My Consuming Question

Where are the brilliant women?

Ilustrator

Illustrator,

lying on your bed, it's probably damp and stale down there,

and you're scratching away at something,

and I'm thinking to myself,

What's your story?

Who are you?

And in your head, one thousand feet above the city

scratching away at something still,

my pencil's snapped but yours remain unbroken

so I'll live a little longer

in your eyes as you lie calmly in your bed.

That Room

The room with the wing chair and the skin lamp,

the velvet curtain covering an obscene canvas

that room with the smell of embalming and stale forgiveness,

that room, your hideaway

You're in that room,

with a pearl handled letter opener in your hand,

and no letters

You're in the room with a sound like subterranean clockwork

Your room, your haven

The room with the whispering library, beautiful souls trapped in pages

Your room with the rose carpet stain, the perfect likeness

Your room with the raven, the cat

You need sunlight and the wind that will forget your past

And I need you with me at last

You've been in that room with

your third eye closed, and

I've been waiting too long

Delirious

Purple heart, virgin hands

Machine oil celebration

Chakra of Choice

Base of Honesty

Temple

Pillar

Slaughter lamb

Delight in walls, in paper

and safety too

but Home, with mother's cancer

and her knowing eyes

We don't need trains for tracks

we've got many feet

and strong young backs

Nostra Algia

When we were children

we had names for the summer, like

swimming, watermelon, running

O.I.S.S

Look, when they said

Overboard is sinking ship

We prayed for the dead

Overboard is sinking ship

Fight the angel tooth and claw

Overboard is sinking ship

Must obey the mortal law

Overboard is sinking ship

*Some of these words are [somewhat] borrowed from Amanda Higgins

Sad Flicker

She sat on the bus, all in blue,

something second hand with

worn platform sandals on her feet,

headphones in tangled hair,

talking to the window, and

Laughing occasionally in timid Mandarin,

twitching from time to time,

like the sad flicker

of an ancient lightbulb refusing to die

On the subway I sat where I could watch,

but I only got the back of her as if

she had no face to show

She sat, chin glued to the window's edge,

eyes wide, dreaming the waking life,

that of long time drug use

Then she left, that station

seeming as good as any other

But with the fraying of that woman,

you could hear the weird tweaker requiem

Love/Hate, Binary Like Your Painting

It's a hard hard thing for me to hate

harder than carrying water in my hands

It's a hard thing for me

to let myself tumble with that voice that says

"Hate her, hate her"

But I listen to my stomach's weight

I know that heavy hate

But at times I am an empty room

where curses fly off walls

Echoes in the hollow of my chest

And my mouth is a cave

I am lost in it

I hate you/I love you

I Think I Exist To Be Heard

I miss you telling me I'm good

I need that validation

Wash

As loud as a whisper

our hands tell the stories of our hearts

Stories of silicon disillusion

and two dimensional days

Fly away while you can

escaping this century

Hide, hide, hide away

from the heavy gut

Hide away from lazy

Hide from time

Hide from consequence

Hide from thine

As loud as a whisper

our tongues spell the song of extinction

As loud as a whisper

As sharp as a knife

Silent Heart

My heart is a sound

and it goes

Disclaimer

There are three things you should know about my story:

1. I can't ever decide where to begin. If I could, I would write an entire book of disclaimers, endless forwards, an interminable stream of author's notes, each more sudden, more urgent than the last. The only reader who finds this more aggravating than you, is me.

2. My book is about that one, singular purpose of my thinking existence - that which consumes me. Women; a memoir of gratification, and spiraling, frantic introspection. These stories of addiction and weakness, and moral instability are often pathetic upon examination - I feel pathetic writing it too. Which leads me to my 3rd point:

3. I often find myself suddenly realizing that, while everything matters, nothing matters. I find it quite difficult to complain about anything at great length, or explore the pathology of my lifestyle with any serious effort, when that which was before considered to be pathological, is suddenly regarded as harmless, unimportant, or benign.

Is this book simply an ill constructed sob story, designed to validate my neurotic exploration of self pity to be passed off as epic tragedy worthy of reading?

One Hundred

We're having visions you know,

something of the future, a taste of the present

Black holes shout from our arms,

the lips of modern disappointment begin to pout

We've forgotten how to cope, we were promised the Sun

The roses in my eyes have bloomed madly 

and seen love mingled with hate

Last night I dreamed I was swimming in a sea of 

cellular phones and God was made of plastic

I dreamed that a pair of hands would crush

the last white bird

A mob would come

One hundred years from now, we will say

Oil came, oil went

One hundred years from now we'll sleep under

new stars, new skin

Things will be very different,

One hundred years from now.

Trois

I fell in love with those triangle eyes,

those light triangles underneath,

that three sided heart,

the three lines in your palm.

Summer

Tell me to tell the trees,

to tell the secrets of the bees,

the honey waits for air and kisses,

wings and promises,

the grass it listens

to the sky and to the sun,

I've found my love, 

I've found my love.

Drowsy Divine

Who's been looking for clues of intelligence 

 out in the distant dead light,

We wash ourselves in the song of curiosity 

and ask "Mother, where are my brothers and sisters?"

Why do I paint these things? Why do I dream of three eyes 

and a handful of soil? Why do I hear the prayer that hums?

If this planet spins through the sky outside the sky, 

then I'm a traveller sitting still.  

And I lament my stillness until now, when a voice

told me that I've been hurtling through the sky outside the sky, 

that I've been spinning with God Mother, moving and never moving.

I'm tired and sometimes sick but the gravity of this cosmic love is always. 

I wanted to be always, until now.

When I realized that I was,

that I am.

My Reason To Wake Up Through All The Bombs

My soul is a message,

my heart is a map, 

my mind is a canvas, 

my hands are the light.

My fingers the compass,

my blood is the voice,

my temples a magnet,

my eyes are a door.

I am, who is the Universe.

2:05 a.m

Yep, I've been talking to Life again.

When I'm Sad, I Sit And Write, or Is There A Recipe For Smiles?

Is there a recipe for smiles?

How about really good sleeps with dreams that I remember

or Navel Oranges

How about tea in the morning, wrapped in a blanket next to someone you love

Sunshine that doesn't burn, a breeze that doesn't chill

A pen-pal

A teacher who knows you

Brave, "ain't afraid of the dark" hand-holding

And clean sheets

Nervous kissing

Long haired love

The language of the soul

Always

Infant smiles, infant hands

Long long long hugs

Longer friendships.

Friends.

Friends.

Skinny/Love

so happy/sad

so bittersweet

tears on upturned lips

ghost of a girl I don't know how to meet

Laughing With

When you wrote that

you wrote my soul and

you were my heart

When I read that

I loved you and

you didn't know it

You still don't

but you keep writing

and I'll keep loving

Mom

Grey cardigan on the lamp post

White fan on the desk

Teal blue typewriter on top of the dresser

Blankets in the chest

Laundry in the corner

Dust all over the shelf

Dishes collect on the headboard

I'd clean but I've got no help

I miss my momma

I don't wanna grow up

I miss my mother

I don't wanna grow old

I miss my momma

Responsibility's not for me

I miss my mother

Mom, please don't die

Stomach

My stomach weighs heavy

weighs heavy it

feels like stone in

stone

a ball of tenseness

staring stone

It's heavy

A Thought?

Contemporary expression 

is looking like a journey into

Meaninglessness and the

no strings attached exploration

of aesthetic dimension.

"If it feels good do it," has become,

"If you can feel it, do it."

Pure, Meaninglessness, 

set to the rhythm and the 

pulse of established beats

and known frameworks.

Unintelligible aesthetics. 

Hipster Scum.

I smile politely.

A Night

Righteous brigand

Vexing gait

Holy octet

Rainbow plait

Wizard fret

Golden bow

Eyes of white

Seeds to sow

Mystic mirror

Mountain pass

Septic whispers

Tongues in brass

Careful prayer

Morning arrow

Thirsty oil

Temple three

Ochre moon song

Dusty chant

Forest sorrow

Pious cant

Driftwood chalice

Crown of light

Revelations

Welcome Night

"Cathy" ?

You called me last night

My phone was off, which it never is

Call display doesn't work when the power's down

Strange and bad luck, alas

Your message was nice, but no callback number

Shit

Shit

Shit

Call me back, leave your number, Facebook me

Such is life

Sidekick

The Android threw it all away

to play show tunes with a Relic...

Lily White Jiggling Terror

I remember it well because she came down naked from the open porch onto the gravel driveway. It was somewhere around 1:30, pitch dark. As I said, she was naked, endless rolls of fat dancing and jiggling, but somehow, she'd thought to put on her slippers. Pink, the slip on kind with the open ankle. They were sort of fuzzy but worn down - they looked sad.

She waddled through the snow and to the shed door. She fumbled with keys in the lock, and finally managed to open it. She entered.

A scream tore through the silence. She came out the door again, backstepping quickly. Then she fell, tumbling back on her huge bottom. Her cry was pathetic and gut-wrenching. 

A shadow emerged from the shed, huge and- 

And then I left. That's all I remember. 

Check

I have a pencil and a toothbrush,

a coat hook, a feather

I have everything I need for an alchemist's dream

I have what I need for this night

I have a book and a black pearl,

I have the Christ moth, a crucific

I have a capful of Jack,

A brand from the coals

A coat hook, a feather,

A pencil and a toothbrush

I have everything I need for a Wizard's dream

Therapy?

A therapist? 

Isn't that just a prostitute for the mind?

The Question On My Mind Is:

Who am I to you?

She's Sick # Two (2)/ Perfect

Dead eyed in the blackout they made you

They conspired to kill you

You used to come to bed with

Fevered eyes 

And tell me about Christ

And the Tree

 

But now you swallow huge yellow seagulls

Loud angry pills

They bring louder silence

Silent sadness

No more singing, or smoking

At the piano on a Sunday morning

You're just a shell now

I loved you more, before the medication

She's Sick/She's Perfect In That Moment

I love you more 

When you stop your medication

I love you more

I see you more clearly

I hear you better

When you stop your medication

I love you more

When you hold your hands just so

You wring your wrists

And curl your toes

And fidget

You're my pretty kitchen sunlight 

Girl

And I love you more when you stop those pills

I love you more when you're God or Theresa

I love you more when you're Pearl

I see you more clearly

I hear you better

When you stop your medication

And shimmer glow

So don't go back to bottles of those

Little killers

Up and down killers

Don't go back to those

I love you more 

When you stop your medication

I love you more

********

A Field Below

Two crescent shapes climb the night

Two stars follow

Our hands join in a field below

We mirror the sky

I've been ready for love

In a field below 

Two crescent shapes ascend your back

Stars follow

The Indigo in your skin

Mirrors the sky

I'm so ready for love

In a field below

DisRhythm

The sky is a bruise 

Dear Theresa I am home

My mother made the tea

And I will drink alone

Now she tells a story

Of weeping spiderwebs

Her breeze is just a whisper

Her hair is spun silver

I am just a ribcage 

A skull

And sorrow

Trapped in a bottle

Waiting

You're Chemistry

The chemists in my mouth tell me that they miss you.

Raw, Tired, Written

How raw am I?

Open like a mouth,

open like the palm,

open like the Christ cave,

open on the floor. 

Read all the words,

and read them backwards, 

cry, fall down, laugh

write your letters, tell your 

friends you miss them.

How raw am I?

Only as much as I am tired.

My food expires,

I wake too late. 

Our apartment collects

dust and empty dishes, 

I sleep on the floor.

Six Shooter Love

Lone cowboy, standing like a cactus moon

Six shooter love, put a bullet in my hand,

A horseshoe in my heart

For good luck, for every injun

Put sand in my boot

A feather in my pocket. 

Low Low Low

I Hate Love Stories but I do not hate Love; it's so much deeper. 

Sink through the waves with me and I'll tell you the story.

Promised Potential, Painfully Unrealized

"When they find a way to link my brain to a paintbrush, a pencil, a black Bic, a typewriter, Six (6) types of video and still camera, musical instruments, sound and video production software, and the entire line of Adobe products, I will make the Universe implode. Until then, things will get lost in translation......"

-Patrick

The Inability To Express

"If only I could draw,"

 or "If I could only sing."

"If I could build something beautiful."

Because that is the nature of my desire;

there's a long soreness in my heart.

I see works of art and I hear the songs 

of geniuses and I know that I could do it too.

The pictures are in my head. The songs are written

somewhere.

"If only I could draw",

 or "if I could only sing".

Greedy, Enthralled

My hands are strong,

the night is red,

I taste water in this room.

My hands are strong, but they tremble

with the crackle and the glow of electricity.

There's more than water here.

I smell sandalwood burning, and paint,

and I smell your sweat mingled with Karma.

Something from the stereo pulses with

Eastern sex and secrets from the deepest space.

Something from the speakers under the bed 

invites me to stay and watch.

I want to witness the Process.

When You've Got Nothing

It's sad that I am jealous to the point of tears, 

with an aching gut, jealous of the love that

two heroin addicts share.

The love that they endure,

as they float and fall,

hook and fight,

see the blackest holes.

It's my heart in a brick of coal.

It's emotional rock bottom.

It's so sad that I'm jealous...

The Wild

The Great White North sings, a song for all the trees

and all the crystal rivers, for the breath of the Earth itself,

for balance. 

I want to get Lost in it.

Go To Bed

233 am am

   233 jagging diagonally

to the left and hovering 

above the carpet

I took too much

   I took

Air into my lungs I'm

fit to burst

am am 236

3 minutes pass in antistillness

I have stomach 

and truth

I lack discipline at 237

I'm a wreck

The Saddest Things Are Beautiful

I fall asleep,

I drift away,

I am caught in soundmotionbliss

eternal mother's embrace -

I'll always be a child.

We don't grow up, we grow out. 

you

I don't think a day goes by that I don't wish you'd call me.

I want you back into my life.

Everything is very different now. I know I've lost my place, 

but I love you [still]/I hate you.

Goodnight

And every night, before bed

he took a fresh piece of paper

from the notepad, and he wrote,

"Goodnight, I love you all."

He signed and dated.

He did this because he knew 

that someday,

he would die in his sleep.

Nightmare About A Bomb

How the world ended, it went a little something like

"My fellow Americans," and then the television

cut out; China came calling with Burger Boy

and Big Oil.

China came calling as we sat down for supper.

Chronic

So sick of feeling sick