try and love

'try'

try and drink
her eyes in deep
try & be present
before you sleep

try and walk
through times of trouble
try to unite
when you see double

try to let go
of your attachment
then hold her dear
when she is near

reach for sky
try try try!
do your chore
to reach your core

rise above
degrade & derision
watch cream in coffee...
cloudy collision

try and wonder
as best you are able
try and be seated
at every table

try and hold
your inhalation
from endless trees
that span the nation

just try my dear
and you will find
she comes to you
the tried & true

white noyz

If you let your contemplation soak into it, yes, if you just numb your mind and focus on your breath and stare as vacant as your eyes can (diverse endless thoughts strung along and diverted down the windpipe like the switching of trains from track to track unnoticed) yes, eyes clear as light or the edge of the earth, trained on that safe and warm salt and pepper sea of light, yes, the kind Carol Anne once got sucked into, a mid-tone gray portal disguised in black and white sparks darting back and forth and acting like the two dimensional facade of the three dimensional lightbox of an earlier depressive rabbit eared era, yes, here in this mound of freshly abandoned terra somewhere up in new mexico after the colorado river gave its final salty teardrop and can give no more, yes, where future cancels out past and creates a fucking platinum rich moment in time to feed on, the populace mainly gone now, yes, forced to crank the sound out hitches decades uncranked, yes, the women gathering up the children and making the previously unmoved dust collecting reality of their lives move, yes, the men forced to rise up at the deadened hour (sacrilege) to lay their bellies over their work in front of them, or simply to move in the movement swirling up around them and sourced from the silent wail of survival to hook these common frequent trailers up to anything that moves, yes, so to search their dusty heads for some oasis to satisfy their wives and this ancient horrible thirst they never knew they had, no, having never went without water before, no, maybe just now accustomed to taking credit to pay off fines inflicted by going over the undesired efforts of the state to ration, maybe, simply abiding by a common western passive aggresion, maybe how less than grateful never satisfied folks do sometimes, maybe to assert without saying nothing 'you dont exist if i damn well dont choose to see you existing' of course this was never said, no, and chance now have it they all gone these ones, fled in fear or greed maybe, moved only by the threat of discomfort and the ever rising wave of inconvenience maybe, and as the story went, left is you sitting there cross legged with yourself and maybe all the feral (and some of the domesticated fixed) cats left behind or chose to stay or just not to follow or else were simply sleeping through the drama unfolding, well (you are left) and if you, yes, you, leftover in the wake of all them undesirables anyway, if you do sit and stare blankly at the tv screens they left behind, letting yourself get pulled by undertow of light into the sea of salt and pepper shake shake shake...... well, then and only then, yes, then, there in all the deadly beautiful silence and lifelessness of the scene, you know, you have finally found yourself some fucking peace on earth. maybe. meow!

the END>

post. sparks that did not ignite -- maybe some laughs. maybe not.
within a few states of new mexico and grace, Utah was otherwise completely forgotten. yes.
check self before wreck self kind of philosophy permeated the starched shirts. stop. all who worshipped the starched shirts. stop. with extra starch in these trying times. stop. order 100 gallons of liquid starch. override water delivery in favor of starch. stop. starch in lieu of water. stop. so to create a halo effect of white light to further blind and astonish the simple masses sandwhiched between mountains and dry beds of formerly life giving, life taking waters. which were not ordered anyway. stop. to our own misfortune. stop. like some religious sacrifice gone bad. starched shirts plot out reverse course back to some hoped for water source. canteens made from an average female spinal jello mould. stop. strapped to the backs of the many of many of many wives who fell out of recent favor. stop. she and she and she would not go down on him when he asked without saying. stop. all would be and was subsequently held against the prude ones. stop. the average of whom was forced into the jello mould. in the designation of responsibilities portion of the planning portion of the hopeless odyssey dropped on to them in channeling fashion through super starched shirts of the inner sanctum. stop. say that again because its big: inner sanctum. use caps. INNER SANCTUM. a damn near giant eggshell pregnant with the generosity of bleach byproduct, the life giving life taking chemical bath all current and past (and future if the preservatives keep it!) supreme leaders baptized in. stop. water was never enough and could be polluted. and lacked color and flavor anyway. and chemicals. stop. Bleached supreme chemical wet brains. stop. need we say more. all work and no play kind of crazy. all catharsis at first. frothing at the mouth spinning in space kind of experience. on goes the tragic comedy. the spirit pulls out of them in a fast and furious wave, yes, something of that nature, like cheering because they made all the folks different than them feel kinda sad and worked over by some illegitimate adulterous legislation brought forth by a hundred thousand wives with ample time and energy past wrapping the shared megalomaniac in starched kisses, to create a thinktank with no heart, thoughts but no feeling, a tragic bottoming out with no apparent ceiling. postlude end. purr.

im im-mortal when im im-with u

aint it true! pj harvey speaking volumes. yes i have suffered. they look at me and they laugh. you cant have suffered. you pretty white blonde girl. you daughter of the AR! colonist of the revolution. colonist of the native solution. white devil convolution. ooh! it hurts sometimes walkin around with all this second class privilege! ooh it hurts sometimes when you gotta suffer in bed troublin to breathe troublin to see the mortality in the mirror. oohh when you pray to the porcelain goddess you wonder why? is this really happening? feeling like a teenager or whenever the first time they fed you pabst to the point of no return, throwin the empties in the granite fireplace your dad built with his dad, dead strong in the new hampshire winters, evergreen sheen, snow shine, fine glean, seldom scene seldom seen but where they live free or die. ooh, gettin high on the sly. third try. cry when you come down and lie down when you let go. hit the fret and express ya soul. try as you may, lie into the sunrisen day. play play play! one life to live, but many within. microcosmic son full of macrocosmic sin. a pint of gin all do you in. pray again to the beat of your heart, true. sad sometimes and fully shade of permanent blue cast over you.

mellow mood meets memorial day, hell hangs loose (in nefarious atheist shakedown biblical circles or pentagrams for effect)

Was i seeing a porcupine in oakland, hiding behind the Paramount theatre sentries in their two dimensional gold flake glory yet in shade or summer fog just waitin on the good sun? or was it simply deer grass spiking up out of the weathered stone? i looked around me and remembered the old man i passed stepping out and up the Bart tunnel 19th street free sweet rhythm of rollin cars and scufflin feet, dropped back in on him with the two dolllar remnants of my train pass to offer up in lieu of cash. then coming back with a smile on my face by the old man i just met talking to me sweetly with a slow accelerating survived the streets kind of knowing like he had, yet a full set of teeth crisp and white like paper origami button mushroom stalks when he talks. the egyptian couple looks down upon us, i like to believe, ascending mine eyes to theirs up the flowery robes full of their people the egyptian tinged people of oakland.

call the eyes, and raise you a lash

i wake in the certainty of another predawn sabbath... my heart aligned with the philly from the far post. i wake in the certainty of alexandra! all i am is another fresh young urban American girl doing damage in the midst of global warming. dont even know i am disturbing sometimes. cannot hold myself back. would not. upsetting the closet cases who have shuttered themselves safely away from the world. poor cloistered animals! apparently i hurricane their world. just walking through it with my gang and my attitude sometimes. wild. i guess i scare them. In the calm of my eye, their quivering lips show fangs and drop curses around my pretty little head. i fall back in my diva blues and my hands fall naturally to my hips in support of my decidedly colorful way of giving myself to the world (what i always presume to be harmless and requisite). but i am a sensitive girl and the cold chill of air stirs up all my little feelings. and my heart she gotta pause to feel her way through this whats left of the patriarchy asserting itself in America. makes me self righteous, which i cannot do nothing with. so i let that one go into my posture maybe a little, but thats the extent of it. then after pause-- i get sad, just sad to be misunderstood again. cause i mean no harm. like you i wake in the simple certainty of self, to bless the world today and give her my all! not to get in the way.... yet i get in the way anyway! just walking in my hood and here comes some drunken beard swoopin in so close i can smell salt and beer and the entirety of alpha male ass. what inspired his sharing of intimacies? all i do is frame the sun in between my soft little hands and claim solaris! i am the philly efforting to shine, is all. i am not the kind of girl to roll my tanktop up between my fingers and go convertible just to summon sex appeal and then leave you all craving, no! i am not intentionally cruel. i know when my blonde sheen is overexposed and become painful to your eyes. i know my place in this tired moment in time. the old boys club still has us kneeling with our wrists bolled over thinking have mercy. there is only so much freedom there. freedom to be the fair and vulnerable. i can present pretty nice, let my highlights shock them some. only to stand out a little! to make it a little less tired, a little more worth checking out! by no means am i rooted in bleach blazing around town in my wide and open eyes. i am too lost for that, vulnerable with heartache and anti-competitive anti-trust aura in my era. and i will defend myself. and i have captured the hearts of true gentlemen who defend me when i cannot. and i do ascertain and promote the wild nature in us all...i aint nobodys fucking slave! i offer you compassion towards us. we need it bad! we do. keep a stake in the game. when you put your finger under my chin i will be ready for you. ready for you to call my eyes, boy. and i raise you a lash. cause goddamn all we got is this game right now! i need you to please pull out all your charm and gentility to anchor me. then you get my love and loyalty. i walk beside you, through it. then we get to work together to make it real. out of the abstract and into some long remembered unison. like the dead at shoreline sharing women sharing wine. like the philly at preakness. like the rhythm escapes us sometime. got to recalibrate the equilibrium. i will clasp you with painted nails. you will take your steeltoe boot to the earth. declare our love in a rough circle in the dirt and not worry. its okay. just lay your coats down. lay down your arms. stand in the circle. in our divination. touching spirits. feeling it!

boy (hopes to) meet girl. to see the difference.

the heat and humidity dissipated off her aura as she walked. life got a little cooler. she came headlong out of the past leaving a fiery trail of resentments in her wake. her locks were red at the ends. this was the only clue towards where she had been.
he followed her. followed her red locks falling into spirals around her face. this was not where he was to go, really, but something about her called to him and he followed. ditching his plans was not an uncommon experience for him. this is why they would ultimately look to him for wisdom. they just did not yet understand him, nobody.
she was not of academic persuasion, you could tell by the way she walked. she taught a pole dancing class at the local gym. she did not learn herself to pole dance in a classroom. unless you call a strip club a classroom.
he was existentialized, intellectualized, atheist, laser sharp. he knew one too many computer languages and kept them to himself. he engineered dramas like alzheimers patients work crossword puzzles. for survival. the most recent drama was an ex-girlfriend who still burned in his memory. he told everyone who cared to listen about it. she stole his music and made it her own. she dumped him. and there was no intellectual way of breaking any of it down.
He followed her and her aura dropping heat and humidity (like a trail for him) because he was so stuck and still in love, and she looked like someone who might untie his shoelaces for him so he could take off the old dramas, discard them and move on quite lighter.
only a pole dancer who learned poles that only swung the pretty young ladies who only came for a job because they werent qualified or interested in any other preoccupation, only this kind of genuine article could help him out of the mess of his mind.
or so he thought as he followed her trails.
meanwhile she was thinking fondly of her students and of herself and paying little to no attention to the footsteps behind her. she even laughed out loud when she contemplated Nancy turn at the pole, which had the unfortunate outcome of her being half naked in class, whereby the audience held silent in natural opposition to the men she knew behind those red locks who drank whiskey rocks in the dark of every club every day, tipping the bartender alternately with grubby handed g-string improprieties of touch.
yet all the same glassy eyed reveries of forefingers behind g-string flapping dollar bills. lots of dirt in this good, clean supposed fun. for some it was the only light they found in that dark place, worlds long since crashed down. alcoholics at late stages. recently released from prison cages. home lives consumed in fiery rages. regrets one forgets.
he knew he was chasing this in her, too. he knew she had been there. maybe it was the way she walked with a certain kind of confident resignation. maybe it was the little gems he picked up left behind by her aura. he saw her through the waves and non-waves of her physics. he thought his expectations were harmless.
he had alot to learn from her. if he ever met her.

mundane comedie. zero #1

you and i were so good like semisweet chocolate melting on the pavement, discarded from some easter egg hunt gone cold. the memories, oh the memories. outrageous! like the time i got kidnapped and you rescued me from that trailer trash on a meth binge. oh wait. that was csi-miami, any episode. i never enjoyed getting drunk every night watching the lightbox as much as with you. i can even say i love you without really meaning it, and still feel good about myself and you. hey, neither of us got hurt! safe in our semisweet halfway house romance. you made it safe. i struggle to say that about all those times i really fell in love. remember how we met? you short fifty cents on the bus searching yourself, me cursing you blind for holding us up. i had to get to the library to read up on how good life can get. when we met eyes finally you shot me that glare. like eye bullets. my midnight mascara froze solid and shattered when i blinked. i knew then we were destiny. what is that they say? misery loves company? so true, so TRUE! how easy it was to say i love you.

postlude in the nude...

you made me laugh in 2009 when you were wearin that mask and i asked you what for? thinkin swineflu was something you might catch. you were exhibiting all the symptoms as usual. cutting me off mid-sentence. wanting to fuck at the most inappropriate times in not the best of places. how many times have i told you it would never work in the back seats of the last car of the subway? theres just not enough room and its unsanitary. besides, we might offend one of ten subway riders without mp3 players.