Tempi duri per i vampiri

and yes, the poems

Fri, 02 May 2008 20:48:28 GMT

I've decided to fuck the poems and my pen.
Which means that now that I've made this decision, I'll suddenly be verbose.
It goes that way.

Bookish or mousy...

Fri, 02 May 2008 20:45:36 GMT

Soon enough I'll be stomping around the countryside with some peeps. And it will be good. Feels like I haven't been still in ages, in one place, breathing one big stretch of air. Of course I'll get sick of it soon enough, but for now I can pretend it's all I've ever wanted.

I was in a bookstore in, a small one, old, that looks and smells and feels like it knows about books, or wants you to think so. The kind that hides in anything pretending to be a bigger town. So you figure they know what you want when you ask for books on roma/gypsies, and old travel literature. Instead I got an almost blank stare, and pointed to a section to fend for myself. Maybe that's part of the charm of the place. Like the fancy restaurants people go to because they want the waiter to be an asshole. I wasn't interested enough to hunt things down in the end.

The mouse was much more interesting. Little brown guy peeking through holes in the floor, minding his own business. Didn't know he was going to become part of my city mouse/country mouse/Stuart Little fantasy. I saw him in his little holes, with his mouse family running his mouse-errands around the store, and then maybe he's on holiday in Aix... I may have to go back ad ask him his name, just in case I meet his cousin or something.

'omeward bound

Fri, 02 May 2008 18:20:55 GMT

I'm tired of being the night bitch.
I really am. I don't mind lazing about
all the time, but when I miss the day
for weeks on end, I realize how far
out of the loop I've fallen.
And I'm getting tired of it.

Hanging in NYC for the past
couple weeks has really reminded
me of that. Ah well, home soon.
It will be a social month
with peeps, family and droogies.

I'm not real. What about you?

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 00:47:44 GMT

What better mentor for a 10-year-old than Charles Manson? Little Billy seeks life advice, and America's most notorious killers are happy to oblige

people believe anything! Just cause you're a killer and you get email from a child don't mean it is real!

At the border poem 31

Tue, 01 Apr 2008 00:22:19 GMT

At the border, on the waterfront, on the beach,
a calm salt surf kisses our slippers
of brocade and gold thread slightly
damp from the cool moist sand.
We stand together, three of us, looking
out across the water towards a far
shore that is without more than
an image in our memories of two,
and a storied fantasy for the third
sister, conceived at home but born
after our journey had begun.
We hold her between us,
our youngest, our sweetness,
our treasured hope and worry.
The sisters, we three,
muse to our own survival, stalk
these shores in the evening
and again in the hours before dawn,
searching in those magic moments
for a way across to take our child home.

Desire and the Inner Derelict, poems 26-30 of 2008

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 06:10:56 GMT

The Harrow Inside -26
Razor-wire wrapped buildings crush my spirit from the outside,
sharp steel fetters cut and burn the soul without marking flesh.
The prisoner's dilemma, an awkward gambit in a single roll:
to die on the inside from the infinite wound of timeless captivity;
to fight the metal machine harrowing punishment into flesh.
Sweet oblivion, succor breast of numbing nullity.
There is no crime that can justify a soul destroying fate.
Kill me, if needs must, but killing my humanity is an evil
greater than whatever crime you think I've just committed.

True Final Love -27
There is nothing to call into question, action, thought or deed,
recollection or half-whispered memory to come between us.
It just doesn't exist... that thing to tear us apart. We are wedded
body to body, hear to heart, our soul is whole, indivisible:
Gloved flesh and mirrored sighs, never we're apart.
Brain waves and smiles, syncopated bliss replete.
Gestured affection matchless, violent ruthless intimacy.
So close, yet so far, I know longer know you are there.
I cannot feel your touch, or feel your breath on my skin.
We are only one, now and there is no other to break
the immeasurable sadness of our lonely steps
that will never be echoed by a lover's foot falls,
or be caressed by a new lover's first touch.
When lovers are one, there is no one to love.

Get it on! -28
Get your learning boots on, and stop fucking surfing the net.
You pornformational sluttery and data whoring must cease,
along with your random access attention deficit shopping.
Give it like it is. Say it as you want it tattooed on your ass
in a nudist colony... "This is who I am!" Right here and now.
Get it on, sweet sister, get it on. And make your ramblings
meaningful. Without purpose, your sorry ass is just a heap
of pale processed GMO protein in gelatinous soup-base.
Forever never dance with only your finger tips, soft flesh,
when you can dance with every pore of your skin.

outstanding desolation -29
Flat flat land upsets my sensibilities,
as blank canvas to painterly desire,
promise both unrealized
and perhaps to be forgotten.
Desolate winter unbrushed by rampant spring
lies mute upon the brown scrub earth
mute testimonials; nothing to be done
to save the past, only hope for the sun
to ignite the green fire hopefully
to smother the stain with life.

The Gypsie Run -30
There's something that I've never forgotten
since I was first struck, how the train
from Syracuse to New York is so similar to the train
from Budapest to Bucharest, and perhaps the same again
from any two points on a forgotten landscape.

Burned out and derelict, windows smashed, brick crumbles
as the train rumbles leaving each vista to its own fate
of post-war industrial rationalization and consolidation.
Forgotten unloved industrial monstrosities beached
after some gothically cataclysmic conflict unresolved.

Signs of life scurry at the edges, forced fences
and broken barriers hint at a new life within
unforeseen by architects and captains of industry
though the Roma, Europe's gypsies, hang fluttering clothes
drying in the windowless frame like America's dreams.

Poems 19-25 of 2008

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 06:10:46 GMT

This has not been as much of a different year's beginning as I thought it might have been, and we're 84 days into the year, and all I've come up with is 30 poems. How could this be, when in past years I've killed one a day for more than 6 months. WTF, that's the way it goes. Words come and words go, and only some words actually stick. These have stuck so far, for good or ill, and I should be happy to have any poems at all.

The Seasons - 19
My voice is fractured by the cold,
frozen in darkest night,
and later thawed with spring's bright rain
to summertime's delight.
The summer bakes me sexy tanned,
languid lazy days past,
then the fall with a death's head moon
puts me to rest at last.
[Appreciate the 8/6 meter]

Desire - 20
I feel my lips ripping from my flesh, unwilling
to leave you, even for the moment it would take to smile.
I want to smear your body with my blood, every pore and wrinkle
of flesh bright red and oxygenated with my heart's desire.
I would adorn you body with tufts of flesh
torn with my finger nails from bone.
My tears would anoint you, and the sweat
of my burning brow will make you mine.

errant - 21
I am on a quest
for unspoken mysteries of my heart,
to find lost wisdoms I might have known.
Thoughts from where, thoughts lost
of purpose and meaning, I might find
a new beginning. My quest
among forgotten memories like landscapes
take me past all I never knew I once knew
of fictional hopes long abandoned
of supposed lovers' unnecessary tears.
My journey will be over
when the prize is won
and the daylight has meaning
once again.

Daily Dichotomy -22
Each morning
it begins again,
impossible juxtapositions
that obsess my mind
driving thoughts
into fanciful apprehensions
I cannot escape.
Should I want to lose
the fires of my imaginations?
Sunny Days -23
"Ain't nothing better in the world, you know,
than lying in the sun with your radio..."
Too early to call it spring, the warming
sun has returned with storied memories
that speak to skin and bone, soil and air,
plans and rain.. rhizomatic evocative
messages signaling the return
of the divine light that is seed
to new beginnings.

Write of Spring -24
Sun softly singing month before spring's
crawling green invasion speaks soothing
apologetic regrets, a lover's returning
from a bitter absence, again, with new promises
without assurance that she won't leave again,
yet offering a season of new life warm
forgiving enticing embracing again
I take her in my arms.

Another thought, a paused regret awaiting
on the rocky steps up from the beach
looking back over right shoulder
at the path just taken and the panorama
left behind spreads before me
my life in a view in a moment of a day,
micro-epiphanic revelation:
though I return as spring, offering
"sweet delight"
I'll take you with me when I go.

Administering Love -25
There is no question of your marked fidelity
and your acceptance of all obligatory gestures,
observed and completed. Each and every
gesture demarcated, documented and
conspicuously displayed for each and all
to see according to plan. Each caress
workshopped and methodologically sound,
conveying every appropriated nuanced
meaning, according to plan, vigorous and sincere
heart felt and without reproach, according
to need and duty without fault or complaint.
Such a happy duty is your love,
crying forth and announced, according to plan,
truth and meaning a public pronouncement.

Gay Scientists Save the Christians

Sat, 22 Mar 2008 12:17:15 GMT

Vietnamwar

Mon, 17 Mar 2008 12:00:09 GMT

I've been trying to get engaged with things all winter. Poetry's going ok, but I can't get around to transcribing it. Can't get around to anything, but I did this digiportrait of vietnamwar. I can't remember where I found the picture to work from. It is pretty big, and I can't wait to finish it off.

happy birthday

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 01:27:28 GMT

Happy birthday to meee.
I live in a treee
I smell like I monkey,
I'm off to the baths... and a spa treatment!

I'm tired.

Wed, 27 Feb 2008 00:51:16 GMT

Date created: 2001-09-09 17:48:58
Date updated: 2008-02-24 23:15:15, 2 days ago
Journal entries: 1,430
Comments: Posted: 10,444 - Received: 9,192

And now I know why. I've been writing, but it is so hard to transcribe it.
Never surrender. Never give up... but I'm sleepy.

Parenthood, definition:

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 23:15:15 GMT

a long slow lobotomy, with cartoons

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 22:26:37 GMT

pixelsrzen just unfriended me. And I don't like it.

ZOMG!

Sat, 23 Feb 2008 22:22:59 GMT

I just realized that I write http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transgressional_fiction

Not that you see any of it. And well you shouldn't. Go back to whatever it was you're doing and forget you read this. Go! Now! I'm not saying anything else until I know you're gone.

the public vampire 18

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 01:08:30 GMT

The whole notion
of being a stripper
has never appealed to me.
Though I'm very happy that people
want to take their clothes off in public
for either praise or ridicule,
I wonder at either the desire
for acceptance or the need for exposure.
A vampire is not that
which needs cry for position
if it still seek to adhere to the name.
It is not an option or a lifestyle choice,
is it? It is a sombre and reflective state
of being that looks on the abyss
and is dismayed. To Jerry Springer one's self
seems antithetical,
and I could imagine it easier to confess
and placate the monotheistic god
than to self-dissect before the world
on people magazine's pages.

15-17 poems about place

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 23:01:18 GMT

Pity the lost thrall
Pathological individualism:
the cult, the apogee of culture.
Being as mono-maniacal
mythology, ultimate mono-crop
ripe for culling. Bulldozed
social hierarchy of quality.
Fettered and fetishized each
sovereign in a room
all alone.
Choice without purpose.

Gare de lyon
Waiting.
Waiting is divine
relief. The train
that has not come.
The cab that brought
me here. Time to kill
as an infinite respite
from doing, or being.
Identity foregone
in the silence. Being nothing,
no one. Past and future erased,
melded with everyone in mass
transit. We are a species
of our own locked in our own
separate world, between here
and there, leaving and arriving,
apart from all others who are
just where they are.
it is a silent world,
sounds without meaning
where each disembodied voice
merely announces possibilities
to move into another state
of waiting somewhere along
the timeless continuum
of being nowhere,
yet.

Faces in the station
Composed and silent watching,
conversations on topics of
movement, schedules and delay,
embarkation and arrival. Short term
thoughts. Immediate intentions.
Transient desires infuse the station
with flickering candle light,
illuminating nothing but the passing
of myriad souls for charon to ferry away.

13-14 2008

Mon, 11 Feb 2008 22:45:07 GMT

13 Transit

There is no illusion like today:
hands folded unquestioning,
face composed and serene,
eyes front, aware without expectation
or appearance of concern.
Back straight. Knees together. A novice
model of contemplative patience,
unhurried and unconcerned.

Amid the maelstrom,
good waves and ill,
that swirl vapors
of conflicting desires
and indecisions of possibilities,
the social hegemonies that battle
on all fronts seeking to over whelm.

And yet, when they depart,
the figure remains without
apparent perturbations
as the light of another day
transits the heavens
and leaves for night.

14 Knowability
There is no confusion like the night:
arms twist with golden turns
as jeweled fingers gesticulate
unspeakable stories, promising
horrors of delight and unattainable sorrow.
Shoulders bathed in sweat, breasts glow
and heave under a midnight chemise
as the air is cleaved and swept by long curls
of ebony hair that reflect aught but the moon
and starlight as they while in serpentine frenzies.
Eyes dart as vipers strike--freeze, observe, pause
and strike certain death or uncertain oblivion,
charting existence, mocking or praising
with equal abandon and delight.
Frozen lips never speak, as nothing
can ever be known
again.

8-12 2008

Mon, 28 Jan 2008 00:06:18 GMT

It's a beautiful day
Just to wake up in the morning remember who I am;
intake of breath and exhale.
Feel my chest move,
diaphragm relax, the air sing on my lips.
To touch the world, eyelash moving air,
lazy hand catching dust motes in the sun.
A warm sigh showering moist breath.
To wake up and realize that you have survived,
again, one more night.

It is enough, just to live, without dreams or despair,
past or future; to worry the moment. It is enough,
when faced with the alternative, to reserve judgement,
forego questions or hoped for answers. Just to be
a part of it all. It is a beautiful day. A new voice awakes
me from slumbered contentment, compliant reverie,
this passive repose of someone lost
to expectation and desire.

Man of Action
A rumbled trust growls deep; barrel chested voice
confident, unquestioning of variable truths or meanings;
unconcerned with ulterior alterities or liminal 'facts.
No paralytic notions elicit questions for reflection
to deter the waking lion with a mission to fulfill.
In this micro-maniacial moment you do nothing
but say, "I see..." as you slowly awaken from
an eternity-like slumbering repose , shaking dust
and leaf from your beard, and fixing your good eye
on the goal beyond the horizon, move to act.

Nighttime Crawls
From the moments after midnight,
when the light of day is lost
into a memory from sensation dead.
Before the morning on pre-figuring gesture
pulls the darkness toward dawn.
The seconds lose their purpose and minutes
lose their place as markers of meaning. Gone,
all attachments, social truths, gestures and actions
under many layered nothing that blankets
all intention in a coverlet of sweet oblivion.

It's not dying
Cast off unacknowledged constraints and see
for who we are as much your unaccustomed
mind can without losing all and everything.
It is not dying to kill within yourself something
dear and destructive, that unacknowledged sense
in self that now distantly mirrors a distorted re-vision
of what you never thought you were and now realize
you can not really ever be again, and are wracked
with regret for a now hated past, fearful at a future.

It is not living
That "ever-fix'ed mark" that "alters [not] when it alteration finds."
As change seeks change, like seeking like, a constant flux
and endless reconfiguration of the self to the myriad others
in the co-creation of matrices that sing and swing chaste
around an ever-moving unseen center. A center that itself
has no being except in that it is about which things spin.
Location, that quantum fiction of static potential as of yet
to be placed in motion has no more importance to life
than the last exhaled breath to the living or the lived.
And when will you, once beloved charished calm,
find within that to be into the nothing until all
potentials are finally put into motion.

Beach and Mountains

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 15:45:25 GMT

5, 6, 7.100.2008

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 01:57:56 GMT

Counting

Ten more minutes before the train arrives
at the station, the terminus. At the one
solitary point where I will find myself

in ten more minutes. A journey
will be complete. A passage
that seemed endless, a travail
that seemed pointless, after
I realized that the assumed purpose
what not what I'd expected

with ten more minutes to go
until my arrival, I want to go on.

Flowing
Narratives of ruthless lust and never slaked desire
gush unbidden from the love abscessed pen
that has forgotten the gulf between
the tender touch and the ripped flesh,
so lost in her own shame,
poisoned b regret and yet still inside
a young child cries without surcease.
And the words flow forth on a tactless
waste of white that would but wed the lovers
twain when nothing would release the shadows
and the shade by the spring at dawn.

Prayer
Let the morning sun shine around me,
burn me, burn the terrors of the night
that cling as hoary frost on the hem--
wind blown dust that haunts every crevasse
of flesh--cling as sticky cobs that web
my hair and halo this shrouded form.

Let it shine and burn and drive these
thoughts that rise unbidden from memory;
distorted lens and subtle liar.

Dust Till Dawn III: The Hangman's Daughter

Fri, 11 Jan 2008 01:32:46 GMT

I watched Dusk Till Dawn III yesterday. A strange movie. I really liked the colors and the tone. Some of the actors were a bit bland, but it really had a feel. Liked it better than the first one, even though the first was a better movie. But likes and feel aren't the same.

4 Solitary Voice

Thu, 10 Jan 2008 03:35:44 GMT

Writing for yourself, each word carelessly placed,
forgiving of trite contrivance, unworried, uncondemned,
spelling out half hopes and stories no one understands.
The voice is clear, full of half thoughts and contradictions,
the dream of a drunken woman, I wrap myself in hope
that I would never share were I not alone by a fire.
My words please me, pleasuring my heart still
uncaring of their eloquence or proper pose,
meaning locked in the reader writer's soul.
When I sing, naked by the pool, with the wind
carrying scents of the world on my lips
there is nothing but that mingling,
and that perfection in and of a moment
in the lack of any other listening
is the when I ever say I still love you.

3 - bad day

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 04:43:40 GMT

It's a bad year. Wedged between the past and the future,
pollaxed hache body to soul. A sour season.
Short fiber wired, mono-filament that slices flesh,
gnawing bone, wrapped tight around my waist.
Maelstrom month. Hormonal blood-red clouds dim
the sun and blot the light from the sky. Rotten day
once again, telling me it isn't going to be different
thought the furniture has changed.

2/100 round and round

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 03:28:52 GMT

inspired by superaleja

so much of the now is riding on her wheels
motion towards, there and back again,
without ever being sure that the direction
is chosen or guided by life's obstacles
though if there is choice, can one ever choose
to hit or miss, when the wheels are spinning?

1/100 2008

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 23:02:29 GMT

And I'll sing you to the sky
as I'm looking to the stars
as I see you standing
on the edge of here and beyond.

Only when, at that final moment
as you look back at me
reaching for a small reflected
memory that I hold in my heart

you see my eyes, red and kohl,
an arm stretched as if to grasp
what cannot be caught, and
a name whispered on the tide.