sadism
no one yields to his disclaimers
he'll never notice
and always whispers them anyway. |
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Read 3 - Post |
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| A poem written by the same girl who, 13 years ago, wrote "my backyard at night". |
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| 03:09am 29/10/2008 |
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OR: the years/hours in between.
Fuck the: wee hours
fuck hollow empty
streams of roadway
carrying cars, with
their hollow empty
drivers by my
sliding glass window.
the lamp-lit wee hours
the calling into the empty
air around my own
shadow on the
wall. the tossing in cold
bedsheets and no one
to hear my goodnights.
fuck the wee hours
of the night and their hold
on all the worlds sleepers,
awake. fuck the three hours
i'll have gotten tomorrow.
the way that melody affects
mood, how the voices of so
many singers become
friends.
glory in the sunrise
despair in longing for it,
in the "are we there yet?"
of every midnight.
glory when the red rays
peek through above
the lake, above the
stream of roadway
outside, carrying traffic
by my sliding glass window,
driver's eyes are being
rubbed awake, drivers
mouths are yawning
i am crawling back up to bed
glad to sleep at sunrise. |
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| Envy |
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| 02:26am 22/10/2008 |
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back to portland
and it's bike paths
back to strange electric music
over strange electric poetry
in wooden churches
with mushrooms and matches -
and his room, which is a couch,
in a house
full of oddballs. |
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Read 2 - Post |
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| prosies. |
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| 02:22pm 28/09/2008 |
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Why can't i stop running?
Why can't i tell them when it hurts?
Why do i clasp my gasping chest -
and ovaries and go on and on and on and on?
Why do i wait til you cant see my face
then silently scream?
why am i so ashamed to tear up in pain?
why cant i speak when you ask me "what's wrong"?
why cant i meet your fucking gaze?
Why cant i just say, enough?
*is what i was asking brooke on the phone and
she sent me Why Poem. as an answer.
__________________________________
and she cried as she kissed my cheeks, lightly.
and the top of my head - and my chin.
giant warm tears fell down the sides of her face and barely
touched mine. and how could i not be thankful?
how could i ask her for anything more than the warm
wet loving moments she'd given me, a stranger?
what else could i rightly ask for?
nothing.
but i took everything anyway. |
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| TMI or Sick Day |
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| 06:35pm 26/08/2008 |
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graphic
is how i'm described.
a little too much
information
about
the wad of whathaveyou
that creeps down my
throat.
Hey,
I dont like it either.
You should hear
where else it's creeping. |
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Read 1 - Post |
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| mark my words. |
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| 09:06pm 18/08/2008 |
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If I should fucking
KILL
the mosquito that
lives in my bathroom;
she will have had
it coming. |
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| {not about harvey dent. ha.} |
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| 04:40am 14/08/2008 |
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Said one half-face to another:
"aren't you glad we found each other?"
Said second half-face to the first:
"You merely satisfy a thirst."
Said first half-face, feeling down:
"In our bright ocean, I hope you drown." |
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