Tuesday, January 22, 2002

i kill people.

i kill people.

destroy them without a second thought.
sometimes it's while i wait in line at the
supermarket.
pen knife flicks out by
batteries and red & black cartons
of marlboros.
quiet flash in the back,
dead pan to look of shock.
eyes betray a tear that
trickles down and lands
on a can of string beans.
hand drops wadded up bills as
the shank twitches in the back,
cough,
slide down to check out floor and
quiet.

or it's at parties.
they don't see me coming.
sip mountain dew and vodkha and laugh
when
a spectre catches the eye.
slides in.
almost audible cry,
a faint moan
caught in throat,
choke on the spasm,
drop the lover's hand and gag
by the stereo.

fuckers never see it.
they never see me
until it's too late.
one minute it's about boyfriend's kisses
and loud pop music,
but then i'm there and it all
burns.

i kill people.

Sunday, January 20, 2002

Black asphalt

Check it out. I wrote this about a year ago and just found it.

Black asphalt,
Rips over dusty prairies and fields.
Plunges into canyons,
Carves up North America.
Electronic knife roars around thanksgiving roast.

Hot asphalt,
Saws into meaty enclaves of grass and stone.
Bridges over sunken rivers,
Infantile crayon scribbles on cave walls.
Wax peels off the clean space in the dining room.

Fat asphalt,
Smokes down in sleepy towns where older sisters wash the dishes.
Sizzles through living rooms,
Coffee spills on silk ties.
Stains blot delicate fabric, chemicals burn handmade cloth.

Dead asphalt,
Violates brush and furious seas.
Dives into dens and nests,
Birds and fawns stabbed in the womb,
Eggs smashed,
Hospital beds razed in forest fires,
Cribs crashed in the road,
Tar melts away finger nails...

As we ride, ride...

On black asphalt.

Friday, January 18, 2002

closer

What is it to be really alive? Not just the banal act of biologically living, but to truly feel the rush of your life and to be aware of your breathing, coughing, sneezing, heart-beating existence?
I think it comes in certain moments... when the grey samsara drone of the daily routine gives way to change, surprise, fear, or joy. When you stop caring about petty things like school in the face of something that challenges who you are. Those moments flicker like candles and can be accompanied by intense pain or pleasure. Often the threat of death is at hand. At other times, it's a feeling of euphoria, when you feel connected to something and don't want it to ever end.

It happens when you're struggling to gasp for air and you're gashed up and bloody as you struggle to crawl up the side of the road after you've been thrown from a car crash.

It happens when someone starts talking to you in a way that you'd never thought of before.

It happens when, no matter how hard you try, you have trouble believing in your religion (Catholicism, Marxism, humynism, science, art, whatever).

It happens when you round up all of your possessions and burn them in a pile on your front lawn.

It happens when you do the unexpected.. when you defy the categories you created for yourself and you BE in a different way, something you would have never imagined last week.

It can happen now. Or you just forget it. Sometimes it's just too frustrating and you have to go back to zombie-life. But sometimes... everything falls apart. The foundations break and, while it can be terrifying at first to realize that your support is gone, it can also be the most liberating thing that you've felt in your entire life. Mere words and their traditional meanings stop mattering.

For the first time, you can become something new. You not only see the walls of your ontological prison disappear, you realize that you were only imagining them the whole time. Some religious people talk about being "Closer to God." I like that

This is one of the most beautiful things that I've ever read. It left me shocked the first time I saw it. It's from Closer by Dennis Cooper, kind of a nasty book, but I just love this. It says so much without really putting it into words:

There was Mr. McGough. George recognized his suit. George rose and made his way through, sometimes accidentally bumping into, some people he vaguely knew. If they were greeting him he couldn’t tell. Still, he was pretty sure Mr. McGough licked his lips when their eyes met.
“Hey George,” the teacher said. He led them into a quieter part of the gym, “I trust you, don’t I?” George nodded. “I’ve gotten access to the coach’s lounge.” He pointed a finger at George. At its end, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, was a big ring of keys. “You and I . . . ?”
George licked his lips. “I get the picture,” he smirked. Inside the office, Mr. McGough felt around on a cluttered desk, found a lamp. It lit up Coach Burke’s diploma and an old snapshot of him in red swim trunks. “Once that fat blob was a knockout,” George thought. “Yuck.”
“Prepare yourself for a charming surprise,” said a sexy voice. George settled back on the desk top. He felt his ass squish against it. He gripped the trimming. His knuckles turned purple. He shut his eyes. He parted his lips wide enough that a tongue could fit through them.
George thought, “If God made a visit to earth it’d be in the form of a kiss. Being kissed by someone I admire is the closest I’ve gotten to peace on earth, like Xmas carolers sing. God would give each boy a taste of His lips then go back to whatever dimension He hides in. That would help.”
What a wacked-out idea. George liked how acid could blow up the flimsiest topic. Just then a sharp object scraped through his lips. His eyes flipped open. Mr. McGough put a match to its other end. “Pure Nicaraguan,” he said. “Go ahead. Blow you brains out.”
Two minutes later they edged through the door. The dance floor was a blur. Its details had blended together, a greenish white. It made George think of a Xmas tree, flocked, lying down on its side. He was afraid he’d get cut if he entered it. “Come meet some people, kid.” “Huh? Oh, right.”

Sunday, January 06, 2002

blind.

Lay on your bedroom floor with eyes closed,
Clamped shut, block out, projector pictures flicker on the wall.
Papers rain down and a corner
Cuts your eye.
Reaches down through eyelash into delicate iris and cornea,
Slash up instruments with paper cuts,
Rakes across pupil and into egg white.
Blood shot, delirious eyelid flutters,
Opens one last time to see the pictures.
Red haze drowns out walls,
Pools around into a dank puddle,
Fuzzy hallucinations reach outwords.
Try to glance at everything around,
Try to fix the pictures as they fade,
Ram polaroid into your face...

Until red sea rises and you're thrown
into a closet.
Door crashes shut, smashes fingers in
the way.
Breaks digits, joints, and bones,
Run through claustrophobic corridors...
Strapped face down in a gasoline pot hole.

Saturday, January 05, 2002

watching them die.

We ate red construction paper hearts
cut out in Kindergarten with safety scissors for
valentine's dinner.
Felt tip ink bled through the edges
and pooled under our tongues,
dripped out of the corners of mouths,
formed the shapes: "I love you."
Written by porcelain doll
fingers with preschool letters,
shook out after paper plate macaroni and apple juice lunches.

I still can't control my hand when I write.
It convulses in epileptic seizures
and scribbles pictures and
shreiks over blotted lines,
illegible oil splattered on leaves.
Someone across the hall scores my thoughts,
unfinished symphony.
Violins saw high notes, stab through shower
curtains and shred shot glasses
of vodka. Scratched up across dusty chalkboards,
Frozen notebooks shatter aganst the kitchen floor.
Forgot to scoop them into the dust bin... mom cried
when she stepped on their jagged edges with
her bare feet after work.
Stared out the window all night, muttered
and traced question marks on the frosted glass.
Red toe prints still archived on
kitchen linoleum.
Tracks crawl up the walls and over the
Microwave where I roasted my sister's toys,
Radiation therapy couldn't melt their pulsing tumors.
Plastic just wilts into puddles
to grow and ingest.
Frightened glances in the mirror can't hold you up in the shower.
Twist off arms and legs - the mutilaton dance...
Sorry, only holds off the inevitable

Until Christmas morning,
When saviors are born in salmonella stables and in rusty sinks,
And grandparents are found, breathless,
under the decorated tree.

Wrinkled faces droop down and get pasted to
the living room foor.
Outlines in the carpet for years,
Can't tell if they laugh or cry.
Nauseous laughing gas giggles,
choke in the dentist's chair,
and novicaine shots injected every morning before school,
So I can still force the paper pictures
down my throat,
and not feel the cultures grow under
my skin.
Ruddy crayon landscapes,
Messy ballpoint sketches.
Light smiles glance at tattered scrolls taped
up on the beige refrigerator
next to grandpa's butterfly magnets.
Blue stick figures smile and live in burnt embre
houses with red chimneys.
Two crossed windows and a bush painted
orange because we ran out of
green crayons.
Walk down halls,
watch upturned grins fall into ridiculous frowns,
Strained grimaces burst seams of
skin.
Tired eyes strain and leak cleaning fluid,
Wash grease off of kindergarten faces,
Bury plants in the shade, out of the sunlight,
under mask of Pagoda roofs.

Away from the microwave radiation in the kitchen.

Friday, January 04, 2002

fear.

If last Friday was the most unenjoyable day of my life, today is one of the scariest. We're waiting to see if a judge will sign a request to let me go back to school. The DA's recommending it and they usually go with them, but it's still freaky. My college career is in the judge's hands and he can do whatever he wants with me, depending on his mood. Honestly, going back is probably the safest option. All I do is study over there and I'm not around anyone who would do anything stupid. That only happens out here.
It's also scary as hell because my plane leaves tomorrow. We don't know if we should pack or what. My parents are on the brink of hysteria and they scare me when I'm around them. A judge was supposed to make a decision yesterday, but the one who got the case has been sick, so it got delayed. Now all we can do is wait and try to calm the nauseous feeling deep in our stomachs.
I stayed up really late last night talking on the internet to some person who I've never really met in person. She says that she likes me or something and it's kind of confusing, but I don't really care at this point. It's really nice to talk to someone who isn't going insane and is optimistic about my situation. Everything's really distorted. I've never felt like this. I don't know where I'm going. But right now I have to deal with the anxiety that's devouring my stomach. I used to think that I would get sent back, but now my parents are making me think otherwise. I'm scared. :(

Note: shortly after writing this I found out that I could go back to school. Nice.

Tuesday, January 01, 2002

On New Year's Day

Wow. I'm shaken. New Year's is completely arbitrary... but a lot has happened in the last year. I've...

discovered psychoanalysis

lost my faith in humyn agency

thought I was in love twice

got drunk for the first time

won state and districts

fucked up and only won 7 ballots at nationals

became intimate with someone I cared about

began listening to Throbbing Gristle and Black Flag all the time

did time in jail

got my arms slashed up in a botched car stunt and almost bled to death in the backseat of my friend's car. A friend patched it up with $5.00 of medical supplies for Walgreens. I thought I was going to die that night.

Wow. Everything is changing and falling apart. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It's exciting, but i need to think long and hard about my role in the Dionysian play. Shiva dances and destroys the world. What's my role? Not sure, but hopefully love will play a great role. That's the only thing I can hold onto.

In the Mahabharata, it says:

"Earth is strewn over with bright
weapons and red with blood. She
resembles a dark dancing girl
dressed in crimson, fallen, confused
with wine, her golden bells and
silver ornaments all deranged . . .
But it is an illusion. It is done in
play.
Who has been slain?
Who has done murder here?"

We shall see in 2002. Into the death. Let's go..