the notebook of a false occult

Don't give a -

2005-06-25T07:42:00.000-07:00

I don't give a flying fuck.

Jesus Christ, what was I on? Was there meth in the air? Fuck.
The only problem is the summer's going to slow. It'll speed up! Don't go fuckin ballistic because you're by yourself for a few days straight.

That's what happened, folks.

Now that I'm justified, I'm clearing the roads. Check out A Thirsty Book in about a week; I'm going to try and write two more chapters.

Fuck yo mama.
Fuck yo sista.
Fuck yo grandma.
Fuck yo dog.
And most of all, fuck you!

I didn't read it, just went with it.

2005-06-21T17:03:00.000-07:00

It seems your impetousness has gotten the best of you.
I think you're catching on. Glass violin and candle wax pearls, the smoke pours.
from a cognac bottle, we drink up the shape of our eyebrows, the angle of shine in a bed of hair. bed of roses. never been...my life. =
Fall apart and make the plastic drift from between two hands like it is supposed to.
Mithc. I can't say the same for myself.
Start again.
Cubeology. Cubism, is that so? I can't stop thinking about you.
You've got a nice structure your looks. I can't explain what's so ...
your breathing. I want to hear you again. Invigorating. This has never been so intense, ------
Maybe I should write this out first. I don't know what I'm supposed to say. The extent of my vocabulary is so low,
you have caged the interior of my mouth. Just the throat. I think , then I don't, then information overload, then
buzzing and ambulances, the whir of a kettle catching too much fire. The scent of fly-trapper adhesive, sticky sweet,
the picture of your face crumbles like a block of incense.
You never come over anymore.
Sparkle- guitar.
I can't believe it, the tears are chaffing me. I feel like an imbesile. You win!
Goddamnit... this is so strange. Why. I can't help but write about you. I can't help but write about you. I can't help it. Help it. Help it. Help it. Help it.
I'm gonna fuckin scream it out! Bash in all the back-doors in the neighborhood, let myself into the damp night searching for a map and a ticket.
Stale perfumed summer. When I used to go out I would know everyone that I saw. Now I go out alone, if I go out at all.
Burn , the wheel turn
-s and mosaic of leather and spice
hide my face, .
substance to diminish possible traces of weakness.
peach i cant stress it enough.
you you youo you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou.
All I need.
DAMN
IT
TO
HELL.
The connection. Oh, it kills me because it is so intangible. So. so so so so so so so oso s.
You make me repeat myself. I wish it could be labeled emphasis, but it's not, it's again, again, again, again, again.
Over. Turn my body so you can see my spine and pin it all up the way you want. Finger in the fire. MELTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT
Jesus Christ this is overwhelming. I don't want to wake up to coffee and the smell of cigarettes without that familiar distant unknown sihlouette curving the bed.
I can do whatever I want!! 32 weeks, oh, 32 weeks, weeks weeks weeks. Legal is an issue? What about running?
I ... am not writing anymore. You're getting the picture. Just thoughts. Streaming consciousness these are my thoughts. I am pretending to think a lot.
No I am really thinking far more.
Hold my breath.......................
You make me wonder about that other 96% more and more . Seconds mean nothing. I don't want time to stand in the door any longer. SCREAM THE LAKE IS
FALLING
If only it were a basement.
A clover scent like red oil
It would need to be crushed so the corners couldn't get air.
Oxygen, chemical mixture
lungs oh the oh the oh the oh the pressure builds feels like a box in my esophogus
kill me

..........You want zombie? I'll feed. This. Way. Please.
{I've never felt so close, oh sombra}

The Secrets We Speak Through Teeth

2005-06-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

I knew there would be a cherry syringe for me, and a little slouched chair to recline in.

-That's all you get.

you know what niggah

2005-05-21T10:56:00.000-07:00

"A bunny will be president before any black person. " - Rachel

A peach is a peach

2005-05-05T12:14:00.000-07:00

Peach
To see a peach in your dream, represents pleasure and joy, You take pleasure in the minor, trivial things in life. The dream may also imply that something in your life is just "peachy" and going well. Alternatively, a peach may be indicative of lust and sensuality. Consider how it may be a metaphor for your sweetheart or loved one.

Writer's Block -- Attempt 4 (4/21/o5_)

2005-04-24T10:24:00.000-07:00

cool chewing tactics not
meant forred beasts
a compromise made shifty ghosts,
in and out of wall boards,
the hall
-boards are vacant like the
little crevice in my bra,
al-
ways unsnapping and letting soft
globe
go rub
against black cottonfields

he sees you, smoldering your fingers
between
them sits
a thin Capri, oh, cancer-sticks
delicious brown seeping ash
a core that wants to be but isn't
and never
unless you become one
and it empregnates the lungs
beautiful bastard, jewel-white smoke and shiny mouthpiece.
for an armed baby.
hurt me tenderly in the waning moonlight, scamper
tauntingly,
his eyes become saucers at
notice
of
your sexy death.

Where is my mind?

2005-04-19T18:59:00.000-07:00

all my feelings right now, as my thoughts are exactly

i screwedup
bangupjob
goodwork
royalscrewjob
screwup
screwdriver
i am no game
where is my mind
where,
is my mind
i...swimming in the carribbean
lukeskywalker
paradise-free
now with more lemons!
collateral
his hair is yellow
like turpentine
only turpentine is not yellow
catch my drift?
cart-drifting in the local kroger
why do i love drug stores
dear sweet merciful crap
crying into the pillow
so what if you didnt make the cheerleading squad
youve got catherine zeta-jones right
in front of you
so many cans
i outta make a robot
just like peggy on king of the hill
ever watch that show?
it's 8:57.
where is my mind?
where,
is my mind
pixies
pixie dust the color of sandpaper
pink rust
diseased couches aching in alleyways
a beautiful brown,
antique green
shady comfort goose down soft
can i touch his hands?
what will i wear...yeah, yeah.
where is my mind?

---

Writer's Block -- Attempt 1 (4/18/o5_)

2005-04-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

crisp white
blouse, with all the right buttons.
soft beard, red lips.
we drink coffee til
our packs are gone.
drug-crazy bonanza.
cruella, mixhazard.
perfect at last.
mix breasts.
Mizuhaiku.
water poem?
Delve into these glassy
depths.

a touch that burns like a
witch's oils,
concocted,
simmer, thin jade in the pot,
glittering; porcelain gods can't
do you no good

it's the dry amber in your throat,
the menthol perfume, and such
pink nails,
gossmer and shallow.
wine and swallow.

---crippled mountain of stolen words,---
--not plagarism, fucker, the---
-----taking---------
----------of words------
-----literal, acidish yellow--------------
----------------legal pads with strike-outs.---

she opens a book only to close it
tonight, dust and stars go hand-in-hand
like wires behind the desk

like wires behind the desk

and a red crystal spoon to feed us
atrocitiesandclankingshudder boards
peeling paint the color of old rain
notes that were folded
back so, they tear in the creases

ever scrawl on purple?

i do.

shaved heads and plump thighs,
muscle and shiny dark hair, -/
stampinkwipe
kissmove straddlebeanbagmeltmelt,slamdoor
rolling pin,yellow again.

2005-04-19T18:42:00.000-07:00

And when it all comes out distorted, I can only push pedals into thin dying embers, green leaves sprawling like crepe against these creamy moon-spotted shoulders. Tighten grip and squeeze liquid from eyelash corners; an all-knowing pinata hanging low at the base of the cerebral cortex, waiting for a fatal blow, where innerds go spewing satisfactory.
To touch the flesh of a certain exterior would be...a nebulous activity...haywire, dizzy, dreamy. I imagine faint curtains sputtering quick to chase night-stars from a blackening horizon, and your hard fingers slip through red silk.
Connotation.
Intrigue.
Don't put the light on, I only want a spark, a crystal shard glowing juxtaposition with white.
mass-produce words. Chew an earlobe.
Tangled between the palms, a c-shaped thigh, and little pearl earrings.
Luscious beneath black.
Comb your nails on someone's back.
Hotel sanctuary. Keep me. Closer.
Don't swallow whole and then spit up pieces.
I want.
Originality....if that is the proper word to use...
Is this the start?
I jump to conclusions.

I'll dive next.

---

what's in it for me

2005-04-08T11:43:00.000-07:00

no worries anymore.

today has been the biggest relief/payoff for slave-labor work.

i'm just lucky, but i don't care, i've got things in order. finally

//translation

2005-02-17T12:22:00.000-08:00

そのような皮肉は、それ蟻私の貪欲なundeserving 腿に方法を見つけた。赤い注入、スポイトであるろば皮のsacrilegious 小山の毒の分子のそう非常に値すること- すべての穏やかな斜面は木の舌の程度を分け、彼がすすり泣くと同時に、艶をかけテキストのペーパー印刷されておよび彼らはタイルのティッシュのようにそう精巧に分散する。彼の友人は便座である; しかし今日腐敗性水に直面するそれは折られる。たらいのカーテンは欝血させた指によって締め金で止められるようになる。青緑色のかたまりのbetwixt 味がないnubs 。水をまくしかし余りに熱いパーマおよびあなたは専門の漁師について考える。私達は私達の自己ゲームでよい。私達は椅子及び子供を過ぎた目の交換知すべてで密封される終わる思考の署名の自尊心を取る。海軍プラスチック椅子- 私達は私達が落下に明示できるばねの鳥について考えない。9 月の遅い歩行を取るか。、黄色く狭い割れた石に跳躍するあなたその絶望的橋から線形稲妻のような広い銀製の打撃で流れる星はである- たくさんの頭韻法を使用して私はあるか。音節から綴り、あなたが眠らせるためにだけ望むことができる部品のよい重点を置くために私を好むか。私は知っている。私達はターミナルE-3 の肩に投げられたJansport のバックパックに行った- ジョーンズのDoral の青いチェリーの炭酸水のびんおよびmatchsticks 、空の床、音を立てるmiddles は飛行を離れて、金属騒音および最後の物のブランドより少なくのエスカレーターそしてFord Escort を十分に疑問に思うより少なく。

That kind of sarcasm found method in that ant my avaricious undeserving 腿. When the molecule of the poison of the sacrilegious hill of the donkey skin which is red fill and dropper being worthy of so very - all calm slopes you divide the tongue of the wood, he slurps and cries simultaneously, you apply gloss and the paper of the text are printed and they disperse like the tissue of the tile so elaborately. That friend flight is the seat; But that it faces the present nonperishable water is snapped. As for the curtain of the basin the 欝 blood it reaches the point where you stop with the brace by the finger which it could point. Nubs which is not betwixt taste of the lump of blue green color. But the water is sown, the excessively hot perm and you think concerning the special fisherman. We may be our self games. We are sealed up is ended take the pride of signature of the thought which at exchange intellectual everything of the eye which passes the chair and the child. The naval plastic chair - we do not think concerning the bird of the spring which we can state clearly to falling. Is walking whose September is slow taken? The star which flows with shock of the wide silver make like linear lightning from that desperate bridge of you who jump in the stone which, is narrow yellow and cracks is, - using many alliteration methods, is there I? From syllable spelling, just because you can neglect am I liked in order to put the emphasis where the part which can desire is good? I have known. As for us it went to the back pack of Jansport which was thrown to the shoulder of terminal E-3 - the phosphate of the cherry where Jones's Doral is blue is to extend and the floor of matchsticks and the sky, middles which raises sound rather than thinking little escalator than the brand of metal noise and last ones and Ford Escort sufficiently in doubt, from flight separated, little.

shit

2005-02-16T21:30:00.000-08:00

of all the songs i listened to the past few months, the one that sticks out most has its own era.

stack 4:

"magdalena" - a perfect circle
scent: physics' classroom, which is happy heart by clinique (delfina's perfume)
sights: kirby, the airport at night, skyscrapers, may 2004, and somehow, memories of may 2003. the dentist. you. you. you. you. you. you. the summer. anticipation.

doesn't that kill everything? i wish i didn't know all this information. i liked the familiarity of the atmosphere, the textures and scents and feelings. but i've overanalyzed and this is the compilation i get.

wow, i wrote something./

l'artiste

2005-02-11T12:29:00.000-08:00

Your Dominant Intelligence is Spatial Intelligence

You've got a good sense of space and how the world around you looks.
You can close your eyes and "see" images. You have innate artistic talent.
An eye for color and shapes, you're also a natural designer.
Since you think in pictures, visual aids and demonstartions help you learn best.

You would make a good navigator, sculptor, visual artist, inventor, architect, interior designer, or engineer.

What Kind of Intelligence Do You Have?

inform yourself

2005-02-09T12:36:00.000-08:00

Daily Grail

bottle of cognac

2005-02-07T12:13:00.000-08:00

Cigarettes, Candles May Have Sparked Georgetown Fire

Edgar Allen Poe Cognac Man Observed, Asked to Reveal Identity: The AP, via the W.Times reports that the mysterious cloaked man who leaves three roses and a half bottle of cognac on Edgar Allen Poe's grave in Baltimore each year was greeted by a number of visitors this year who later demanded from the cemetery caretaker to know the man's identity. Normally, the mysterious man is observed and left alone as a sign of respect

Ti-STN

2005-01-31T16:30:00.000-08:00

I’m unable to just let this go.

A tennis court of possibilities. Silver blockade. To press against it, is to step back with new squares. I make the fuel box louder as wires are pulled back into confines, clear the exits, man, the mother lode has descended. Red clay, blue bottle saran wrap skies, one bright ball, long stretches of Madden and Harlem, a girl's hand, white rock meadow: a patch where a few trailers sleep.

Let’s penetrate this machine, and ignore the smoke. The smell of your black musk. The taste of a petite household, a house of holdings, of texas hold-ems, of dings and spouses.

I know three’s a charm because I’m always the median. Gravity can bite me.

You’re going to take the book from the shelf and open it; give me a swig, and a puff, and a sip, and a time warp, because excitement rains in small doses. Parallel streets with red bulbs and a broken head light that resembles a chip/memory – all massing and beating in my head. This is no Gothicism.

My eyes meet the candles through black reflection.
Warm cookies and orange.
Knot in my stomach from all the thinking. “Dark soma” “Monster” and crackhouses. Houses.
House is such an important word.

Take me downtown to the little strip with the perfect masculine counterparts.
Night on Bellaire.
Yes, yes, in a small black car and doll tinkles.

Am I this tiny? She thinks I am alone in my room at this hour. You know…you’ve got no Spanish tongue. Only a creamsicle orange-and-pink diary with a lock and frivolous "secrets" stowed inside, about lackluster relationship boys and all about the how-cutes and the outfits and the things in your locker.

///Too bad everything he said was within a dream.>

Difficult to depict the geometry of a dream with random image searches.

Alex Grey

2005-01-29T17:59:00.000-08:00

Go here.

Guess who inspired who.

I acknowledge the privilege of being alive in a human body at this moment, endowed with senses, memories, emotions, thoughts, and the space of mind in its wisdom aspect.

It is the prayer of my innermost being to realize my supreme identity in the liberated play of consciousness, the Vast Expanse. Now is the moment, Here is the place of Liberation.

Witness the contents of mind, the visions and sounds, the thoughts, as clouds passing through the vast expanse - the sky-like nature of mind. The rootedness of Being is in emptiness, clarity and awareness: unborn, unspoilt, stainlessly pure.

The infinite vibratory levels, the dimensions of interconnectedness are without end. There is nothing independent. All beings and things are residents in your awareness.

I subject my awareness to the perfection of being, the perfection of wisdom and perfection of love, all of these being co-present in the Vast Expanse. I share this panorama of Being and appreciate all I can share it with...the seamless interweaving of consciousness with each moment.

Create perfection wherever you go with your awareness. That is why this teaching is admired by artists--they sense the correctness of the response to life as creative. Life is infinite creative play. Enjoyment and participation in this creative play is the artists profound joy. We co-author every moment with universal creativity.

To bare our souls is all we ask, to give all we have to life and the beings surrounding us. Here the nature spirits are intense and we appreciate them, make offerings to them--these nature spirits who call us here--sealing our fate with each other, celebrating our love.

I am an intersecting kaleidoscope of Being in a rainbow refractive wave pattern: a corpuscle of light on the ocean...the transparency of my body with the rocks...sometimes the only way to summarize my feelings is to draw--to collapse the frenzy in my limbs enough to make a mark out of profound appreciation for my existence.

Share your presence with others, no boundaries, completely openly lovingly. Love is what makes us alive, that is why we feel so alive when we love. Service is being available to love. Life is the combustion of love. That we love ourselves here, that is the true magnificence in the mountains of being. We are constantly drawing the line between love and not love--enter into the Non-duality Zone, and all judgements dissolve in the Vast Expanse.

It's as though we are co-conspirators of consciousness--everyone, everywhere, everywhen, mixing up our openable minds. It's as though we could gather clouds in the sky and people into our lives. Like an eruption of consciousness, we discover the most important force is love. Experience yourself as the Source and appreciate every moment as perfection. Sunrise--Sunset. Thank you, Thank you, Creator, profound unstoppable connectedness of all beings, pattern to everything, most radical no-thing, the Vast Expanse.

Alex GreyAugust 22,1994

He is a blantant agnostic.

police say it was staged

2005-01-20T19:03:00.000-08:00

She handed me a box.

It's wrapped in clear plastic. A pink lotus blossom and the typical Asian luck charm are printed on the front.

Now, a thin, gold taste in my mouth. I can taste the starch. It is papery-sweet. I had Arabic coffee this morning and I couldn't think of an exact opposite of the hard liquid, but I know.

Botan Rice Candy.

As wolves cry

Rice particles

Dissolve

They make thin sheets of the mass

that collect at the bottom

of cola-cans

Tin and sweet

Grains nourish, amber tint, like a shot of

Shot a

Shot a lion in the head

Glued to my teeth.

Ingredients: Glucose, Syrup (Corn Starch, Water), Sweet Rice, Water, Lemon Flavor, FD & C RED NO 40 (Allura RED AC)

written on october 12, 2004. mmm ancient

2005-01-20T12:08:00.000-08:00

Mr. Duck Face
Don’t be fearful.

Red eyes and tears no more,
My dear.

Free Right.
Hello, my name is Allan. I am a caterer, and my ideal job is actually a bartender. Right now, I’m preparing fish portions and fried bananas. The water is allover me, it’s leaving beads on my oily torso, I struggle to wipe it off but my mind is focused. Soon I reach the pinnacle and remove the bottle cap. I start sipping cold numbing fluid I bought from that rusted-red Spanish shack, and I take my sizzling masterpiece out of the oven and dab a shard of Oregon sprig to make my mark. She never came to pick up her order.

Hello, my name is Sherry. My mother also thought to name me Victoria but it got lost along the way, like so many other umbrella smiles and purple-octopus-legends, sweetly mismatched (Nothin’ like a secret shack to brighten your day) socks and our Fender picks. A gross of situations concern me, especially Mondays; those are internal and nonexistent, but I must face them, those stern polished deadline boys, frontline shooters, get me while I’m already down. I got married to a cow last night; I don’t want my fish, much less a reception.
I cheated by shooting my female groom. I took her milk and rump and had a festival. You’re all meat to me. Don’t even talk.

ONION BLOSSOM
I’d like to fucking kidnap Wes Bentley.
Eat him. That’s no threat. Perverse.

DUQ
LE DEATH D’PIXIES.

OUG RED
DUQ RED.
(cute duck house. White silhouette.)
Paranormal apparatus
Separate! Serum. Sultry? 10 fucking MI sets of 60 she? Not like me. Is.
False pharmacies. Starving for desperation.
Unsightly. Unsightly book leaves of his pages pages pages
Lifestyle drugs. Drugs. Bolts
And
Wheels.
Wheels.

Hotel suicide
Room on fire
Glowworm scriptures
Honey-sweet marigolds
Clamber c climb aboard
Shimmery
Maiden why must you pout so!
Root canal to my heart
I digress. Digress digress talk here I want comparison pay close attention don’t listen to me for now george’ll be flying this 1
Young girl,
How to calc degrees
Go ahead, make sense of it
Semi-liberal/independent – atheist, practices the craft for lack of spirituality / will cling to it in my latter years as I begin to fear the end
Universe. Time doesn’t exist. I hate gravity too – but I can’t say that, I’ll look a replica
Think. Realized I’m ugly.
Prove it does it suit
Prove prove prove logic
Blind republic/”pagan”/”wiccan”, try one and try two guess they always come down, too
Other wise
Political beliefs
False political beliefs
Political
Politics
Stupid!
Flat line
False false
A whole circle of idiots
Ugly ugly ugly
Take her not me… please do something rash obliterate bell rings, Kenney!
Breńa
Breńa
Tears up. Flat line
Well
Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?
Concoction of…
Syringe. Brena. Brena.
Stupid Ic fods
I can’t believe you let me walk away
No discussion in psychology
Bitter shunning/snubbing
Cleared hallway, sermons, idiocy
No tap on shoulder, snub, snub.
I suppose I look terrible
More than ever.
Away
You let me walk

disposition

2005-01-14T12:18:00.000-08:00

-----

Mention this to me
Mention something, mention anything

Watch the weather change.

tee-hee

2005-01-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

You Are a "Don't Tread On Me" Libertarian

You distrust the government, are fiercely independent, and don't belong in either party.

Religion and politics should never mix, in your opinion... and you feel opressed by both.

You don't want the government to cramp your self made style. Or anyone else's for that matter.

You're proud to say that you're pro-choice on absolutely everything!

What political persuasion are you?

ignis fatuus

2005-01-11T15:05:00.000-08:00

ig·nis fat·u·us ( P ) Pronunciation Key (gns fch-s)n. pl. ig·nes fat·u·i (gnz fch-)
1. A phosphorescent light that hovers or flits over swampy ground at night, possibly caused by spontaneous combustion of gases emitted by rotting organic matter. Also called friar's lantern, jack-o'-lantern, will-o'-the-wisp, wisp.
2. Something that misleads or deludes; an illusion.

(This is another try at a stolen format. Benj, you are some idol.)

------

(Imitation of style. Piece 1.)

------

This is one of those janitor’s closets you wish had aesthetic appeal.

It’s anything, save the aesthetic.

I expected nothing of standing between these tight walls; suffocating because of confounds and the objects before me. I expected a call from the girl with the short black hair and the ghost perfume who likes to leave trails down the road for me to follow.

A smell that has a heart shape and a pink flavor.

But no.

I'm spilling over a barrel of a red, transluscent, glue like substance on the floor, potentially letting off some of the circuitry, since there are wires and machinery packed in this place as if it were a hardbacked copy of that 1 million paged diary.

I am participating in a wild collection of data. It all feels short of earthy in my palms. But no realization or slap in the face could halt my motives.

Grabbing a silver flask from my pocket I light a cigarette. I let the sweet niccotine puff out in little white clouds through the parting of my mouth. I notice my lips are dry and wet them. This is no form of concentration. I unscrew the lid as hard as I can without losing my hands.

More fluid pours onto the cheap marble surface (more than likely a no-brand linoleum), the lid smacks the floor like it were a packet of thick plastic. The contents are emitted in bubblewrapped portions.

How sickly.

What's worse is the set of new things I have to deal with.

But, as in any case, orders are orders. I collect the packages, no hesitation, place them into a black box and take polaroids of each individual limb.

Yes, you heard me right, limb. These aren't tree limbs, either. More like human legs and arms. Included as well are four working eyes and fingers and toes.

I close the box and seal the top with some masking tape and question the ethics of the task, but I know I have no choice. The instructions manual finds its way back into a brown paper bag.
------

moblog

2005-01-06T12:16:00.000-08:00

I'll post the link to mine soon.

sweet n' low 1/2 (imitation sugar)

2004-12-26T21:49:00.000-08:00

I remember how in old movies, a romantic guy would flap out his coat in a puddle for his girlfriend to step on, because he was some sweet son of a bitch.

Who really does that? Certainly not anyone I know.

But I'm talking about a farm.

---
These roads are thin like they could only fit a single set of chairs in a row, and it doesn't go on too far. The grass isn't grass here.

It is long, thirsty strips of sandpaper, sometimes patchy, growing out of rocks and slate. Colors like denim or burlap have extended above the horizon. I know the field is turning over. Animals are bustling into their coups and sleeping dens.

Sometimes, a low buzzing noise comes from the windmill. Yes, a windmill - a fucking small one, but it works in this technologically-deprived community.

Only a few tin shacks stand upright. There is one flanking another every two feet. The farmers (I guess that's the standard occupation) even have their own tiny picket fence at the front - it looks like two pieces, though, because it separates at the door.

All these blue waves and starchy plants and silver glinting boxes fuse together into a realization - look, look behind it all.

Backyards...?

--
Yeah, I would never have guessed. Satellite dishes.

I've seen this sort before. In my boyfriend's backyard. It is a cheap construction of wires and bulbs and tubes; like an outdoor intenna for the television.

Not satellites.

What are the people doing?

They're listening. The buzzing isn't from the windmill afterall; I walk to it, and it gurgles and creaks. The buzzing is actually from outside the galaxy.

This is true pil(gr[im)age].

Halved

2004-11-24T20:49:00.000-08:00

Today I really like my bangs

since I think I am pretty to you.

Isn't it good to be in love? Isn't it rash of me to not find an impeccable metaphor? I feel shaky anxiety in my ribs, and I check the clock until it bleeds my favorite numbers =

I've

not

done this since my last patient. You said you liked the dark white placid texture, and 90s rock softened our tears into blurred violet againt lime. Willow-paper for blinds. It's the Decemberists, baby, and it's so cold it's sweet.

Can you believe I want to go all-out just for you?

Chronicles of soap

2004-11-24T14:48:00.000-08:00

[I want precious, exotic-scented pieces adorned in gold foil and sweet pink chiffon wrap. But that's not what I mean, no.]

I mean, oh, how I should read those desperate housewives-type novella, with the girls who indulge in guilty pleasures and buy $500 shoes just on impulse. I can dream to be seamless.

I'm gonna write a book, I swear, and it's going to make money. Twenty-somethings are gonna drool over what perfume Miss Daniels sprays on her panties, and the tea she spiked will be a best-selling flavor at Starbucks. I can be multi-national if I please. I can make characters with tart, rich lives. I'll put the spice on the rack.

I want everything because it's all about taking.

Yet, it's damp under my eyes at night, from all the giving. The psychological giving. Feeding. Intellect.

no correlation

2004-11-18T12:10:00.000-08:00

One soft fuzzy touch against green sweater.

I've got uncertain palms and motives shooting up into the roof, fueled by alcohol and disorder.

Pin the poppet.

//You sang Forty-six and two, the chromosomes swirling about, the shadow - third evolutionary phase, self-sex, and the AC. We all want to penetrate walls. A thin strawberry smell collaborates a wave in front of my screen, and I reminisce of the time I almost plunged into a school for the head.//

Where'd that special woman go?

Her and her drunkard friend, the one with rose blossom cheeks and a bottle of sweet red scotch... They've been loose from me since I tainted a motorcycle with my presense.

Ignore the smoke,

Ignore the smoke

this is crap.

Higher, higher

2004-10-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

My chest is tightening up again. We're coming to a climax, the music whirring like strobe lights all around. I feel I should be smelling the musk of smoke. Or between the many casual hands under tiny electric bulbs.

I've got to go. I need to be somewhere.

It's been a long two months - a long time! I need to get out! TAKE

ME AWAY

I don't want a resolution. I want the pique all the time. I want to build a universe that doesn't fall apart in two days. I want to be reassured it won't come crashing down on me; a fuckin' car wreck, me the ambulance driver, trying to pick up melted scraps... So nervous. Anxious. Hoping. You've got trashcans for drums and I wanna have a dose of anticipation. More, more.

You know you're right

2004-10-28T11:52:00.001-07:00

I will never bother you
I will never promise to
I will never follow you
I will never bother you

Never speak a word again
I will crawl away for good

I will move away from here
You won't be afraid of fear
No thought put in to this
I always knew it would come to this

Things have never been so swell
I have never failed to feel
Pain
Pain
Pain

You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right

I'm so warm and calm inside
I no longer have to hide
Let's talk about someone else
Steaming soup against her mouth
Nothing really bothers her
She just wants to love herself

I will move away from here
You won't be afraid to fear
No thought was put in to this
I always knew to come like this

Things have never been so swell
I have never failed to feel
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain
Pain

You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right
You know you're right

Pain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I think I've had enough. I think you all deserve more than this existence I suffer.

__________
__________
__________
__________
__________

And I cut out my paragraph because it is lacking the propriety of my end.

[My verbs don't agree.
My verbs don't agree.]

You'll get over me fast. Three more days.

I like secrets

2004-10-26T12:26:00.000-07:00

I've written so much in my book, considering the fact it is rare for inspiration to spot me. There are at least 10 pages by now. The metaphor is a gracious tool.

They hold my secrets.

"If only he knew the abuse!" You'll never know, kids.

Temperature Project (need a creative title)

2004-10-14T12:11:00.000-07:00

Pre-Cal work.

Average temperature:
http://www.weatherbase.com/weather/weather.php3?s=139727&refer=

On a half sheet of posterboard:
a. Chart of average temperatures per month.
b. Graph of average monthly temperatures clearly labeled on both axes.
c. Creative reference to city. (picture, map, etc.) *I'm doing several things.
d. Prediction of the temperature for Sat. Oct 16
e. Actual temperature of Oct. 16

Need theme and border that represents the city. Paste rubric to back of posterboard.

I miss that place.

Regrets

2004-10-14T11:52:00.000-07:00

Cutting my bangs.
Being released and giving it up.
Thinking inane thoughts, thoughts of rash things.
Being lazy.

Another object of my affections

2004-10-13T12:07:00.000-07:00

http://reviews.cnet.com/NEC_525_HDM/4505-6454_7-30609297.html?tag=pdtl-list

http://asia.cnet.com/reviews/handphones/0,39001713,39074960p,00.htm http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&category=64355&item=5724633329

http://www.mobilesourcecorp.com/productdetails.jsp?listid=7720001-1079379149&type=Phones&calllistid=1F20001-1091193516

Can't access email now.

Mon cher

2004-10-06T12:15:00.000-07:00

PASA Meeting. Tech savvy = an excuse to beat you all up.

Controversial power points.

Indecisive when it comes to cell phones. (Either the tiny one, or the other tiny one...)

Trying to save my chores for the weekends. Give me a day, meet me in a secret wheat meadow, brush through crop circles and hanging plant spiders. Rachel is the best. I want Rachel to stay home.

Is the humiliation that important? We're all used. I use euphemisms. I wish for the violin lady to stay back in her dark place. I've got a lotta work to do, but no will to do it. She said I should. just. no matter what. just. do it. I'm ballooning inside. I have far too many anxiety attacks - these make me stumble and weaken especially when I wanna be arrogant. I'm a hot mama.

And then it rains, reigns, reigns, pounding against my back, finite resources and hands I could crumble in surrounding my worries... I waste away.

For now

2004-09-30T12:12:00.000-07:00

http://www.mobiledia.com/reviews/index.html

I have to ask a few questions, and I can't access my email right now, so ignore this. I often email myself links or pictures.

Damn, I feel like I've hit a brick wall with this cellphone business. Nobody is answering my questions clearly enough.

Crown me baby

2004-09-20T12:28:00.002-07:00

Satellite Gato

Copycat violence

Teenage assassins

Notebook scraps

2004-09-20T11:41:00.000-07:00

blanket of love
skin! she says I
OH SOM (bra)
Amoeba am, oh sombra
cherry

OH SOMB
Ra
Wednesday bot
I have no need for
red cellular
NO SUS
TO!

a

secks!
ual pockets
bananular phone
vertical

And I drew several arms being injected with syringes, ones to the measured brim with liquid sleep.
You made a copy of a requiem I'm supposed to watch.
And you'll fill me up, babe, I can't wait, my shoes want to come off. Did you know
The journal doesn't lie?

How soon -
will I strike lines,
this sensual utensil.

Write down all the
All the things I should remember, all the information in the world, keep it tied
with scented gauze so that I can inhale memories.

Perfectly round
oil drop o's
curly ends
Handwriting that resembles the likes of:
"Burn the Maps"

Do you really see a reason for me to stop?

then we became eunuchs

2004-09-18T12:38:00.000-07:00

yes tiny. like the bittersweet apples0 tha2t are my...3tomato and dirt.

You should

2004-09-16T19:29:00.000-07:00

"You should learn the geography of your instrument."

Yeah, I like that.

A nice cup of hostili-tea.

A well-organized folder, and printed out study guides, so much learned caffeine intake. There's pretty colored post-it notes under every book cover and sticking above the other not-so-significant sheets.

Mmm, drink up.

Hyphen

2004-09-15T04:44:00.000-07:00

Here is my problem in life.

I have such low confidence, I forget others care about me. Does that make sense?

Muffle

2004-09-11T14:52:00.000-07:00

[P.S. This was written in 1-2 format, between me and Omar. I am one, then he is two, one again, and so forth.]

I’ve never been good at writing under pressure, but here we are.
I’ve never been good at the novella, but they’re still in my hair. A superficial aire, this I bring myself to, upon whence the tea kettle sings and I know. I know this, is life as expected. But we’ll sit on the table till dusk and try our hardest to make turn the volume down, and when the dawn comes we’ll be under the influence of an earlier metaphor. Somebody tell them to turn it down.
But a necessity would be to turn it up two more notches. Sometimes, when the world can only butter their bread and shuffle their newspapers from the front porch, we just mingle sharps and flats in rickety snowflake contrast, we’re untalented but we’ll be damned if there’s a God to correct us. Sometimes there’s no “I” in arrogant.
Kick it up another flavor and make it real. But that’s the voice in my head speaking, in geometric tongues to an audience. An argument ensues, and every moment spent follows this trend. While you strum some trembling chords behind me, each one sounds anew, and with speed you make haste, and with sound you make grace. I’m listening, not rambling because I want one too.
Well, time isn’t graceful. And I’d hate to make any more chords than I already have, because I’ve got nothin’ in my pockets or any coins to spare. You hear me? The Laundromat is sky-high this afternoon. One shirt can be pressed for seventy five cents if I please. Haven’t you noticed though, how no one feels patriotic enough to wind up flags above their doors, and me my ivy trellis is drab as ever. Peach colored shutters burning under the disapproval of this month’s eleventh sun.
So the song changes again. Just add some reds and whites and this whole countryside gets a fever. Have you noticed how lucky we are? Beneath the faux lintel of the road that meets the road that softly cuts the sixth highway in two, lies a large green ornament. And if you bring your eyes to stab beyond it, lays the influx of electric. The modern architect builds tubes of steel, so eclectic, a testament to the beauty of this greater city area. And above us all lies a sweet halo of grey, and when birds fall down they grace the rolling brown hills with a kiss and a smile. At two hundred and forty miles per hour. Through the halo, that christens us in the city of god, we will learn, we will love, we will work. We will cover the earth. I can only hope we choke on it.
I can see it now as fully cooked cows graze on invisible greenery in the hungry man’s favorite carbonated boxes. With words like “grand” and ‘overhaul” pasted along oak fire department buildings we try devouring yellow scalding slices, of equality and biscuit eyes, which seem to linger in rough pink hills in the back of throats. All these esophagus landmines. All these needs for gasoline and too few rainbows among salt holes. I want to venture to the unholy red pipeline and the Gaza and to where brown-faced huskers rub corn syrup into their hands for moisture, whereas the atmosphere lacks smiling hydrogen and oxygen compounds. You want apple pie, sir – it’s in your cheeks.
Rosy as they are, I’d rather have baseball and designer blue jeans. I’d rather take my rotting corpse and douse it in Estee Lauder or Max Factor. Maybe it’s flammable, maybe it’s Maybelline, I don’t care though, because the people would pass by and love me. But where distorted guitar intervenes, no mediator is present, and I’ll use a chorus to move on. But or yet so for and nor. My sentence drags along incomplete, to make the Labor Day sale. Where mannequins smile and wave with inviting hands, hand me a catalogue and I’ll eat it. Choke a little, but all in the name of chic. Cause it’s perfect, but something’s still wrong.
His car got keyed last Saturday. I always laugh at him about it, because yeah, you’re too right about those things. Plans wander in our heads like prettily colored maps, tiny stars sparkling the way to our destination, and then there are lines drawing out cloud pictures for those two intersecting rivers and some for highways.
I picked up my flowers from the grocery store this morning. I bought some good coffee as well, well, I’m lying, it tastes just a tad lesser than the acrid flavor of piss, something I haven’t intentionally tasted though. You’re collecting taxes in rows and rows (the song is of influence) – elevators dance like cylinder animals around homo sapiens, to remind us, you know, of how available mailboxes really are. Send me a postcard or go to hell.

I’m reminded of a time in my youth , when my mother left me standing outside the grocery store, I had all this time in my palm, and I watched it as it streamed, like gold, farther away. Into the city streets, I’d perceive the passersby and the passengers, looking back at me, in my youth. And with a smile, I wondered, I would wonder, if I reached my tiny pale fingers far enough, if I could touch the face of god. And if it was smiling too, like the passengers, who wondered akin. But as the days passed by, I saw more and my pupils dilated under the fading sun, and I knew. I knew this was as close as it ever would be. So one day I stopped reaching and it began to reign.

I like chicken a whole lot. LETS GO TO BRAZOS BOOKSTORE.

We could be published there, as soon as we find a ride.

Dirty Bunny Toy

2004-09-08T11:50:00.000-07:00

People laughed when they discovered my doll was actually Jim's.

Jessica is melodramatic - ("Waterside chicks" go to private school supposedly - Samantha tells Dave and Kenney and me things). She was jealous today because while we were taking pictures in the gym; she thought me and him were a couple, so she says "Heh. Look at him and his girlfriend," which is funny. Haha. I'm not the only one that dislikes her. At lunch she kept giving me glares.

Oh yeah. I decided to get this phone for Christmas (along with THAT ONE CUTE cell phone charm if I decide not to use the chinese fan):

In January, if I still haven't obtained a job, I'm hoping my parents will just give me money for that trip to Miami over Spring Break.

--------

Number 28 is a figure of speech. I don't enclose the period. It does not serve much added purpose to the slow, ice-skate curve of 8, or its soft to a point partner, we can participate in casualty camp if you disagree. Guess - I do need abundance. If a plump salmon is caught it is only proper to shave off the scales, gently up and back, til silvery shards dangle to the floor, unearthing cold pink muscle that bleeds with raw severity, moisture, and leftover caviar. I want to dissolve precious fish on my tognue and chew it up, oil spreading to all sides. Like some fabulous mercury.

pique

2004-09-07T12:11:00.000-07:00

Such irony, that an ant found its way onto my lustful undeserving thigh. So very deserving of its red injection, an ass that is a syringe, a molecule of poison in some sacrilegious mound of skin – gentle slope with all separate degrees in wooden tongue and printed out, glazed-text papers, and they scatter so delicately like tissue on the tile as he whimpers. His friend is the toilet seat; but today it is folded down, facing the septic water. A tub’s curtain becomes clamped by engorged fingers. A cyan wad betwixt tasteless nubs. Permanent watering but too hot and you think of the more professional fishermen. We are good at our self-games. We take pride in signing over thoughts, sealed in know-all exchange of eyes past chairs and children, and in the navy plastic chairs – we do not even think of the spring bird we can manifest in the fall. Do you take the late September walk? Are you that desperate to leap from the bridge, into yellow narrow cracked rock, stars streaming in wide silver strokes like linear lightning bolts – am I using too much alliteration? Would you prefer me to spell out the syllable and put good emphasis on parts you can only hope to sleep on? I know.
We went to terminal E-3, a Jansport backpack slung over a shoulder – Jones’ Blue Cherry soda pop bottles and Doral matchsticks, hollow floor, hissing middles, wonder-less brand-less escalators and a Ford Escort full of metallic noise and here, they are the last ones off the flight.

Red Light, Extreme Angles

2004-09-05T00:11:00.000-07:00

With Red Eyes and Tears on the concrete and in my ears. Blaring. Didn't feel me walk through paint splattered garage. Mechanical entrance into risky black truck.

Irony, he mouthed. Distant chuckle.

Head up High = new love without a memory yet.

BUY ME THESE

2004-09-04T07:42:00.000-07:00

Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, Commander Venus, and Desaparecidos.

Sony Ericsson T610.

Mmm, dilluted orange soda

2004-09-04T06:14:00.000-07:00

Apologies. I've been up the ass with business these past few days.

STUFF IN PARTICULAR ORDER:

On Wednesday I bought the wedding dress, along with a grey blazer. *buttons up other events*

I also stopped by Pips' house yesterday with Kim and Christine, and I was there for a little while witnessing the creation of our lab report (physics). I was more fascinated by their cute ass cell phones and how pretty and clean the house was, along with how organized they were. They are cute people too.

Eventually got home and ate some Church's. Practiced on the guitar a little bit as well. My mom and sisters left to the airport (Seattle trip...sigh, wish I could go again...) with the CAMERA I wanted to use this weekend. Growl.

Then Louis took me to Omar's with our drums in the back seat. It felt weird to me. The first time I was alone with my brother in his car. Yes, I know, not exactly a milestone.

But it's something.

Greg and Fred and Chris came as well; they set up amps and shit in the garage, and I played Take the Bit Between The Teeth, some of Orestes, Lover I don't have to love, and various chords I manifested into song. Omar didn't collaborate with me.

That's understandable though, it isn't my band, and I was basically purposeless. I turned the volume to zero and just strummed tastelessly, then finally gave up (well, third time) and slept on his bed. I wasted three hoursish. But the sleep was good. And you don't have to apologize because I know where you're coming from.

Around 10:30, Louis said to me, "Lina, it's time to go." I swirled around with sleep taste in my mouth and it was the deepest slumber I'd had in a while. Probably the feeling of being sedated, which I'll have to experience when I get my wisdom teeth out this month. Probably the feeling of half-dying - which isn't the same as being injected with drugs; or is it?

Ahh, but now it's all good. Still fairly busy. Let's list it out:

Today:
Call Jim (in an hour)
Read Scarlet Letter, chapters 5-12
English book questions (check planner)
English tone paragraph
Physics homework

Tomorrow:
Visit grandma's property in Giddings

Monday: (woo labor day)
Go to Meena's house for English extra credit project.

Yes.

Bad Title

2004-09-02T12:12:00.000-07:00

paper mill fire in pasadena, how tragic
whataburger jelly packets lacking counterpart, part of plastic,
1/4 proctor & gamble chemical, and i sit here in my jeans
with tears in strategic places
skeleton shackled to stop sign. brazilian coffee brewing in rude
cups, with a special name like kenny only "kenney" - he's got jazz
i'll dig up potatoes tonight
learned vegetable oil cookery. smart buttons pressed for the milk man.
nervous tickled pink in that pocket called cheek.
shiny words - "sakasama no niji" = a theme no one ever understood
delectablly aged women who wear the real pearls can cough up
blue eyes
not blue, too common, selection quarantined,
hazard - gas mask; perfect nano tech
now depo-provera makes people happy
i didn't know its use until the news report
calmly turn off the mp3.
and have a sip of that drink, feel a laugh churning in your lungs
ha,
orgy - blue monday
like grandmotherly sets of eyes focused on birth and death.
or funny incidents like arsen committed on buildings,
or a face as cute as a mountain is tall, plus that unexpected e.

Tractor hum sounds like honey

2004-08-31T12:03:00.000-07:00

And I’d mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat…is a satisfied lap.

I could ease on four-color switches. Or amp up the purple florescence, the radiation flashing red among other letters. The light has fixated on a poor babe’s visage, whose clear eyes are spinning unreal images in ceiling strips of a buffalo herd, coruscating aqua, dancing spider trees and kitchen-utensils amidst a mossy, dented baseball fence. This all dwindles before a curtsey. I spin my hips in a polka-dotted skirt, so soft against a thigh, I am laying under the power line machinery; your hand is softer and softer than the grass while the sky turns up more and more, as the moon settles in for dinner with a tree for a fork. A pink comforter embraces all these colors and beings. Yet we find refuge in the ant hills. Yet you need a sharp pen to carve Elle a chaud le cul, or something fancy-French that means She’s hot in the pants. Can you play Bright Eyes? I learned the 14, 12, and 13, up and slide, sidelines wash with sensitive fingertips.

My mouth is dry; I have no words.
I am nothing but a swindled maiden with no bunk or drink. I am wandering and useless.
And if I am a stolen bundle of goods, should I not have purpose?
Should the supply of your diet soda diminish?
My dream isn’t full yet. My rain hasn’t soiled our whites.
I’ve got my foot caught under yellow cord, babe. I can’t pursue this sweet lemonade trampoline-game, though I would like to win and drench sugar allover the porcelain bottom of my cup. I deserve to sip on something less acrid. Yet the reality is, I chose the luxury of hard liquor, I needed to pat some on the cheeks and feel the desolation burning in throat and cerebrum. At times it rocked the world to sleep. And occasionally I slept with the world; the drink tucked me in, pulled covers on my pathetic body, leaving all the appropriate wrinkles and crevices – the kind you liked to tug straight.
As I trample checkered linoleum in my rain boots, waiting for it, waiting for the weather to favor me and we, I put on a khaki pretty-coat, whence I attempt hell. As I walk I cut out dollies in special embroidered paper. I set them in vases; nice simple ones. We notice over the years how dense the collection has grown.
The bottle I keep in my pocket says faintly in print: “No refill.” And who likes to be limited?
It’s right there for me to grab. I can almost taste it, because I can easily screw off the cap and indulge myself.
I could ride off to Rio or Ibiza or Guam, or Morocco, or a lengthy-named city in India. I could pack my big heavy bags and saddle up, pilgrim, with my hot pink $3.40 flip-flops, my cardigan sweater, my vinyl cherry red paint box, my boxes of words, my travel candles and Proactiv and teen spirit and Truck jeans and the special hoodie you gave me and all the supply of pink napkins one would ever need. I could.
And we could shred up coated bills of reform. We could not conform.

We could dance like the light of sequins upon mirrors.

Zum Wedding Dress

2004-08-30T18:21:00.000-07:00

So I stopped by Twice Blessed today. I purchased the most snazzy red ballet flats for THREE WHOLE DOLLARS! (plus twenty five cents.) And I found a few other things that I am getting tomorrow after school (and after art club >.> need my hours to get inducted into NAHS POSSIBLY). I also dug up a Pope John Paul II pin, and, ha, Omar is wearing it lavishly and proudly on the SWEET CRASHED BREAST of his new blazer =D

Things that we wanted to capture but didn't for lack of camera:

Sequin lightplay

French Zum wedding dress for $20

Antique chair in the corner.

Yet, I am buying that oddly hued mint green blazer and the cuff-sleeved hot pink one that stops at my forearm, and the ultimate, beautiful wedding dress... which I'll wear to Homecoming.

We also headed into Big Daddy's bbq. It's a 70's-esq restaurant, with the word Jesus written on a paper towel dispenser, and dead head sihlouettes on the ceiling vents and a Goldie Hawn poster and vintage music and a bubblegum machine that dispenses a few rare clear balls containing one or five dollar bills; many Rolling Stones and Beatles posters and cool emerald bar stools for the tables and turquoise-and-white checkered linoleum.

And an hour and a half later, after being dropped back home, I went to P.F. Chang's again and talked to the manager about a server assistant position (the one Kenney recommended), and I am going to be called for an interview. Some dude there said bye to me; he looked at me when I visited Sunday, meaning I'm hot stuff and I'll get lots of tips!!!!!

Yes.

She and the jews, brother. So hip.

Old Lace and Roses Tea Room

2004-08-28T12:48:00.000-07:00

[my room is clean and dark and my star curtain is ruffling at the vibration of the rain.]

i miss my grandmother's house. it was always just like that.

dark, smelling of mothballs, and dry, and soft allover. even the stair. the carpet was thick and brown and it would creak in select spots. the studio room had yellow curtains with small windows, and there were precise tools for scraping clay. a tall white manequin, naked, stood there beside the collages of the peanuts gang, winnie the pooh, and a scary animate TV with eyes. man, were those walls scary.

the whole place was infested with interesting things. all vintage. and there is a frightening toy from germany that makes this whirring nightmarish noise. it's a spin top that lights up and does awful whirring.

i never realized how much i have always wanted to capture the essence of that house. the piano room is most memorable though.

you said it "seems like a perfect vintage setting for a movie".

now i just recall more.

yellow green shiny velvet wallpaper. two glass cases in the corners with miniatures and dinnerware from across the globe and other travels. a dying piano where most of its fellow limbs have been amputated - keys that don't work and keys that half-work. thin crepe-like curtains covering a tall window where i can see the cracked, long driveway.

and a christmas tree. that never leaves, in the living room. the couch in there is surrounded by photos of me and weddings and us as babies. old portraits of french parents from the 1800s. that couch is the same as the wallpaper on all four squares of the piano room. some refuge it is.

i know how we'd run through the french doors in the kitchen and through the ones extending the office to our favorite place, and we'd jab at the piano; we'd gaze into the golden mirror right when we entered, we'd hear stories about how so-and-so survived the depression during the old war by living in a dainty apartment with white shutters and not buy sugar and only have a small supply of unwanted groceries.

we used to venture there for long hours, exchanging cheese cake and the latest irregular bowl glazed with marbles from art class. i liked the word "bake". and we'd run around and dig through medicine cabinets, and take looks at gradma's jewerly now and then. she always smelled of chantilly and cert's. she'd give us mints from her dusty wallet often. it was one of those beaded coin purses that you snapped shut with two interchanging pearls.

within all the reminicing, while i was on the phone on my back porch, i found myself digging a little river in the grooves of the cement with a broken match stick, the red-tipped end. and i recalled how i used to dig rivers in my garden with shovels and pour water in them, have a tea party in cardboard boxes and bring toys along.

every little kid wants to be God.

Note fetish massacre

2004-08-27T12:16:00.000-07:00

At least they aren’t green.
My Russian brother eats that color on Holiday mornings.
If his name is Ivan, he is electric.
An architect once told me, “It’s not about building.”
My mother once told me, “it’s all about sex.”
We’re here now, it must be
If only we knew where to go next…
I hate it when I get pen against my pinkie.
Like when it slips? When I use pen I always end up with marks on my hand.
An ode to the umbra, or the satellites that pierce us. You and I. Thirty lines become an epic. Inhaled behind shelter and confidence. Oh confidant, so electric, among the eclectic parades that leave me under your influence. Down there where the tractor hum sounds like honey and I’d like to keep you near to heart. I fear for us, but rush in. I only aspire to give and take. And I’ll supply you enough diet coke to make our dreams true. Much love to be returned, NAME.
SERVE THE BEEF
YER BREAKIN UP THE BAND, YOKO
MUCH LOVE.
We’ll be named The Beefs
But the question is how will one make them?
I haven’t said “I love you” in days. I haven’t kissed him in days, but today he made me. On the cheek. Took two minutes but I did. He stares a lot. At girls. I helped Azn open his locker. He talks odd and quiet because he is from Louisiana.
Talk about meter. See spot. See spot run. Which one? Impartial. Fill in the blanks.
Birds has potential while strolling down an industrial lane. I make sycophant studies bow down to me, their skeletons like loud crickets in the blades. An atmosphere so parallel and against the black and white – we kick the cat out, and go back to plastic swing and in-between moon turn. Unlike 360º. Tell me more.
I’d love to again and again. About and about. You make me weak at the knees spinning behind us. To be so, eclectic would be a dream. It would be intensity. To swing and turn together, last night I had a dream.
I imagine lightly detailed paragraphs mingling with cinnamon cymbals, and our flawed perfect stance would shimmer like raisins under sickly sweet processing plant. I’d eat your hair if you didn’t mind.
This I would love, as I am under the influence of your words and undue spirits. I want our hair to intertwine as I turn to you for inebriation. Skin to be glass. Tongues of gold. We’re chained. You and I, to stain white rooms, and it will be more like a song.
And I’ll mow lawns for minimum wage to pay for visits to Dimebox, our movies unfolding poetically, where rooms are no more but glossy centerfolds, where your mother is correct, where snow is a bodily fluid and a petticoat… is a satisfied lap.
Where we’d sleep through the winter on black sheets, and we’d never take photographs cause we know what we’ve done and where we’ve been, and on the docks I’d work the night shift so the mornings were ours, and we’d never sleep, but I’d wake up to a morning star. And the sun. And I’d write my sad poems about someone far away, but with the money I’d make I’ll cover you. We’ll buy a boat and learn to fight the sea to an island in the sun, where the crabs eat men, there…
Odd shapes out of simple lineage – speechless speech teachers, lost voice drunk on turpentine – canvas letters cause all the paper is used and we’d rather paint tonight anyway.
Here is where I make my day from paper, as “Gypsy Death & You” never stops. Never stops. Last night, in my dream we held hands in a white corridor, lit by the wall’s hue, we came to a white room and sat. There, we stared out a wall, which was a window. Beyond it a blue sky and the sun. That was all. And I woke with a smile, restless. Tell me more. Tell me straight.
My words are lacking, they are foreign and tasteless and nonexistent noms. I’d like to pursue walls.

What music do you listen to?
Do you like politics?
Who are you going to vote for president?
One of the wolves’ sisters. Ah, crap.
You’re about to waste a minute of your time.
Beep means yell!
She and the Jews
PETTICATZ+++++++++11oneexclamationpoint!2twototootout

All the pretty words

2004-08-23T15:24:00.000-07:00

All the things we wanted to use in song and poem.

Thanksgiving in the institute
I'm going to buy a car from an open-air dealership at the left of highway 6
Skeleton
Le stage de wtf

Ridiculously enough, I can't recall the rest.

Sombra

2004-08-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

A lack of redemption causes the stalk of bridges to welcome me, in their ancient muddy hands, browned by cholera and the many stains that come with time. I never imagined venturing past it, much less existing, like an unspoken tabula rasa (the things I find within small, drilled heads). You said I started to speak like him today. You also called me a fluid Dadaist art form; in every movement a concept was born; some non-Christian theology, an inspiration to those who couldn’t think more than what has been on the spoons. I shivered as I dipped that silver circle into red jelly this recent past. It’s been hard containing such a soft tab of a secret, a secret only because I choose to use a metaphorical term; though it’s more of a righteous plea from the bedpost, but then again, I have many pleas. And that doesn’t make the next child an excuse. He fits, although crowded where the elbows bend like a diseased spine, into a place I’ve not room for.

We can ring out towels all morning if you want, baby. All these dried jackets surround me in a whirl of good weather – and soon, le mer de noms arrive, right, swimming at an extreme angle along the rusty strips of front doors. And roof dormers will crinkle in the middle from the dripping of these noms, making it wet, raggedy, dirtily washed…all for good reason. Good weather. Oh how my sombra collects against pasted texture. I hardly move a pen towards your point. Because, messieur, you see these beads and phrases on a neon fiber-optic string; one that's thick for you.

But by no means, sir, will my candy-wrapper museum be transposed.

Colonel = Jesus

2004-08-20T11:14:00.000-07:00

Another ingenius canvas idea of mine. P.S. - Pages 4-23 of chapter 1 in the US History book have much sexual connotation. Erected was used three times, and there are things like "pregnate with destiny", "virgin rivers", "The European appetite for slaves was further whetted when..."

OMG. But here's the great collassal idea.

--------------

You see, I manifested the phrase "crucifried chicken" (I'm the God of Winos in psychology class), and yesterday morning I got thinkin'. Man, that could actually be a very controversial drawing. So I added some more emphasis and came up with this.

A chicken, barren and naked and oblivious to society, has been stapled to a cross, bloodied and disembodied in ways. This is the ultimate focus, aimed more to the left. Then, high above you'll see a mass of clouds where the face of the KFC colonel (with a few obvious features of Jesus) smiles upon the scene. To the very right is a small image of a corner store window, where within is a piece of Crucifried-Chicken rotating in a mini-oven - $0.79 per wing - and a man is standing out front, cupping his chin in contemplation.

Oh, yes.

I am so doing that.

WHORE!

[and, no, you pass the torch.]

Propped-up mirror

2004-08-20T11:08:00.000-07:00

still the puncture-stick drills an invisible hole in my buckle. near the pulp i cringe. scrape, scrape, mango aftertaste so sweet and cold can't put your tongue there - river, you say, flood me, i beg. sticking to frozen surface. this woman curls her hair and smooths the wrinkles from her dickie's cocktail dress, ready for a slosh of bloody mary on the lap and a squishy rub-down of liquid, all night, glitter-less garage bands hammering golden cymbals

it's not randy to tie this against the breast so taut; i know, silk black moon with full heels parading our circuits - canned peach behind tropical bones and scientific code names, i am unabridged here and you've coated all these particles with the silicon, microprocessor is complex, we must lace words with poison to make impeccable soup

we could get a hammock on a white beach like i mentioned before, where there are little patches of seagrass along the dunes that water bugs snatch at, near jelly fish graveyards... and it'll be evening and we'll just sit there flipping bottlecaps until we're kicked off the beach for obscene ludeness

dried up wings in the hotel, can you smell the microwave? cool a glazed plate in the window, as laundry sails out behind power lines and radio towers, we've had our night of champagne fetish between the filligree limelight - oh yes barstool, that means you. morning is clean and our skin is not. i've been pinned but not to the point of breakage...oh, bride, me.

i want to be the choker with the bell on it, saucy vixen words pouring like morton salt - no butter sunbeams at 2pm, it all fit onto the bread slice, and we speak words like "triste" and "une requiete" and make up dictionaries as we go, ten gallon hat filled with leftover tequila, your lips are gossamer against paper like so many cups of sleeping aid and ink

BAHHH SCRIBBLE

2004-08-15T10:18:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have two essays due on Monday. I finished 'em. You're not allowed to read because they suck - I mean, come on, who wants to write about their "scientific background" as an autobiography, or general philosophical questions like "THE SOUL & IMMORTALITY", especially when lately I have been too accustomed to using a prosey style? Which reminds me. I am leaving in an hour or two for supplies, and I probably will come back pen-happy and binder-happy. Oooh gosh I love school supplies. GRAPH PAPER CALCULATOR *ORGASM*

This year I won't really have time to make a collage on each notebook. Tragedies of life...ahaha...

Oh well.

Go here. I was feeling pretty artsy yesterday afternoon. Thankyas Omar.

Art pieces in the process of creation: (pssh)

Cityscape within decayed eye socket

Non-conformist being shot within straightly suited and uniform crowd

The end sort of

2004-08-13T16:50:00.000-07:00

School is too much. And I haven't even bought supplies yet.

Newest Additions to the Patch

2004-08-09T06:14:00.000-07:00

Electrelane
Iron & Wine
Neutral Milk Hotel
The Waifs

AND I want Maynard James Keenan for breakfast or Christmas, whichever comes first.

GIVE.

Stars & Sons

2004-08-08T13:51:00.000-07:00

Hilarium.

William and Omar are fizzarkin crunk. I was tought how to gamble, I met Pablo/Buddha, the whiny rat-cat who is a boy with a dingdong and knows how to use it, and there was this horrible Michael Jackson movie playing on VH1. He was obviously black. The makeup crew must have just powdered the heritage over because suddenly he morphed into some godforsaken gray race. The majority of the time Diana Ross was like his other half, and he talked about lots of enchanting spiritual and soulful things. It teared us up, it did. And then he said, "A blanket... a blanket of love", and us three poet folk were like, "GODS. TURN IT OFF."

"Then he starts calling things blankets of hate, etc..." AHAHHAHA. RAWR SIGH.

We also figured out his son was named Blanket. What's next? Sheet? Comforter? I make all the sense in the world. Plus chippies. HEHEHE, CHIPPIES. It's physically impossible to blow up balloons. Instead we had chopstick wars with the sticks you use to put the balloons in. You know, coats from the thrift shop give me the love bumps, but they don't fit. "Dating for shy boys". William: "I'm too shy to read it!"

Arguments of poetry upsets gay employees.

Loud words.

RANDOM

BABIES

Bogus, yet loveable, and all the general facts in the world couldn't have twisted this to sense!!

Untitled Ballad

2004-08-05T10:12:00.000-07:00

The snail is becoming the rose again
Sacrifices created out of shoelaces, eyelashes fluttering
like propellers of hair
We rise to the metal-band clean and fragranced propoganda
Make us slippery, fresh from the plastic bag
May I lay down?
Too much, not enough
Bed sheets welcome me into the squared maples
Dream reoccuring, we can't open the book again, sealant put
its foot down.

Keep me closer than a piece of meat in your stomach
I want to develop my own mushroom garden, we'll permit weeds
and junkyard dishwashers
Just for a twist
No lemon salad because that's too outlandish
But pick my teeth just in case.

Yummy

2004-08-02T06:33:00.000-07:00

I heart Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

They should totally go head-to-head against my other new lovers, Broken Social Scene -->

How cute, right? What's even better is, I bought SUPER-CUTE-HOE-AZZ mary jane flats; they're hot pinkk and soo cute!! I also bought a shirt from Delia*s, some black flip-flops, and vintage "torn" jeans. Yesterday Katey mentioned Toot Sweet on her blog - I checked it out; and I lovvve the place! Now I want the tweet-tweet sweat shirt and some earrings. All the good bags are gone. Sniff.

I need a shoulder sling.

------

Later

There is so much that is fabulous in de monde:

Chickfila, the Galleria, photography, Delias, expensive Burberry trench coats, Prada pumps, Brutalism, cubism, freaky poets, nifty art shops and weirdly designed architecture...a giant silver halo tied up in mid-air by power lines... the Water Wall, which is picturesque and refreshing after dense humidity. Stolen Converse shoes. Smile.

I'm in love.

Update: July 31.

2004-07-31T17:59:00.000-07:00

Omar just left to visit a thrift shop with Greg. He promised to buy me a button. Yes, a button. *drools*

But anyway, I've been back from the mall, and I had to eat first (it's a competitor of yours, boyfriend! haha. KFC doesn't kick Popeyes though).

As for clothes I bought a denim pleated mini-skirt (within reasonable length!), a cute tank top that reads "Chester's Bike Shop Rentals - ride all day!", and a green tee with two bowling pins: Pin Pals.

Soon I will be ordering my antique "destroyed" jeans and three other pairs; I have to get it direct online because my size isn't carried in stores. I need like 35'37" inseam and I wear a 3. Some think it a blessing, but my esteem is low, so I really could care less.

Meh. Awaiting a call from Jim...

I wonder if Will-face attempted my number the whole time I was gone?

----

Adieu.

----

P.S. Tomorrow = <3

Buzz Around Town

2004-07-31T13:50:00.000-07:00

today

Me, Louis, Dad, and Ken went out around northwest Houston this afternoon. We crashed at his townhome, criticizing M-I:2, and then went to Fry's; and a small tool supply shop (I found a fuzzy flannel canteen and a mini-horn! Wow!); the new CompUSA (stole a sheet of paper from an attractive employee. He called me a thief); and a cute art & framing place called "Aaron Brothers". I love that strip on Westheimer. I even spotted a Thai restaraunt and "the upper hand", which appeared to be a thrifty book/cafe-type thing. Oooh.

Another thing I noticed was, during the majority of our driving and conversations, I felt inclined to write. Especially when we passed little convienent marts and gunmetal storage buildings - I thought of clever adjectives and simple sentence structure, even whole paragraphs, a page; to make of the scenery. I wished there were a machine to record my thoughts into text. That would be so much easier. Although, the joy of taking the time to write still would be of lust.

Little stuff: Talk of motorcycles, a purchased magic lollipop wand (slapping powers; took pictures as soon as I got home - it's a yellow lemon pie-flavored star! Mary got a tulip since she spent the night), and the word of the day has been "first class". Some discussion of my future, and my financial situation involving it. I'm probably getting a loan. Sigh.

We also ate lunch at Taqueria Arandas (sp?). Over all a nice day. I now have cool flat-panel sneakers for my computer. Woo! I can't believe it; how it's mid-Saturday, and the weekend isn't nearly complete; usually I sit myself at home and do very little.

List of tasks to complete//possible events*:

1) Me, Omar + William = Bollywood horror flick, bw camera shots*
2) Serious job hunting with Rachel
3) Shopping for school clothing
4) Collab with Will
5) Try to spend night at Stephanie's (almost impossible with everything else happening)*
6) Summer reading; maybe a bite of Lilyfoil + 3 and Controlling Interests

generalized past week

Hmm, how to sum up so many events? Lol. Let's try.

Danae woke me up Friday morning with some nasty raspberry candies. Bleh, and her mother forced me to eat a banana. How sweecy and juit is that? Looks like they aren't moving to a posh complex in New York afterall. That's quite reassuring. I've known her too damn long, through three moves and everything.

Convo with Nick. Spent the night at Rachel's as well - finally watched Invader Zim. Many touching moments with my face.

--------------

Time for shoppin'.

Love in a book

2004-07-30T21:48:00.000-07:00

William, there are too many reasons to love you. One being the introduction to this.

My Wicked Wicked Ways: Sandra Cisneros

Misfits

2004-07-30T16:50:00.000-07:00

He never cried in front of me before. Nor did his eyes bulge in anticipation, with held-back emotion and all. Today it came out raw and clean, it dripped on my chest and left a translucent patch of moisture on my shirt. The boy made it understood though: "It's not bad."

No, surely not; but the best feeling ever. You could smell pinswirls and your heartbeats would recede, then leap massive leaps like your muscles were springs. I let my fingers linger on my leaf pendant and panted a bit, surprised that my sobs and the heart-shaped music had overwhelmed this body - I opened him. Can I say that? Now that I think on it, yes, that's exactly what I was doing. I was opening his body up. I took the tears into a fist, we strung ourselves on a while to blur out the heat, and eventually he couldn't take it, no - no.

A crystalline bird perched somewhere in the room. Smiles formed out of crackle-paint, and I could feel how skin feels when you cradle a dead person. This isn't like him. It isn't like the world to beat out perfect circles into weary squiggles and to unlatch a swollen, angered beast onto the public. Nobody has that kind of mystic ability or authority. Nobody. But me.

Excruciate

2004-07-29T16:33:00.000-07:00

ah, i burned a hole in my cheek
as saliva edges it i feel its fire

i pour the residue of brick walls,
the smell of carseats, ripped fabric

which is rumpled into a homo sapien;
he makes his fetal position, clamber and rain,

this is all poured into different mouths
fill, splash, gurgle, mix well and salt it with marshes.

jaja on the corner, window flaps are heated and they
make a decomposition of crannies.

though the pedestrians aren't delicious, i can eat.
organ - no belly, full, paroxysm making winding passage.

distort and collect me in color and the sepia
so permitted, behind the first glossy coat of an eye.

it shoals, the tiers seem to break into others, no more
currents; i should thank the dead painter tonight.

Frisk, fret, I may

2004-07-29T14:27:00.000-07:00

This place rocks.

Between a japanese receit and a mint-condition brown sack, lies -

Controlling Interests: Charles Bernstein
Lilyfoil + 3: Elizabeth Treadwell

Don't forget the five cents.

Excerpt - The Crystal Text

2004-07-27T13:16:00.000-07:00

The highlighted section seems to decipher my AIM handle. Funky.

So going around surviving nothing so thinking of you
perfectly slantwise crystal of the middle of my life,
my distance surely kept, enfolded on a slightly
downcast vision. And the world that is not
you, but dangling on, I live by the light
of your density, sharply.

The trumpet says out, so we get up.
I do it, my nights my days, my heart thrumming
in shortening prison, a prism, master of rays
and lefthanded as I am not. Yet.

The world is a baffle that shows through to
you, everywhere. Almost, and pieces of banana
left in nearly empty refrigerator. But for them,
for me the world dials sink, in daily drink
and some respite. Solace is not general.
A joke is not less than what it names
and the crystal at the rim sits on my table,
perfect to the letter, one never sent, or kept either.

Crystal not survivable, but will remain me.
It lives in the sun-tipped palace of my regard,
until. One could place no period after it.
That I will change it, my challenge.
Its challenge, purefoot power of no regard.
In back of the house the washing lines up
with the sun disc, one cold day a life.

But does the light grow yellower in the crystals as I stare
harder, or has it been there as initial stain?
And now that I write this the flavor of its shards
glows again in ice-white.
Do you want to know something?
How? Interest in structure only in terms that a
language exists. Exists and or language,
entrances and exits. The words you have
lift from telling you going on exactly wherein.
The words continue, to reconsider the echo.
And the ersatz follower, you.
He signified that there was always something out there,
always also not in here. With them, all time,
all things, voices saying it and saying again it does,
it has, it will. It has will, said so once,
says so more and further, it was merely wanted
and never appears. So. Lone follower of you.

The brick wall, the grey kiln. The rose and the
specialty letters. You'll never know it green as
its width would. Started again, and then loss
of memory, stop. Entrance to the focal, the vocal fold
blocked. Continue anyway as does a pocket
redness and intermittent speech. The one beside you,
no one beside you, has the language.

To say the snow is all of my mind
to say the trees interruptions
to say the window keeps me
and to keep saying lies
as the base of time.

Colder tonight, cold as full tightness, you're brilliant
with glance, with hold, pact of death with detail,
detail with drink, you leave the emptiness
of all else air with silvered me, headful draught.

I saw you that
you that would not meet me
slantways in the slow
burn of time, close of cold
fronds of air that sew
thoughts needless, beck of pen
to sorts of light that clasp
you are that baffled star that hides not
slips through the palms' tongues, slivers
and reigns
and I whistle the word no longer
your name

A Poet's Groceries

2004-07-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

I want:

Ring of Fire: Lisa Jarnot
Stories in the Worst Way: Gary Lutz
The Crystal Text: Clark Coolidge
paces in the light said to be where one / comes from: Stephen Ratcliffe
Origami Bridges: Diane Ackerman
The Midnight Disease: The Drive to Write, Writer's Block, and the Creative Brain: Alice W. Flaherty
Birds of America: Lorrie Moore
How to Be An Other Woman: Lorrie Moore
Go Like This: Lorrie Moore
Life of Pi: Yann Martel
Insomnia Diary: Bob Hicok
A Carnage in the Love Trees: Richard Greenfield
The Sleep that Changed everything: Lee Ann Brown
Sugar Pill: Drew Gardner
Apprehend: Elizabeth Robinson
Syrup: Maxx Berry
The Contortionist's Handbook: Craig Clevenger
Diary: A Novel: Chuck Palahniuk

i accept the small fluff of bread

browned in the center

i lick sugar from my thumb, it

glistens a silvered hue of skin

feet passing a table, the paper is kept so well

a keyboard finds catharsis from

sticky plastic.

The Garden State

2004-07-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

You just don't understand.

Natalie Portman as a lead role & Frou Frou singing the theme?

I'm going to die.

Book List

2004-07-26T21:01:00.000-07:00

I bought some books today. Here are the few articles of literature as of now that are to be read:

All Quiet on the Western Front: Erich Maria Remarque
A Street Car Named Desire: Tennessee Williams*
Farewell To Arms: Ernest Hemingway*
Pride & Prejudice: Jane Austen
Wuthering Heights: Emily Bronte
The Good German: Joseph Kanon*

* = newly purchased

Heavy sigh

2004-07-25T21:13:00.000-07:00

The downfall of expressionalism is when others are offended by your pieces. It's not necessarily misinterpretation, it's just how they play the words in their head, they create the atmosphere themselves. You can't see color if you're a dog. Meaning, everyone has their own personal view of the world, and I can't alter it nor will I desire to; that isn't my intention.

Writing is pretty controversial, and there are so many forms of it - Dada is nonsensical jibberish, which I happen to adore, and then there are things that involve no expression. I'd use persuasion if I wanted to get a point across. Sometimes you just write and only write the non-fiction, the happenings, and you may not cross the emotion aspect. Sometimes it's phrases on your tongue you've been wanting to get out.

And Rachel, again. I truly apologize for offending you. It didn't have meaning, it didn't lean to one side or the other, but it's fine. I understand.

And so the book opened

2004-07-25T12:30:00.000-07:00

I'm crossing street corners, and I'm crossing passersby, and mentally concrete dreams melt in skulls as I wash away from the hard top, and a drunken man stumbles in the lush black night's sidewalk with a beer hat clasped over his head. There are ghosts having sex on my wall and I pry the words from a bleeding socket. I can't see everything, but this is enough, this is enough to make each rain drop turn to an ambulance. It's raining help outside. No longer will you see ads portraying their detergent as spring fresh, no, but aid-fresh. Keeping it together may just save you. Putting it to paper may conquer the messiah.