checkash

ack ack this sun shines

2011-12-11T19:49:00.000-08:00

finally, a blustery late autumn day. rather than, oh let me not mention it, how usual days are here in the Du.

seriously feel as i my life got highjacked a couple of years ago, doubly hijacked earlier this year, and only now is returned to me, in a state of near emergency. the emergency is that i need to produce writing! i need to dance! i need to get healthy!

there is a block in my heart in regards to all these things, a fear, an unknowing as to how to go about the writing, and the dance. as with dance, so with writing, there is a languange, and a syntax.

but the style is everything, and the content is all up to me.

i have forsaken everything else in life, but for the chance to fulfill this duty. the duty to express that which is most beautiful in all of existence, this being the marriage of objective and subjective "realities". while these "realities" are merely conceptions of objects and forces in the objective sense, and perceptions of these conceptions in the subjective sense, these conceptions and perceptions are already mingled with will and desire,imbedded in forces as forces of an earlier predisposition.

and yet, i feel so deathly afraid, unfit, incapable, wobbling and hesitant at this threshhold.

writer's group

2011-06-22T08:06:00.000-07:00

here in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China, a group of expatriates meets on Wednesday nights to talk about writing. like, we write, a couple of us prepares something for us ahead of time, and sends it out on to the email list, then we read it and talk about it.

this stems the tide of feeling lost in a foreign land, motivates us to drive stakes, our language, into the ground, as holding points against not meaninglessness, but chaos.

yeah chaos is the proliferation of meaning, too much of it so that no matter what you do, it won't make a difference.

the old narrative. that only a few people will get to live out their dreams, while they put the rest of humanity to work for them in this pursuit.

why did i stop posting?

2011-06-20T10:21:00.000-07:00

last post was April, 2009. then i went on the road, touring family america for a few months before coming here to China. here in China i have been unable to log onto Checkash...so apologies, for not making to netscene, blogger anyhow, for just over two years.

it's been tough, unable to log onto Facebook, Youtube, Twitter, or Blogger. it's been tough to be An American outside of America. it's been tough to study transcendental literature from communist confucianists.

but it's been undecidably easy,

to live this life in China
amongst the friends that I've met
in the foods and charts
of gods
on earth

good to be back. i shall continue

one day

2009-04-01T01:49:00.000-07:00

when i'm a famous author, either commercial or literary...i will reflect back on this blog

checkash

which i still may keep at that point....who knows...

and marvel at the innocence...the purity of my words here. completely unadultered, raw, unadjudicated...magnificent.

earning not a penny, failing miserably on many accounts, often, but every once in awhile i say something that means something

inside a stone just inside the woods by a stream cast upon a stick

when i really take it seriously

2009-04-01T01:42:00.001-07:00

life is warfare

except there are no generals or treasury

only me, the intellectual elite
trying to get somewhere

friends

2009-04-01T01:38:00.001-07:00

i pick up spiritual thieves
along the way
and make them mine

i'm listening

2009-03-28T08:51:00.000-07:00

to this bbc.chinese.com broadcast where they're interviewing, in Dharamsala, India, a member of an independence for Tibet group. he talks about how the Han, Chinese have taught Tibetan schoolchildren Han Chinese and brainwashed them into being commmunist party members. he says the brainwashing has not worked on the kids like they thought it would.

my mind flashes on a memory. a precious memory that i've remembered many times,...

my shoes fall apart in Lhasa. i leave the hotel room barefoot. close west-facing door on the second floor, stand a moment leaning over the bannister, look at the Tibetan servants in the courtyard below. they smile, sing, it's mid-morning.

i walk up the main street, it's made of gravel and dirt, i am barefoot. the sun is strong and beautiful on my shaved head. i turn right into the main market which is thronging. i find a pair of green velvet laundry slippers, pay for them, and put them on.

that's all i remember, of that particular memory. that pair of shoes, too, has long since fallen away.

ameroica

2009-03-28T07:43:00.000-07:00

when i came here to ameroica, i started to notice, as i had suspected before arrival, during my moments of contemplation abroad, that the ameroican people are unable to attend to the ethics of their lives.

now, one and half years since return to ameroica, i can say, for certain, that we ameroicans are unethical, not because we choose to be, but because our choices are bound up in an unethical system of economics.

that is, we are too busy earning money with which to buy food and shelter to take any time to change our unethical economics, and too afraid to go without dependable amounts of food and shelter to take the time to

(1) think
(2) act
(3) change

i think all the time about how and why our unethical system of economics came to be so powerful, and how it keeps being so powerful, and what would weaken it...but i don't do anything about my thoughts, except right now, when i'm writing down these preliminary thoughts.

atleast i can write down these preliminary thoughts, whereas in many countries, we would have to make many changes in censorship laws in order to safely put words like these down. words which are not fun to dance to. words which require large quantities of dissatisfaction to engage with. words which are hard to sell to markets, young and old.

not enough plot. not enough characters.

time space, these things are free....the cost is only your skin, once you're through with it. get rid of breeding. get rid of tv. get rid of cars. start there.

what do i mean by ethics? i mean settling up with yourself...ask yourself what really exits within you. what's important? is scientific-materialism all there is? are jesus, mohammed, buddha, and confucius the only alternatives to hedonism and self-absenteeism? are dreams just remnants of symbols, meaningless....are homeless people just drunk fuck bums? is english the only grammar that can walk this earth with balls on. is economics more important than solitude and care?

just a few thoughts. now i gotta go to work and pretend everything i just said and thought and wrote DOESN'T EXIST, NOR EVER DID. meaningless morning drivel. as i serve the upper and middle classes their scrambled eggs and mimosas.

THIS is what's happening

2009-03-25T06:19:00.000-07:00

now THIS is prowess. with such precision, an animal such as spring

oh but what calamity she insinuates

no matter, Precina, envelop the bud with your tongue.

serrate your eyelids, ring your eyes in the blood of tangle, knowledge, and sweet, time,

only spring

?

2009-03-20T23:17:00.000-07:00

lately i hang out with men much older, much younger, or much more absent than myself.

what i mean by that last part, about being more absent than myself is that i hang out with remnants of men, thoughts of men. thoughts are more absent than presence, which is something i am to myself, even before i think so.

roaring across the horizon

2009-03-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

i saw a chinese film last night
about when china got even
with america by making
their own atomic bomb

in the film all the soldiers
and workers sacrificed
clean water, rice, and fruit
for their scientists

the creator of the atomic bomb
studied his stuff at the
Massachusetts Institute
of Technology
which is ironic

but they made him leave
his wife for periods of
a year at a time
to go off to Lap Pur
in West China
and make that bomb
he had to leave her
behind because her
parents were
capitalist
sympathizers

because all of China only
had
one computer
they made
their calculations
on abacuses

that was a funny scene
in the movie

in the end
when they made the bomb
and set it off
everyone who’d
sacrificed decades
of life for this thing
danced with joy and
sang
wan sui!
wan sui!
mao zhu xi
wan sui!
which means
may chairman mao
live ten thousand
years
the movie camera
filmed them in
slo mo
jumping
sliding down sand dunes
rolling over each
other
crying
and being
thankful for
this bomb
as if it
were life itself.

but it wasn’t life
it was death
it was a way to
kill massive
populations
of creatures
including babies
grandmothers
and kittens

spring after blush

2009-03-20T22:59:00.000-07:00

flowers are aeons.
they’re on a cycle of knowledge.
because it’ spring now,
each day
a new tree or bush has bloomed.
others are just

or the daffodils
look like
platypus ducks
with lion manes
on

bubble bath

2009-03-19T23:39:00.000-07:00

i dunno i had these really powerful things i wanted to talk about tonight. i wanted to recount my walk home, which was steered by beer. i wanted to buy beer and come home to write. i wasn’t sure about what, maybe the story i begun a couple days ago...to take those threads of meaning and throw them into their new configuration. that sounded good. that was a true story of my friend’s 21st birthday. and it was a true story of my own odd life loving.

it’s in the edit...something i wanted to tell chad tonight over a beer. i was telling him about the story i sent off to my friend, george, on wednesday, as per weekly 1000 word arrangement...and, um, i was communicating to chad, who’s hard to communicate with, given he has so many personal narratives going on all the time...um, i told him how my story was plainspeak, so ordinary...came out so easy i felt i was cheating.

he went on, peppering with salt what i said with his own words, which come out fast and plentiful, like a light rain in march, after a whole winter of bullshit weather, what’s a little more rain? while i listened to his mouth move around sounds, shove them towards me, i had a thought, a modification of what i’d said earlier, about that story i sent george.

and it’s this...

it took 20 years of writing to learn a little craft, disciplined magic—mage disciple practices witchcraft...

edit

not necessarily rewriting, but re-timing...get the sections trim, and time time. could the past reappear before it’s all driven upwards? or will she get down on her knees to beg forgiveness in the opening scene? so it’s where you enter and where you exit, as if your pen, or fingers on the keyboard, were a video camera.

when george got back to me on my story, he pointed out the time i’d spent getting my protagonist to her lover’s front door. other writers, he said, would have started her IN the apartment.

well shucks. i should have started her in the bathtub...browsing her foot between bubbles, frothing her toes, and stroking her pubes while sylvan plays the guitar on the toilet...

candid thoughts, layer of facial peel

2009-03-09T08:38:00.000-07:00

my soul is going to sleep again. i can tell because my will is so impossible to fathom. it’s like, probably, related to smoking weed too much, or often, or at all. too bad if, for me, in order to fulfill my destiny, i have to ban all my vices from life. that doesn’t seem fair...

ah, i have the thought often throughout the work day that my soul is mediocre. really, after all the messiah thoughts, and fame thoughts, special destiny thoughts, and fulfillment...perhaps it is not meant to be?

it’s just snowing outside. big flakes now, in fast slants at the earth, but sometimes arched flurries, even zigzags before impact. snowing. in a city that supposedly never snows.

and the world bank warns us about the economy. as i walked down alder yesterday to meet the bus on 2nd, checking out two or three closed down spaces on that street alone, my thoughts turned stiffly towards the economy. i really wondered how this happens. i thought that i may study economics, if i’m born again any time soon. but then i am studying economics, just walking down alder to meet the bus. first hand field work. and all the people, masterminds and stuff, who study economics and get dressed plus paid well to go on national t.v. to talk to us about the foreclosure phenomenon, the unemployment phenomenon, the gas price hike and fall and hike phenomenon, the stimulus phenomenon, all these smart rich economists...do they help?

it’s snowing heavier now...or more heavily, as grammarians say.

i’ve always either been a fuckup or a genius. i never liked the in-between. in-between i feel dead. i feel human. humans are, after all, as dead as alive. just like i’m as male as i am female. except i speak from the standpoint of having tits and breath.

grammar, speak of the devil, is the area of chinese i am focusing on right now. it stands between me and the next threshhold of integration into the chinese culture...which is american culture, 100 years from now. not sure why i say this, or how i have the guts to say this. but everything wonderful about this (American) culture, is exactly what the Chinese need to fix their own developmental faux pas. and some features of their culture is what we need to cure our spiritual maladies.

the snow is huge now. huge. like how does that happen? how do the little thin flakes come out first, then the bigger ones, then the fluffiest ones? they barely bumble to ground, pushed down, tho, by flakes above them.

there is voice, and there is truth. age old question...what comes first, perception? or the perceived? neither, my anonymous hermeticist tells me...it is God. God comes first. the infamous middle term.

i am automatically better than fat women

2009-03-03T09:39:00.000-08:00

crossing the brightly lit marble laden lobby at the paramount hotel, kia calls me out. i see her pear shaped body weave between black upholstered high backed arm chairs. she's worn her hair down for past week, bangs outgrown, looks like some eighties feather cut.

HAY you, she calls out.

oh HAY, Kia. Kia always does dumb things like walk past me and kind of sing, "Her name's sooonia," or says, "hey bebbeh", or "how you DOIN!", which is her interpretation of quasi-friendly corporate management. i have to answer back in kind, in an especially chipper voice, and quickly. or else. i'll lose shifts, or end up working some grunt shift and lose a lot of money, self-esteem, and health.

HAY!, i answer back, across the lobby, though she's nearly crossed the distance to me. she leans over the side of one of the chairs and reaches out her left arm for my envelope of closing paperwork. i love the feeling of being in the lobby, using one of these luscious tables for our writing surface, and feeling comfortable i breach the manager-grunt relationship and ask her directly whether she's going to promote me to daytime bartender.

"nnnnnnnnooo," and she turns her big head full of long hair and feathered outgrown bangs sliding down over her eye, and repeats curtly, "NO," and again, "NO!"

there's nothing for me to do but defer, so i break the sick thick eye contact she's making with me and admit, "okay. all right."

i am a beaten animal in the lobby of the paramount hotel. beaten by a 30 year old fat woman who watches cartoons and eats hamburgers all the time.

where's the literature in this? well, i'm working on it!

erasures

2009-03-01T12:35:00.000-08:00

mini-narrative episodes alternate with virulent explosions of truth to make up quasi-life...still, there are erasures.. erasures, i mean all minds are different. i may make life a collage of instants, a pastiche of aesthetic notions...like, for example, 2008 is made, in slight focus, of about 17 memories. in conversations i’ve had about 2008 with friends, perhaps i talked about 3 of those memories to prove how difficult 2008 was for me, returning to the united states after nearly a decade in asia, breaking up with man i returned for, having no money and no real job skills, trying to succeed as a freelance writer for the first time. i lived in 9 different homes, all with their own climate and geography. but other memories are used in private reflections, usually image-sensations involving landscape and slant of sun...

climate and geography usually occupy 80% of my soul’s hard disk space. but i’ve got this daemon program running, too....a latent program that parallels “real-life” phenomena like climate and geography....this program was written by Plato, a Greek writer who was such a smart guy he wrote programs to run in people’s heads 2 thousand years after he ate and shat on earth. he scripted a future into his words by digging so deep into the earth of knowledge that all the other elements came tumbling out onto the grid. but the sucky thing about Plato’s writing is that it can only run in your consciousness as a daemon program...a mirror, reflecting “real” things like climate and geography...

i feel so sad

2009-02-28T10:11:00.000-08:00

the weather is ass, my sickness relapsed, i drank, my beautiful friend is gone, taken by a taxi at 5 am...

the loneliness and desolation i feel right now is overwhelming. i'm glad i get to go to work now and act cheerful. atleast that's something. i can pretend the world is my friend's body, and all knowledge is his mind. the rivers are his heart veins and arteries, the trees are his body hair.

and there in yellow rail neon

2009-02-27T22:37:00.000-08:00

across the street i saw you, trees escapade, telephone wire, getting out of Baxter's car...you stood thin on your side of the road, hands in pockets...like a kid staring up at the numbers of my home.

i could tell later on that you wanted, really, to give everything up to your prose voice. you love stories, actual numbers and faces, not details except for where detail slurs mind message, giving extra tape for the visual context of night, mountain laurel, and moon, sight on reverse image...for a beautiful world.

the only way to stave off death is to write. write you will not die, you will not, but rain or shine it's you and the screen. keys. alpha bet...jewish summi, your flourescent jacket is hilarious

you are the chance i had of the universe, once, and you walk beside me. walked.

someone says that mammon is a cool advert salamander now, a symbol of how time speaks wrong to space, and evolution is blind magnet, thorns in eyeboll, balls,
blind process of work.

cryer coming soon

gratuitous shrub soul

2009-02-27T22:34:00.001-08:00

cuz if yur not young
atleast you got basketball
to diagram yur
mind trix

let's just say i ache against the new age

2009-02-27T22:32:00.000-08:00

ache ache ache ache ache ache ache
granite aroma
i ache

the taste of chemical poison

2009-02-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

lick your penis from its nape to the cape...walk down hawthorne wear my best jade jewelry, bromance bourgois in eclectic jade town, viper vibes, hawthorne is always glamorous,

time is always poured down inside

but you your precious soul
makes me forget the project
asp
or remember, yes i kept remembering
in your presence
some curbside grey concrete
blue-all balls

the flight of your body's
musculature
reading crowley
in a taiwanese
city
at a
coffeehouse

the atone
cosmopol,
an architexture
witch cuts

om, portland, with gek in the house, 09

i dunno

2009-02-27T22:19:00.000-08:00

i think you talked like a quail in a row of orange trees
we admit you danced around the subject matter, of your own life...
like an indian rail, out there in ut, other my love, dying...dying...

here with you on the couch

2009-02-27T22:04:00.000-08:00

the truth and beginning of all time, of all consciousness

thank you for publishing me, thank you, way back when i 17'd ventura.

and for being here in holy matrimony, respecting any ancient wish

like i always have

how could i fuck off all morning?

2009-02-25T22:06:00.000-08:00

contact lenses, bank account, another poet’s site threads? well understandable, those things hadda be taken care of. but point is i learned yesterday with mike in the garden, was that if you’re not writing, you’ll lose your foothold on the ground, you have no ground to stand on, so to speak. so, in that case, when someone, like mike, says sth about poetry or writing, like it’s true, real true, the only true...well his words will form a bridge between you and the future..a bridge made of some cryonic synthetic....stuff which keeps him alive, but may not bear your own weight as you foolishly try and cross the void upon it.

i dunno, the void feels like a few things. separate points in time. in space. in thought. between thought and word.

if you lose your foothold on earth, by not writing, by not trying to cross the void yourself, practicing words across it...you’ll see others making this attempt and try possessively to steal their material, their bridge....and foolish you, the void is the only thing that holds. at least your death will be a picture.

wicked seasons of reverse age

2009-02-22T07:51:00.000-08:00

ESTHATON

Plato

the top hat and harvard business school

belief in eternity before doing wrong

love in developmental stages, where a man treats his woman with tenderness and generosity and she serves him gladly

beaches, coves, & capes

chinese, film, warm rain

life just fell in my lap and i scrambled to make something of it. as i met each one of you, i learned an aspect of myself and etranger, silent verbs behind peony and a rose bush

several thinks, several loves

heave reaping your lawn lapping at syllables of psychology

if i'd met a strong men earlier on who taught me how to speak of both the cosmos in my breast and the child in my womb, of making peace at home and loving from there...things may have been different

but i sought neurotic men who made love in words, and drove their bodies like race cars, some with precision like samurai, others just for a job

o precious life
beauty
tick tock

head tucks in to die

2009-02-21T08:42:00.000-08:00

i dunno, the void feels like a few things. separate points in time. in space. in thought. between thought and word.

if you lose your foothold on earth, by not writing, by not trying to cross the void yourself, practicing words across it...you’ll see others making this attempt and try possessively to steal their material, their bridge....and foolish you, the void is the only thing that holds. at least your death will be a picture.

new meaning

2009-02-18T08:35:00.000-08:00

a transient trio trapses past my window. usually the old guy’s in the wheelchair the innuit man pushes, but today he's up, moving the shopping cart along. i see an orange light flick up within his sheltering palm as he turns his cheek back to the asphalt in front. they push on.

if you subtract meaning from the world, all you get is what’s in front of you. there’d be no possible way to internalize that, if meaning kept on being absent. so weave on, little spider. walk and work to extreme ends...traject onto brittle shelves of permanence, other sects to gain world levels. oh but still, here you are. or did you know that’s what no meaning meant?

i wish the innuit couple and their old guy hadn’t pushed on. i wish they were still there doing things like smoke cigarettes, look around, talk, shake hands, arrange each another’s hair forelock, tell neighbors’ future in pantomime, dance with awkward leg lifts punctuated by neck spins, disassemble that wheelchair and shopping cart with tweezers, allen wrenches, screw drivers, finally placing metal scrap in piles all around.

a car drives past, a kid in the back seat screams to his mother and father STOP!!! the car stops, the kid puts his slender fingers on the inside car door handle and steps out onto the street to question the queer folk with their queer fold on the asphalt, their erector set and eyes looking inward at constellations of thought they now see structures in the material world. forms they have names for. the boy begins to write these names down.

the parents drive on in their car to 7-11 to get soda for the kid and beer and smokes for the transients. when they come back they all look at mom and dad like they’re fucking nuts. don’t you know? they say, don’t you know that we can’t ingest that stuff?

but. we thought you like to drink and smoke. what do you want?

we can’t eat anything anymore.

or drink, the kid pipes up.

you, too? the parents careen downwards towards their son, confucius.

yes, that’s right. and what’s more, confucius continues, you can’t either. noone needs to eat or drink anymore. we are no longer material beings. merely spectral traces of the world passing through space and time.

that’s right, the innuit woman, who barely existed until now, said. the only reason we have different sexes now, is to divide the impulse of speech into other tones...

oh shit. the innuit couple and the older guy just passed by my window, for real, again. the woman and the old guy, pushing the cart, were in front, walking slowly. they looked like chinese philosophers, inspecting the poetry of their garden. behind them the innuit gentleman...pushed the empty wheelchair. he walked even slower looking around, reading space like a book. whether it was a chinese book or an english book i don't know. the only difference would be whether he read from left to right across,or downwards right to left.

woid void

2009-02-16T12:59:00.000-08:00

ha ha ah

the world may be suffering

2009-02-15T10:32:00.001-08:00

but i will learn my lessons and bathe this broken world in my words which by that time will be good, instead of just broken and neglected

this morning's weather report and two visions

2009-02-15T10:20:00.000-08:00

wind howls periodically but a hallow light warms our neighborhood lawns, just a touch of glow to wet asphalt, pressed with moisture in the night.

two nights ago in a dream i cut off my head and leave my headless torso in a bathtub half full of water. the intention is to get a new body to sew onto my head, which presumably i'm carrying with me as a i race down many landings of stairs to find the physician. lasting image. blood seeping out my severed headless neck in a white porcelain tub filled with about 3 inches of water.

last night in a dream i fly. epic flight. i am actually superman. flying to the airport. i get waylaid due to strong winds in a particular mountain range, and quarry in a small oddly shaped room adjunct to a much larger complex. i go inside. it's completely dark. a very dark black man is within tho i can't see him. he gets up walks past superman to the door and holds the door open for me, to let me out, as apparently i've entered into total darkness with great abandon. superman passes the man exiting the room who smiles and walks out after me.

superman takes off into the air, launches and the entire land is burnt to a crisp. all the mountain ranges that were shangrila, are now crisp bacon burnt seuss. the black man is sitting on a stump laughing his ass off. he has drained me of all my power. i can barely fly.

but i regenerate and the land is reborn with my own super body's health.

so much love

2009-02-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

morning time, sun breaks through clouds, skirting them, making great issues grey. the computer's on the speakers are on, the birds are on, and the cool air, created by tides in time, ricocheted peoples migrating towards more love.

white green pink light and dark, the passivity of learning, and active duty on a full belly.

i woke up this morning remembering what it felt like to roll over and hold you. i missed you for a sick second and then i remembered the arguments. artful arguments, millions of reasons we couldn't just provide for each other and be there, get by, and laugh at our weakness,

weak bodies, minds, wills...

strong bodies, minds, wills..

we got it all, people, we got it all going on. come have a hamburger with me! i don't eat meat, but i'll get burrito instead.

it's the slice of ration

2009-02-11T00:58:00.000-08:00

that won't make your mind

the cheapest shot of places, meaning said

is weird.

come make love ot me

2009-02-11T00:55:00.001-08:00

i tell you knowledge has been emploding
from the new easy
while i write a couple of ears
i ah have
guave
in mind

yeah human types
usually a man

shash damn, you chin
amerai-ca, om said

back to the electronic knight

2009-02-11T00:47:00.000-08:00

i swear in staywarm wear i know nothing

just aware of the time at passing

skinny leg paranoia

no you no nothing in town square pool

words can't compete

2009-02-10T11:18:00.001-08:00

with life lately. so live!

today!

2009-02-07T09:42:00.000-08:00

this morning i woke up and raced my mind along life's rainbow. i quickly took stock to see how healthy i am, what did i eat drink smoke the night before, would this allow me to live a little longer? because i want to! i want to live, now that i'm on the trail to mt. wisdom once again! i have found scent of animals that shit in those woods, hear the special birds that sing there, and the sun even shines from that direction, today!

you know what's good will last

2009-02-06T05:51:00.000-08:00

across the span
of this day’s energy
float a myriad
strangers
my boss’s mug
and several loose ends

or the first tone
of a chopin tune
whole reams of
chess with debussy
on a rooftop

my aged body
thrown to the wind
as a whisp
of hope against
death

but then i’ll
find the root
and toot taoist
tempers
rage on
buddhist
chariot
boats

or work a garden
with you, grow
weeds, fruit, and
veriatals, julienne
veggies, the smell
of dirt in memory
of your skin
in the morning

raven wood

2009-02-06T05:42:00.000-08:00

masks of thought
layers of leaning lies
made of clamored
wood and telephone
poles by doorways
into galleries
wherein eyes blink
and goons
ride by

taking stock with old friends

2009-02-06T05:40:00.000-08:00

spoke with friends on the phone lately, couple conversations. both talks felt sad, weighed down by immense suffering. suffering caused by consciousness...existence. youth suited us all much better than do these days. endless striving for goals we realize as futile. and we were just americans who graduated adolescence and celebrated young adulthood in Southern California. we knew that there was something more eternal than our egos that sustained us, and we knew we could bring the eternal to bear between us.

but somehow life has debunked this.

the only alternative is to wake up to the day to day, with no family, no significant other, no great job, and precious little art produced. what have we been doing? what have we lived for?

to jade, and the fountains

2009-02-04T00:07:00.000-08:00

还不错!

for the old love and suggestion, a new archeology

2009-02-01T09:59:00.000-08:00

fog outside, a kern, bluish reveled mint window frame and wooden beige siding. through the grid of my window the haze of distance manifests.

lately i’ve been managing the pangaea of my soul...dealing with continental drift. north and south america count for the entire occident and involve occidental thoughts. value-less exoteric hegemony comprises the outdoor tempest of these continents. within the earth, though, and enlivened by rains and fog, much like this morning’s fog in our hawthorne district. the meaning of these western continents is buried in the earth, true, where esoteric meaning gives birth to wooden green fossils in their youth, and nurtures old peeling dark bark in its aged return to earth. this meaning comes alive during earthquakes and cyclones, flares up in fire, and reflects the timbre and tempo of the feet that walk upon it. these western continents are very interesting to live on.

i am glad to speak english, the most technologically advanced language of the occident. how can i say that? well, a language is an emanation of its speakers. it is both a root and and function of the formation of a people’s mouths, glottis, tongue, teeth, breath, and chests. a language is changed by intonation, and it intones change. english is spoken by a breedless caste, by migrating nations who gave up their families, communities, and nations...gave up their currencies, religions, and climate. they threw their entire ancestry into the formation of new vowel sounds, of long e’s and ephemeral y’s. while this new language shaped them, they influenced english, bringing both new meaning and pronunciation to it. this is why i say english is the most technologically advanced language. because it has been shaped by the largest most diverse amount of recently deceased and currently living human souls. and souls they are, because the very speaking of english produces a soul. where before one had only family, community, nation, and ancestors...in its place is the new soul. soul is the precursor of self. the self can kill the soul. but a dead soul is still a self.

but as i said, pangaea...an entire landmass once now drifted into parts of the cosmic mind and embodied in the desire riddled self. so the orient...asia, russia, africa, and that exoskeleton, europe...an aching shadow of a ghost...the dying spirit of white man dying and throwing its astral double over into America, both north and south. yes, europe is just the sagging flesh on the new world body, america of the valueless appearance, of earthen elemental self. it is difficult for a westerner to begin to apprehend the oriental soul, because it is earthless, having taken the entire earth for its soul, embodied in family, communities, which form crazy nations. these nations have tribal dictators for rulers, who measure using a system of thought made of aeons old meaning. nothing like the americas, these oriental lands.

in order to enter the oriental imagination, i learn chinese. while i could say that english is the most advanced language technologically, i cannot really say that about chinese. in fact, chinese speakers are not really migrant populations...but sedentary populations. in fact, i cannot really say how i imagine chinese to be the handle of the orient...but i suspect that somewhere in its hundred centuries of history, this language has imbedded a little insight into itself, if, indeed it can be said to have a self.

fog

2009-01-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

awesomeness. somehow some majesty communicates itself this morning. it’s plain and simply beautiful outside, fog peels us from distances, helps us to fathom what in perception penetrates distance, or excuses us for sitting myopically in the present.

mendelssohn’s string quartet describes singular geometric relationships. these draw me back to his point of creation, like how did he ingest life, his entire existence, and turn it into this string quartet, this sonor, tone, isotope of feeling?

can you remember a time when science was just budding? when the knowledge of parts had only just begun? when we were bound to our families as we were to ourselves? when hierarchical relationships were set in stone and there was no mobility. when sex and politics were simply fixed?

now deviance stands on stage and slices itself into pieces, of blood, flesh, wire, and chemicals...morality is a mess...and yet it’s the same day i began ten minutes ago, with fog outside shivering in mendelssohn’s transformation,

o

i

will

find

the

hole

i

came

in

on

wardriving

2009-01-30T01:04:00.001-08:00

you know it doesn’t help, ridin’ past the bus stop, down salmon, trying to catch the bridge, which i know how to do on bike, & all, yeah, but in a car, it’s a freaktune show to me, i know it must be somewhere along the willamette waterfront. steve knows that, too, which is where he’s driving to. anyways, we get across the bridge and park in the burgerville parking lot. we’re wardriving. he offers me some of his tuna sandwhich and eats it like a hungry warthog. yeah i think so, even though i’ve never seen a warthog, nor know what one looks like. but vonnegut talks like this, it’s no big deal.

why bring up vonnegut? he was just some author who’s work i read while i lived and worked out on Main Street, Ventura a lot. i was working some dumb job at an adventure stock photo agency, filing slides and paperwork, doing some weird stuff on dos system databases. i worked for a guy named rick, who’d go off to the amazon and the himalayas frequently...and come back to design outdoor equipment. one time, when he came back, he’d spend time with his head down on his desk. he really looked sick, and we worried about him. that time he had dysentary, or some other water borne disease. but it could have been insect born, or leaf-born...

but before i get distracted, i wanted to say, it doesn’t help, riding down salmon on the way to the waterfront to catch the hawthorne bridge, feeling hopeless, with a couple sapphire gin and tonics in me i drank during dorian’s bellydancing show at pashas...it doesn’t help to all of a sudden feel a little hope, like it’s okay, where i start to think...if i were this kind of person, i’d think...things are cool. things are good. i see this guy in a suit and he’s got a girl on his arm, she’s wearing a pleated like flare skirt and stockings, flat bottom shoes, she doesn’t give off the physical aura of beauty, but their pairing, the two of them, seems cute. so, i’m like, hey that guy’s got it good and he thinks so, too. and then i turn my head to the right, and see a young girl sitting at a bus stop head back against the plexiglass..and she’s reading. at 9:30 pm on a Thursday night she’s just sitting there all skinny and reading.

it doesn’t help.

2009-01-30T00:57:00.001-08:00

when you have a spiritual disease, malnutrition of the soul, or overeating of the sentient body, or juandice of the third eye, or astral dislocation...i guess each one of these is a spiritual disease. complacency. entitlement. uncertainty. sloth. fear. all these sins you carry on daily board, or just one or two of them...
it’s the long-term subtle nature of the disease that really hurts you. that lets so many others you know and don’t know get infected by your disease. that infects a lot of moments with your grief.

2009-01-30T00:57:00.000-08:00

on the difference between me & my friend kurt, a writer

2009-01-30T00:53:00.000-08:00

kurt is never willing to cross over into the metaphysical. much like the relationship between freud and jung...where one day jung insinuated that the cosmic trajectory of things may show up in very simple things like synchronicities. freud dismissed the idea. three loud knocks sounded from an indeterminate distance. freud pointed at the young man and said, don’t do that again! for the love of decency refrain! three loud knocks sounded again. freud fell out of his wooden chair, one seated around a large oval shaped cherry wood table. this inclined the split between freud and jung, but which allowed freud’s information to form a dialectic with jung...such that in mood swings beween epochs, jung can enable freud’s perverted reliance upon a single lifetime as a sole existence...whereas jung absorbed the Eternal

in a similar way kurt doesn't believe in anything outside this lifetime, right now, in this fucked up economy and culture. well i'd want to blame it on our disenfranchisement with the logos...anyhow...this may be's wittgenstein's cobweb winter

silo

2009-01-29T16:05:00.000-08:00

i can write and nohhht be connected. or I can remember those who came here first. without coming or going…just their memory. and time. basket time. ¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬¬for those who b-ball & come off the court unchanged. further entrenched. bull-jah! 看你哦！！！

就爱你可是你怎么知道？

所以。。。
先在呢？现在？现在！哦。。。现在，就可以了

yes mamma

2009-01-28T09:53:00.000-08:00

working from life can suck sometimes. cuz you’re not always where you want to be. you don’t always have your shit done, and you’re trembling against a comparison with your ideal perfect and accomplished self.

but on the other hand, If you wait until you can stand up to that ideal, whether you’ve achieved that ideal or maybe you just came to terms with who you really are, if you wait to until then to write…well many people will thank you for not wasting their mornings and afternoons with your drivel…but more than likely, you won’t be in the habit to write long and hard and get it all down, which will be hard to do, probably, cuz the story will be a teleological strong arm up your ass.

all the becoming got wasted in silence and shame and you developed other habits than writing habits. maybe you drink, or work and spend money, or chase ass.

myself I’ve been chasing a lot of ass lately. getting it, too. cock, ass, legs, arms, chest, cheeks, shoulders, hands. the feeling of skin and being held. the sound of the cosmos screaming at me for being human. a crane outside unloading asphalt blocks with which to hold up the wall. as we sit in a high-story condominium overlooking Portland…

over which the sky is breaking apart into sunshine and cloud

wanton

2009-01-27T17:21:00.000-08:00

can a girl be a bowl of chinese soup? well i am, a ball of meat, curled up in a square of eggflower dough in folds of a soup.

wanton, the word of the day, behaving lewdly, wanton.

left behind! are the tales of women's chastity that i would emulate! tell me what in consciousness is worth obtaining through chastity!? chastity is a way to protect the inheritance of property from lazy assholes who impregnate our wives. and we work hard for our estate and our children....who will inherit our estates.

kind of like ancestor worship for the chinese....the objects d'art that they'd put in the tombs with the dead sovereign were called mingqi. they'd put all the objects in the tomb with the dead that the dead'll need in their afterlife. that's how archaeologists were able to find all the great examples of ceramics and jewelry from the shang, xia, zhou, han, wei, jin, tang, yuan, ming, song and qing dynasties....these mingqi were given to the dead for use in afterlife.

well likewise with capital inheritance...placing your ferrari and frank-lloyd wright mansion in the hands of your progeny is like putting these objects in your own dead hands. your dna and genes will continue to enjoy these objects...the objects will benefit the dna and genes by helping them reproduce in children who will, in turn, carry these objects and their market updates into the apocalypse.

but if the whore is unfaithful...if she acts wontonly...then we cannot trust her with the creation and allocation of mingqi...of tomb vessels or entities of self.

women should be chaste it makes things easier. but it's too late for me! i have lost all respect for the system of capital and interitence, of breeding or nationalism of any kind.

amen and forebear.

ravens caw at noon

2009-01-25T12:28:00.000-08:00

and i remember that there's no one else to pick up the spillage of my existence. nobody looking, just a free fall ahead, with many laws and dangers to watch out for.
and learning to fly aint no free thing. the lords of silence and anonymity charge your understanding just to hear a hint. caw! caw! caw!

a new kind of meal with andre, part 5 of the other thing

2009-01-25T02:07:00.000-08:00

words run in a dream could their legs move. words are made immaterial things. we had tea and snacks in the garden, spent three or four hours there, Andre and I, doing god knows what, taking pics, drawing.

a window above us to the left, led to the sight of a tree and a building, switched rules to unsold. capricious, out of mind Baudrillard, Screened Out, a totally whack ass bunch of treatises, like, um, we’re all transsexual, cuz we are transpolitical, awe shit that’s awesome insane, means your fur wolf coat at new year’s midnight 3,000 souls screaming through you for the new old, what the crayfish taught of the abyss.

abyssinians leak into iranians, gulf shield bay new orlouisiana.

only one poi fish, and a half it seems. was in the tea house part of the lake, rather than by know fish pavilion...where they usually hover, before the bridge

before need for the bridge...white gown traipse in wind rhapsody, brave for

riding home in the snow

2009-01-25T01:31:00.000-08:00

funeral parlor
turned in to a pavilion
spliced by ten reason
rice paper heavens
into snow on cipher
cosmos

ephemeral chemical
oil lens you with
your son at chess
oak tree breaks
down into
crying kiss

anon

2009-01-25T01:26:00.000-08:00

and bonnie's party

the astronaut
granmother
swallowed an end
of id banquet table
spit all out passed out
we called the paramedics
got the fire truck, too,
jay downstair say
yeah they passed a law
always a fire truck...

it was wierd,
this strong matriarch
of three gens of
equal bodied
femme fatal fertility
shit she's there
puking
her black
and white grandchildren
holding her head
cleaning up her chin
and i look from medium shot
then long
under the catering chair
her elegant calf in
black stocking
mock tilted by a three inch
hell

after dinner with andre, part 4

2009-01-20T09:34:00.001-08:00

andre gave me a list of the books he wanted to have Jim, curator of the Wilson Room, take out of the locked glass book cases. here it is.

he told me i could have this list. he said he had two. really?, i said absent-mindedly. and with perfect seriousness he said, yeah, the other copy is in pencil, it was on my fridge for three months and i can barely read it, so i made this one. though it wasn’t until Sunday, the day before yesterday, that he handed it over. so at the time, i took a picture of the list, in case i needed to know the names of the books we looked at.

the first book we looked at was The Recuyell of the Histories of Troye, by Raoul Lefeue. remember that in those days a ‘u’ stood in for a ‘v’. so it might read “Recvyell” and “Lefeve”, alternatively. anyways, that book was printed in 1460. it sucks, cuz i can’t recall at all what that book was look, only the beautiful illumination of the manuscript around the title page of the book. that single labyrinthine drawing must have taken a month of a master’s time to carve. in wood, or etched in steel, i’m not sure which the illustrator used to transfer the image on paper, but it was fantastic. really truly fantastic. it made you want to draw it yourself, you had a feeling that you’d discover the meaning of happiness and peace by retracing those strokes.

The second book Andre requested was The Four Gospels of Jesus Christ, with typeface and illustration design by Eric Gill. I think it came out in the early nineteen hundreds. The beginning words of each chapter illuminated the apostles, Christ’s figure, the romans, mother Mary, and the people, each scene transfigured through time into art nouveau-ish curved and lanky figures. Each act was spelled out for Andre and I, who sat there and complimented silently the grace of the other.

after dinner with andre, part 3

2009-01-20T08:58:00.000-08:00

3

that day in the Wilson room, Andre and I looked at five or six books by various masters of the private press movement.

i entered Multnomah County Library at about quarter till three. after eating in the sun for as long as i could fit in my belly-eye, i transferred dips from the large into the small plastic container and wrapped a piece of pita for later in the cheap thin plastic bag they’d given me at the cart. i ended up leaving that behind somewhere, so, well, sometimes the waste movement grows.

the usual wierdos were out. wierdos always come from inside me. o look at that one, he's a small-headed vato, wearing calf cut wide leg pants and knee high athletic socks with big black shoes, he crawled out from behind my duodenum, in my lower left abdomen where i can’t digest meat. and the security guard looking typical body-type bored, with a gut wrapped up in uniform wintercoat, turning, turning, to look at the wall, turning to look at the stairs, turning, to look at the circulation desk, turning to look at the restrooms. he came from my heart, which seeks out love in every crevice but wistfully, gorging later on carbocofee. lonely men in functional clothing leapt up and down the marble stairs, but because they were so unattractive in their dark blues, blacks, and flannel, my camera started framing abstract lines to form a message from the mental underlord.

sartre talks in being in nothingness about waiting for andre. he says that while you’re in a cafe, waiting for andre, the entire cafe is grounded by andre’s absence. andre becomes the anti-figure and the library is ground. i start to look for andre.

by the time i saw him he’d descended the marble stair cases and crossed the first floor marble foyer almost entirely. past the circulation desk en route to the doors, i jumped up. was he leaving? no he was just going to the entrance passageway, expecting to intercept me

andre? i asked, i called, and he turned around in front of me, completely expressionless. no smile or anything at all. he was taller than i thought and better looking.

hi sonia.

after dinner with andre, part 2

2009-01-17T10:11:00.000-08:00

2

i was excited because i’d connived something Andre solicited to me. he said he’d photograph this exhibit’d been at the Central Library, books with woodcut prints, books made of angel blood.

how can one ever be sure that it's really angel’s blood? angel’s blood is a coercion, a triad of energies. it has to do with three cosmic talents in Chinese cosmology. Di, Ren, and Tian. Di is the earth, which is yellow, a center for the four spatial polii. Ren is humanity, people, being human. Which is tough to do on this earth, with our pains and pleasures, needs, and desires. There are so many ways that we can overpower one another in the stream of being human. After awhile we forget about the earth in our race to be uber human, caught in the dialectic between matter and me, i-matter, e-mail me i matter more. And we forget about Tian, heaven, the third cosmic talent, the most directly cosmos of all. when we think cosmos we think big, heavenly bodies, like stars, rays, beings, and powers that are bigger than us. they are not bigger than us, but a single interlocking part in the composition of angel’s blood. Together with Di and Ren, Tian can make sure that what you’re writing with is angel’s blood.

gek you exagerate, it's only been 8 days

2009-01-15T22:48:00.000-08:00

after dinner with andre

the sun was reigning down on us a pleasant guest returned from a private sector. you know after he got lost on hillsides, exploring lichen. the sun so heavy it landslid took your chance at lying, well.

on tenth and like morrison there are etch-nic food carts. vietnamese, greek, mexican, russian, others. i get greek cuz it’ll be vegetarian and good. the thought of falafel, a great sounding word, falafel. don’t lose your voice in narration.

some sold out belief in yourself. which you know to be a lie, suppose there’s one to tell it to. lonely city window at night. you in a tank top boxers on a chair. she’s in there, sleeping on the bed. you know you’re a lone and your love for her is weak.

i get the veg mezza platter it’s fantastic but someone removed the chairs and tables from the sidewalk there were only two or three really or each cart had one. but now there’re none, and the nearest park’s a few blocks, too many. well heck, steve taught me last night how to use the portland street car, which comes ever ten minutes on a weekday. so i sat at the stop, on a bench, enclosed behind, on the sides, and above. i set down my food bag on the other bench to my right and started eating the greek salad first. then falafel, baba ganoush, hummus, 4 pieces of pita, hot. i got carried away, the streetcar came i didn’t give a damn the food was so good. there was, i saw late in the project, another guy doing the same but he sat on curb facing away from the street, separated from view by concrete, glass, and steel.

there’s a thought and i’m going to have it.

from sophisticated cities to untouched wilderness. why not go to extremes, of mediocre realizations, or it’s fun to say something’s sophisticated, it really is. there was that one time my first crazy love said i was the most unsophisticated woman he’d ever met. i was fifteen. i had snot connecting my nostril to my lip, down the left cleft channel, or was that him? i loved george, very much.

last night's bar maid

2009-01-07T10:10:00.000-08:00

was, how shall i say, fantastic? yes she was a fantastic barmaid serving an array of men up at the bar but i skulked into one of the japanese style booths. she did half of her communicating by looking back over her shoulder. and she wore this bowler hat, and a tight black long sleeved shirt that had a cut out at her upper back. the top of her boots just grazed the hem of a willow farce about her legs. her face was long equine and her nose was mid-east large....skin pale and eyes droop dark.

i liked her a lot and tipped her tremendously, but the best part was her reparte with each of the three men at the bar. she had a scam going on each one. the first would teach her how to drive and pay for her driver's permit. the other would help her write her English paper. and the third, he'll teach her to tango.

by the time obama

2009-01-02T13:20:00.000-08:00

accepted his presidence, during that speech, he was so much calmer & so much less outwardly enthused than how he'd seemed at the dem convention, where was that? in denver, or ojai-0

my friend kurt

2009-01-02T13:17:00.000-08:00

who i love to the detriment of my being
one day like others
walked with me
in portland's chinese
classical gardens
in the know fish
pavillion
i ate a huge penis
banana and i know
we both thought of
warhol

the pulse of life

2009-01-01T18:32:00.001-08:00

is courting
my muse
recently
they both
fucked off

the willamette on new year's morning

2009-01-01T02:07:00.000-08:00

just past midnight
on the cold steel geometery
its river swollen
in shards
over floating grey
mid-action, light
cast from bridge lights
the shadow of a tree sparking out
from the opposite bank
south

its rain
reign
no need to sound
like anyone else
my job
was just
to record
it in
structural
word myths

getty getty god
goo stumble

shrimp and ricaroni in bed

2008-12-31T11:00:00.000-08:00

this won't be another boring narration of how so and so lay in bed waiting for so and so to make food for them. and then how they ate that food together in bed, and how one of the so and so's was only twenty years old and the other was thirty-five, which in this culture is just as bad as both so and so's being of the same sex! that's how flimsy the family unit would be, if they bred a baby so and so mixed with so so genes.

or wait a minute you're prolly confused. let me clarify. the 35 year old so and so is a girl...with very old ovaries, that is, as ovaries go, these eggs are just barely hanging from their tubular branches. which makes the younger so and so the guy...still in college, broke, still learning how to kiss.

no this won't be another dumb narration like that!

instead i bring you Portland! grey skies outside, mount hood in the distance completely obscured by cloud base, haze, and downtown development.

ALAKAZAM!

2008-12-30T06:01:00.000-08:00

the little tape churls...don't drink. see how hard you work? and you're never gonna get out from under this mountain of project.

but the SUN, Dark Lord! the sun! it shines from within me, a whizz out. a whizz out.

alakazam! the dark lord perished, leaving in his stead a bottle of jameson whiskey, around which curled a cat, purring, purring.

which is more of a fascist?

2008-12-28T09:54:00.000-08:00

this world?
or my vice?

dissociation

2008-12-28T09:48:00.000-08:00

is a word on my encyclopedic table right now. that table is a cherry wood cast iron apron arts and crafts piece once owned by a long line of widows who stared out of windows all of which had no frame, or glass, given their appearance in the lenz of our five elements, love kept hitting them in the heart, but their earlier loss was too great so they let love just pass through their heart, leaving sperm eggs encrusted around the wound it left.

a writer suffers from dissociation...

to dissociate from a scene, a thought, a word, a nation...is to contemplate it, hold it in the mind's eye...the eye of siva

he's lazy

2008-12-28T09:42:00.000-08:00

and likes a simple life he's sensual and lets someone suck on his neck late night bar. hirsute is a bearded word, much like the haven raven tillamooks on my eve just there. yo, he's lazy too lazy to love me like i know heaven intends it

transient

2008-12-27T10:20:00.001-08:00

the only reason you’re not on your Specialized medium weight frame bike, wearing out its brand new tires and flashing its new rear light batteries is because it’s been snowing for two weeks. in two weeks you’ve missed a bunch of shifts due to snow, for which Portland is completely unequipped. so you’ve missed work, you’re short on money, and your commute to work takes an hour rather than 17 minutes. the always late bus arrives dirty and loud, with chains on its rear tires, and crawls you to work at greatly reduced speed.

every stop crams big winter people on the bus with coats, hats, gloves, boots, holding Christmas shopping bags or plastic bags full of crap. not just regular bussers look miserable, but car drivers and bikers are so despondent we all just go within.

everything looks like shit, feels like wet fire on your eyeball, and smells bad, too, cuz noone washes their coat, or themselves it seems, as they rot in their homes in front of televisions and computers. at the grocery store things are miserable, too, as you see what they buy for themselves in their rot. velveeta cheese strips and pounds of sugar come clearly to mind...bought yesterday by the woman in line before you. she had short blond hairs all over her face. not just on her upper lip, which you have too, but her whole fat face was covered in hair and covered by a frumpy grey hat with a pom-pom on it.

point is—you want to transcend all that shit. that’s right, you want a better life. back outside Fred Meyers the slush is all black on the sides of the roads, with huge sinkholes of melting slag under every fifth foot of ice and snow. smelly unhappy people all waiting for a late bus. you recall that face full forested in ogre hair, the supersize box of velveeta and you know. there is no hope for the human race. no hope at all.

you want mozart, john cage, baldessari, barnes and noble with a soy chai, or powell’s city of books with a double americano. any bit of even middle class culture would do. you want a crystal clear hike on an island in light local or foreign summer heat, with a pipe of pot and some cool thoughts on your mind. hell you want a stair master and tight spandex, anything! anything at all but what you have on your plate just then. you want to transcend your present situation...escape it, overcome it, in the very least to be able to accept it without spiritually writhing

transient, adj., not lasting, lasting only a short time, existing briefly. but hold on! here’s a definition used in Philosophy...alternately spelled, transeunt means a mental act that makes a sound (produces an effect) outside of the mind. and its antonym—immanent...which is a mental act in the mind which has no effect outside it.

which makes one wonder...what kinds of mental act never makes it outside the mind? which ones cross over? your hatred of Fred Meyer witches, black snow slag, and late busses....does it have an effect on the world? how about the porno fantasies you have sometimes while looking at little girls on the street, or at your mom, your co-worker?

or is the mind isolated from the world by a tight, or possibly loose, plastic membrane?

i think philosophy’s going to turn into a school of heresy altogether. the school of thinking about minds, words, things, and actions....rather than just speaking, having, seeing, and doing. one day it will be heresy to believe in philosophy, like it’s heresy now to believe that men can love men and women can love women. or to believe that there’s a grand design to the universe, or that there’s a maker, or that transcendence can imply anything other than just sucking it up.

some of this snow

2008-12-24T04:23:00.000-08:00

snow is the color of God's thoughts, of his cheeks, of the sweep of hair that falls across his left eye. He has one of those diagonal cheek bones reaching from the outer corner of his eye to the corner of his lip. His flesh decreases slightly.

snow has the taste of a million tomorrows, frozen pallette melts into perverse curiousity, melting, snow is rich as a skinny woman in high heels with the thought of forgiveness sprinkled in her coffee, her fingers curled about the handle, diamond figured

snow is our redemption. snow will forgive us. snow will melt and we will miss it.

yes i think God is a masculine entity, if He is at all. why not? Men are fantastic!

all this snow

2008-12-23T21:19:00.000-08:00

yeah, i should really write a blog about all this snow. cuz it's on everybody's mind and tongue, in fact it's all anyone's talked about for nearly two weeks now...because it started falling ten days ago...and for awhile there was this give and take going on with the temperature flirting above and below 32, the rain and snow playing games with the start-finish line.

the reason i should write about the snow is to exorcise it from my consciousness. that's what writing does, good writing. it gets it the fuck off the planning board.

i want to trade the whole planning board in for a chemistry set. and my goal as a modern day alchemist would be to remake my imagination.

snow. so about six days ago, when everyone was burnt out with that magical INCH. that kept falling, melting, falling, melting...that inch finally went away. then the VERY NEXT DAY, when we were so glad that we wouldn't have our shifts canceled at work, and could look upwind for the bus without getting origami water vapor in our eyes that melts half our eyeliner down our face, leaving green streaks, revealing insane mad clown tendencies that well up from the anguished mere-human heart...

when we thought we were off the snow hook...those six days ago, i'd say it was friday or so of last week...well that's when we really got it up the ass. yeah the sky said turn over, bitch, and just stuck it in the tight cramped exema encrusted hole. and SNOWED and SNOWED. 8 inches worth. and then...the air molecules all huddled tight together and said, "let's stay right around 31 fucking degrees"...and the molecules laughed and partied, VERY SLOWLY so as not to excite themselves and heat up the air around them. so those 8 inches have sat right there PLUNK on the road outide my window and outside everyone else's windows, too.

portland has like, ONE SNOWPLOW, and the lever on it's broken so the plough on front of that truck can't actually lower to move any of the snow. or maybe it works but it takes a LONG LONG time to plow even the major arteries of stumptown, p-town, P..............D..................X

fashion

2008-12-23T21:09:00.001-08:00

i don't really give a fuck about fashion. i mean, it's interesting to think about and try and get the hang of...but the very principle of being in sync with the times, with the clothing-expression of the times...it annoys me.

like why would my friend kurt, who's a really snappy dresser, and an even snappier thinker-writer...why would he wear what other people wear? and yet i have realized by moving to portland that he wears exactly what other hipsters wear. except he's almost the best at it. like the bike lock he has. it's a little kryptonite lock that fits in his back pocket so he can ride his cool light bianchi bicycle without having to put his lock in a bag or on the bike in any unsightly way. it's just him in his straight leg pants with the little u-lock in his back pocket. the u-part sticks inside, and the straight locking bar rides about an inch above the pocket. i thought that was kind of cool, and wondered why he exchanged his bigger u-lock for the littler one until angel explained why...which i thought was, as i said, cool.

but then i saw fifteen other people wearing straight leg pants and doing the same thing. it's weird.

i know that kurt's mind is very original...and his dressing seemed to be, too. but now i know a bunch of other people who have the same style as him...and i'm wondering if i've overestimated his mind-writing.

sidenote...thinking-writing is different from thinking and different from writing. and mind-writing is different from mind and also diff't from writing.

alot of people have great minds and are great thinkers, but they can't write for shit. and some people can write but their mind's are like grey skies...and they're thinking is like rain in portland...badly needed right now to melt all this fucking snow

at the nascent foot of a dream

2008-12-23T20:49:00.000-08:00

sorry bout lately. i've been suffering through a holocaust of the imagination. i can't imagine anything that isn't happening, and i don't know how to write about what is happening. this is a kind of disease, a disorientation, where words don't fit.

as soon as one of these words lifts through my fingers onto my plastic black keys and streams through the usb into my motherboard, somewhere in the plastic, wire, and careening multiple spaces, the word gets re-situated. automatic recycling, even before hitting the screen.

words don't recycle well...

or maybe the word i'd like to use is rescind, rather than recycle. what does rescind mean? see this is what i'm talking about. the normal talent i have to let words choose themselves across the screen of my liminal mind...that talent is fucked up right now. it chooses words i don't know the meaning to.

where is it getting those words?

as if a being much stronger, wiser, and obstinate than me were trying to take over my writing.

or whose writing?

to all the pundits

2008-12-23T20:46:00.000-08:00

not that i know what pundit means

then again, to mean anything, a word's got to get at the root of an idea. then we have something. a having. a nascent world.

aesthetics and fashion

2008-12-19T09:42:00.000-08:00

aesthetics--study of sensory or sensori-emotional values (judgements of sentiments & taste) (from a wiki on axiology...the study of quality or value)

fashion--The terms "fashionable" and "unfashionable" are employed to describe whether someone or something fits in with the current or even not so current, popular mode of expression. The term "fashion" is frequently used in a positive sense, as a synonym for glamour, beauty and style. In this sense, fashions are a sort of communal art, through which a culture examines its notions of beauty and goodness. The term "fashion" is also sometimes used in a negative sense, as a synonym for fads and trends, and materialism. (from the wiki on fashion)

...

i'm doing a study of fashion because, in portland, i arrive at the conclusion that i am unfashionable. portland has a unique style, composed of unique attitudes (clothing "attitudes")...which is surprisingly hegemonic. that is...while styles of thought, expression, and lifestyles are diverse here, these streams of being seem to boil down to the buck...

i have to get my thoughts straight on this...but wanted to share the intellectual road with you...

the war is not in my bedroom

2008-12-18T05:55:00.000-08:00

no. here there's a heater, and a candle, a light switch and two lamps.

i brush my teeth now because i know pain intimately.

that guy last night, when we were talking about fashion,couldn't relate to what i said about chinese students having just one sweater, that they wash by hand at night after doing their homework.

wallpaper

2008-12-12T09:07:00.000-08:00

is shadow on white, very classical. an intricate rose and leaf pattern falls from ceiling to floor alternating with a series of stripes. the white is a subtle iridescent white. what serves as lines, in both the rose/leaf pattern and in the stripes that divide one garland from its adjacent ones is shadow. the coloring of shadow or absence of color against white iridescent collects stray thought at the oddest moments. especially in this old wooden floored home lived in by young portlanders who leave behind paintings, a sombrero, a felt collage, and a completely faded large dollar bill shaped poster of che guavara, amongst other imagistic postules. this unintentional gallery of left behind objects hangs about taking attention away from the marked, scuffed, nailed and tacked into whiteness...imbedding masculine non-nonchalance within feminine eternity.

on comfort, convenience, and happiness.

2008-12-06T10:27:00.000-08:00

i felt lost last night going to sleep, like i have and still am wasting my existence, like there’s something important i’m meant to be doing, something which i am still very far away from doing.

but then there’s happiness...yes happiness.

i figured out this morning why happiness, comfort, and a high standard of living are so popular amongst people. granted there are people who don’t prefer convenience over inconvenience or comfort over discomfort, but i haven’t met these people for some time.

the reason why people prefer happiness to unhappiness, comfort to discomfort, and convenience to inconvenience is this—

we strive to obtain consciousness—

the mind is clearer without the distractions of unhappiness, discomfort, and inconvenience. the mind is able to function closer to peak performance, which is important amongst human beings in this culture. American culture subjugates emotionality and spirituality to physicality. but after all, the body for us is purely a function of utility...the physical body gauges levels of comfort, breeds, and carries us through life at whatever level of performance we either enjoy or engineer.

this is our ontology, our schemata of things-that-are...

it is, though, consciousness we are after. which we already have, but we want more of it. we can obtain more through power struggles, and through keeping our mind at peak performance...and so we think we need to feel comfortable, happy, and we avoid inconvenience at all costs.

so why is it that other cultures and beliefs prefer discomfort, unhappiness, and inconvenience? what culture, you may ask? why, buddhists know that death is the chief of life, and the French people know that love is the master of existence. neither death nor love is comfortable, happy, or convenient.

in these cases the ontology of existence, the schemata of things-that-are feed differently into the funnel of consciousness. it is almost as if water were running uphill...or as if the sun were rising in the west.

on the virtues and strengths of Chinese words

2008-12-06T10:06:00.000-08:00

Gao Xingjian is the first writer/thinker i’ve found who articulates just what i love about the Chinese language. before i found him, if i had to make my own words to talk about Chinese, i’d have said this...

as a non-Chinese speaker in America, i got exposed to Chinese characters by looking at business storefronts and signs. they’d dot regular towns, which all have at least one Chinese restaurant, and then Chinatowns were a hotbed of Chinese characters.

i know how it feels to immerse myself in Chinese. the problems of the world abate because subconsciously i know that the hegemony of knowledge and existence is broken in Chinese. so as i burrow holes in both ancient and modern texts, i feel like my head is wrapped in a blanket of deep nighted stars. how much of this pleasant confusion is due the texts and how much is due my incomplete knowledge of them, i don’t know. i just feel sheltered from the meaningless of words that has arisen in America’s use of the English language.

the nature of duality seems to dominate the use of American English, either caused by or contributing to the duality of our culture. The rich are only rich because others are poor. The smart are only smarter than others. Things are only useful because that’s needed, and these same things are only good because they’re useful.

but in chinese,...in the visual structure of the word...you are brought into closer communion with the sign, which not only serves as a signifier, but appears to embody its own truth, as well. even if you don’t know the meaning of a sign in chinese, it has aesthetic properties that precede and transcend it.

(to be cont., maybe)

cocktailing, part 1, edited

2008-12-05T01:06:00.000-08:00

cocktailing

hi there! hi there is a wash of sound meant to pleasantly remove my guest from his entire day. any lagging sense of structure or impending doom is over with once i rock up to the table and say, ‘hi there!’ i kind of raise the back of my tongue muscle to the roof of my tonsils to flatten the sound into feminine baby talk.

can i get you a drink to start? i ask the big islander better business man, with med-longish curly hair. he looks up at me sheepishly, like a boy responding to his mother’s coo, and orders a pint of black butte porter and some sushi. each time i bring food or drink to him at table 77, he’d look up from diagrams and spread sheets.

then a real pale cat at 76, orders ice tea, a bowl of miso. sits there for awhile with only that when of a sudden, “you got a few minutes?” i pause and look off at the t.v. pitched up high in the corner of the bar.

“ah,” i look at him to figure out my response, “what do you need?”

“i just have a few questions about your sushi.”

“oh. okay.” i laugh, and say, “i was afraid you were a scientologist or something, gonna pitch something at me.”

“no, ha ha,” he continues, after a semi-real fake smile laugh, “tell me about nigiri.” mispronouncing, knee-gyry. he sees me eye him closer, “ i mean what is it?”

“oh. what is it?”, i smile and curl my fingers to create the elongated shape i mean to describe, “it’s the raw slice of fish laid atop a small ball, or bed, of rice, sort of a column shape of rice.”

“is it sushi?”

“well it’s like the word xerox, which is a company that makes photocopy machines, but now we say xerox when we mean photocopy.” here i checked his understanding, “so with sushi. nigiri, sashimi, and rolls are all sushi, but a sushi roll is a bed of rice covered with seaweed, and whatever ingredients, all rolled up and cut into eight pieces.”

then he orders one happy hour half roll per half hour for awhile and tips me 15%.

after awhile, andy the bartender transfers a table to me. they become the new myth on 82. the modern family myth, sort of ‘fallen woman raises beauty’. i think i make a mistake not carding the girl, cuz eric, one of our three managers, comes up to me about fifteen minutes after they all move from Andy’s bar to sit down in my booth, mom orders another glass of kendal jackson, but the girl just wants water.

so i’m at the well and eric slides up to my right and says, “d’you card the girl on 82.”

“no, they were a transfer, i assume andy took care of it?” eric asked a few more questions, to clarify stuff, like i had to repeat what i said, and then repeat that it was andy who transfered it...

now that i think clearly, i had only ever seen mom at the bar where she sat for over an hour, before dad and girl appeared. he seemed sauced when i got to the table, but the girl she was prolly underage? i should have carded her, cuz if olcc came in and found her in the bar, we woulda been hosed down and fired.

the republican conversation

2008-12-04T23:53:00.000-08:00

overview

our conversation took place at 37,000’ altitude, on a bird from Manchester, NH to Chicago, IL. he was sitting in my seat, 10d, which is the middle seat, as i walked up to it. that’s a seat so shitty you don’t get to look out the window or even enjoy the comfort of getting up to pee easily. but sat there. looking back, i realize that was a strategic move to stop people with unassigned seats from roving over to his row...thinking they could spread out. so he sat right in the middle of the row, an empty seat to each side, empty except for all his shit on them. a mag and a twelve oz. bottle of water he paid two-fifty for.

you want to sit there? i asked.

no. he answered and moved his shit. i thought he was a jerk.

snapshot lichen

economy airline seats are so cheap you can’t afford them ‘cept when you really want to get somewhere. can’t imagine how much economy-plus costs, or first class? i squeezed myself into that little premise of a journey outfit,

called an aeroplane, upholstered in time encrusted thought, the static quo of things. almost right away he starts in. it was a habit you could tell he was real used to. to kill time. but he had coal not cookies with me.

it wasn’t fitful or alice in wonderland, he tasted glass and i sand.

you going home? he asked. it’s the perfect question, cuz, unless the person just says no, and leaves it at that, you get to find out where they’re going to and coming from, and usually why, too. it framed conversations with time lines laterally and spatial nexii longitudinally.

no i’m connecting a flight to Portland, Oregon. i grew up in New Hampshire.

oh, okay. he said. yeah, yeah okay. it’s all okay. okay. it’s all okay.

what do you do? he asked. which is always an un-fun question for me. i turned fast and hard at the neck, which hurt, and looked him in the eye to say, “i’m a freelance writer.” his eyes got wide, and he asked me who i wrote for. “my markets are vast,” i answered.

“but what kind of stuff do you write?” he probed further. see people always think they want to know the answer to this question. but it’s totally counterproductive to the kind of stuff i write. my stuff is anti-kind. “well, all the way from antique auction reviews to art reviews, all kinds of stuff.” then i departed from normal stock, “i’m exploring reason in my work.” his eyes got wide again. “i’m working from and on the nature of our minds. by writing stories.”

he grew relatively silent, but then said, prefacing, “now, i never have these kinds of conversations. i’m on the board of bell computers, and 95 % of the people i talk to want something from me, and the other five percent.....i want something from them.”

“uh-huh.” i believed him. he had told me how the president of bell asked him to show up for a meeting in New Hampshire, dragging him, a rare occasion, from his family in Chicago. He had six children, five boys and the youngest just a baby, was a girl. negotiations in New Hampshire had not been fruitful, and he had his plane ticket moved up a day.

which put him in the seat next to mine.

storytelling

what i said about reason was metaphysical and philosophical speculation, but Stew took it as a psychological question, which it well might be. so for him, it all boiled down to fear.

see that woman over there? and he hulked his broad chin in the direction of the aisle opposite. Stew, i could see, had scoped and catalogued all the people around us. she’s sitting here in economy on a tuesday night. she’s dressed modestly, a business women, she looks worried. maybe she has a husband at home and maybe she doesn’t. but she had to come away on business, and now she’s going home...Stew looks at his watch, but she won’t get home till eight or nine. the father may be there when she gets home, or not. she’s the sole provider for the family, and they don’t really make enough. or maybe the father’s an alcoholic which causes all kinds of problems for the family. in any case, she’s scared.

he continued with a second example.

and now you see that guy up in first class? there’s no first class on this plane, but let’s imagine there was. there’s this guy. he’s wearing a fifteen thousand dollar rolex, his shirt costs two hundred dollars. he’s very comfortable, let’s say. now, earlier, in the airport, there was a woman with a child in a stroller who was struggling with her luggage. he offered to help her, and was truly concerned. see, he had no fear. he probably wants kids but doesn’t have them yet, or can’t have them, so he loves kids. him leaning over, stepping over and helping this mother says so much about him...he stepped out of himself, extended his envelope...and he did so because he doesn’t have fear.

now as Stew was going on at length, i was trying to find the underpinnings of his speech, of his thought. i had to find someway, (1) to prove him wrong and (2) to change his thinking over to my way. i had to strike against fear.

slowed at an eddy, i jumped into interrupt.

well you know what? that’s interesting, i appreciate your imagination. but i think your model’s simplistic. you say it all comes down to fear, but you’re relying heavily upon one thing.

what’s that?

you’re relying on the connection between cause and effect. you’re saying that because X is true, then Y is true. or because of this, that. but David Hume, British empiricist, has already disproved the connection between cause and effect.

Stew was floored. the plane began to bobble through some turbulence and the seatbelt sign came on.

epilogue

stew was a man who could change the insults in your mind. this is the kind of man a woman looks for worldwide, who can take the world out of your hands and bounce it off your face. throughout the conversation i was unable to touch ground or spark off the vital prospects of my own existence.

he is a business man, prone to virtual, actual, and material profit. he’s the kid who thinks there’s nothing other than this life, so why not make it rich, why not?

but in the end he realized who i was, in a miniature world, from his perspective. i was a waitress who had no health insurance and wished i was a writer.

since then i have tried to hard to make his dream come true.

dear jay,

2008-12-04T23:12:00.000-08:00

tuesday night at work i told you something weird. when i started telling the thought, you asked for more. i wung it, kind of threw words at you that had meaning for me...but no matter how hard i tried to explain the shifts i’ve been experiencing in my everyday reality since coming to portland, no matter how much i wanted you to understand, i couldn’t get my thoughts across to you. sorry, and here i try again.

you asked me if i missed my surrogate hometown, ventura. as sleepy as that place is, yeah, i miss the heck out of it. like i told you tuesday, i miss everyplace i’ve been, just about. all the places i’ve lived in China, and Taiwan, the U.S., even some places in Europe and Britain, too.

i want to assure you, though, that I like Portland, too. i am glad to come here, even though my reasons for coming here were vague and maybe misdirected, maybe not. I’ve had an overhauling experience that comes with new dirt, skies, new friends and enemies, and a new direction from which shadows the spectacle of life,

you ask if i am happy here & yes, i am now. when i first came to portland i was elated, visiting and staying with a good friend of mine, enjoying everything portland has to offer. but then i started looking for work cuz my money was nil,

all i could say on tuesday night about the change is that meaning ‘streams’ different for me now. my categories of understanding fell apart while i looked for work, found work, and started a new rhythm or clock prescription. that was painful, but the neat thing is...a new milieu accretes. whether it is the plasmic cosmic body or the cosmos itself that accretes, i am not sure.

at the time we spoke it seemed complicated and mystical, what i meant...but it’s just that i died to my self and mind when i came here, and following the pleasuring, lazy, and luxuriant folk of Portland’s suit...i live in what style i can afford.

2008-12-04T23:03:00.000-08:00

blown-glass language in poetries of sense, glad rocks and stones slivered desire’s mess.

zeros equal girth

2008-12-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

everything is beyond crazy at this point i only want to drink it away, but instead health is insistent.

andy only grew animated after eight pm, when the first push was over. people came and went to shows and movies. we were the beautiful ones who served them, their maitais and stella, beefeater martinis up dirty and dry, respectively. ah, souls, do you drip along the barstools eminating yourself?

i feel like wise, but i might be the fool. each is true, neither matter

witch angel

2008-12-03T23:49:00.000-08:00

got those pure boys
of zis central pass,
o hi who have
form of
empty
toilet stall

who mean
this
or that
in wurd weeds

presex from syntax
soige frus alderberry
zees sounds we make
to michael
witch angel

ok, i admit i'm dying

2008-12-03T23:46:00.000-08:00

because life is more beautiful, almost, than writing

bourbon soaked woodchips

2008-11-28T08:29:00.001-08:00

the taste of drew’s turkey slowly smoked over bourbon soaked woodchips was the first thing in my throat this morning, a pleasant rise of perception, yeah i got real lucky being invited to table at thanksgiving, with so few friends and no family around me here in portland. i was just remembering thanksgiving at rebecca’s home that year i just got out of prison...just days in fact. she had this big meal all made, i don’t think i brought anything at all, maybe wine? a big meal, originally there were others supposed to come, but it was just me and her, and i was a last minute invite. i warned her it was risky to have me over, it made her suspect, but she laughed and i told her all the story of my arrest and about conditions in jail, which were too strange to be true, but were true. the next time i saw her, at work, she was all fucked up, said her other boss warned her to get better ‘friends’. i told her so, i was the nigger of foreigners. those were hard times. i had to watch every word i said to everyone, over the phone, all my moves were watched and documented...i was used as a turkey to catch other turkeys. but i didn’t make any wrong moves, and no one else ever got arrested.

conversation at table really lagged last night. in fact, complete silence tore us apart at one point, it was like a mistake we all made. i guess they’d cooked all day, and had gathered hours before i arrived. i walked in, a complete stranger amongst strangers (this was an orphan’s thanksgiving). pretty soon conversation pinballed between heidegger’s theory of translation and hindu astrology...some heady shit got thrown out there i mean there was this one army guy (many of them were soldiers, it turned out) who started spewing about civilizations prior to 10,000 years ago, how they never waged war or killed each other at all. but as soon as we got food on our plates, the stuffing, potatoes, casseroles, turkey, salad, and ate into half our piles of food...sssshhhhh. we had nothing to say to each other. the last thing said of note was this,

i wish we had more than two feast holidays as a culture, said the very fat pale girl who was also 4 months pregnant.

yeah, we should, someone else said.

but then we’d be even fatter as a culture.

or maybe we wouldn’t be fat if we had more feast holidays....

and then, as our stomachs filled with delicious food, our minds went blank. while most were coming down with food comas, i had seconds of that delicious smoked turkey and got up to start clearing. i did dishes for nearly an hour and by the time i finished, half the people were gone.

wind blowsss, con't (from supernova, a true portland story)

2008-11-26T20:12:00.000-08:00

it was just barely dark. eelhead walked down the porch front steps in a drizzled trajectory as i pulled in i don’t thing he recognized me until i’d made the obvious arc into the driveway and onto the asphalt walkway.

hey eelhead! i cried, broke, and shifted all my weight to come down off the bicycle, left foot on the ground, right still on the pedal.

hi sonia, he said. just getting my mail, and i just gotthis great thing. he heaves his shoulder bag from behind him to his left hip, pulls up the flap and unzips it.

do you have a key to the house?, i asked in horrified mock casual.

no, what’s her name was home, he puffs his chin upwards to refer to hollis, who lives upstairs. then he fishes out a pale white plastic hand with black painted fingernails. so what’s up? he probes? still working at that cafe?

yeah. it’s not a cafe, even though it’s called wormwood cafe, nobody’s allowed to come in just for coffee. you gotta order sushi and drinks, tea and mongolian beef, a bento box, or something...it’s really not a cafe, so i paused before answering him. but who cares.

still writing?

yeah...uh, yeah. sent something off to taiwan last week. and this week i got something for the breeze, in ventura.

the breeze still going?

yeah.

that’s good. eelhead is from ventura, like kyle is. we all have that connection. i think i’m gonna head down to ventura in the next few days.

yeah? that’s great!

yeah i haven’t been there for like three years.

three years?!

yeah.

wow that’s a long time. i really miss ventura. the sunshine. right then the wind picked up and slapped me across the face. i asked myself silently why i didn’t invite eelhead indoors, where we could have our conversation in, not warmth, but sans wind. the answer had to do with eelhead’s habit, deceptions, and my prejudices against him.

i want to get out of the pacific northwest, man. it sucks here. but winter’s not as bad as last winter was. it’s already much better this year.

really?

mmhmm.

we went on like that for awhile, moving onto the steps while he took out a cigarette and smoked it, then took out a half full bottle of doctor pepper and drank that, too. by the time he got to the end of his doctor pepper i was asking him if he’d seen kyle lately. kyle had told me recently that even though he’d made things up with eelhead, he still couldn’t stand being around him.

yeah, kyle and i are on really different paths right now. while he said this, eelhead looked stoically off into the distance.

how long’ve you known kyle?

uh, since i was about 18...7 years now.

so did you know him when he was skating?

well, and he shifted his weight completely around, leaning against the handrail, i was aware of him a long time, but we didn’t become close buds until three years ago, but we’ve been friends since i was 18.

so you’ve seen him go through his things. you knew him when he played chess.

he nodded. and computers.

and writing?

yeah. well he’s always done his writing. i think writing is what he does best.

yeah. i hope he keeps it up.

uh-huh. so see you later, sonia. good to catch up.

see you later, eelhead. and he was off. all by himself, off. i had thoroughly enjoyed seeing him, a real star in the supernova system.

wind blowsssss (latest from supernova,a true portland story)

2008-11-26T20:07:00.000-08:00

start with outside. the wind is so high it whips through the parking lot on 45th and madison, through the curls in my new haircut, into the armpit jostling two bottles of stella artois i bring back to the farm at 4235 se main. what do we grow here? we grow solitude. solitary drunks, we masturbate to online porn and only come out to eat, pee, and work. all three of us are the same here,

ulterior end of supernova. after eelhead, kyle, and angie all moved out, it’s just wynn, me, and the new girl, hollis.

i dreamt kyle the other night. on the dining room couch, where the oriental rug is now but wasn’t then. there used to be a big wooden table and that table made it livable. it was a place to sit and eat dinner. a place to study. when eelhead colonized that room, to sleep on its couch, he put his big computer smack right there. it was a revealing day.

he came lumbering down the steps with his stuff, stuck his flat screen monitor up on a box placed right in the middle of the table, or off to the side he viewed it from. his clothes and things were packed away silently in the trunk and bureaus but that computer made it impossible to casually appear in the dining room to eat, say, or relax at all.

anyways

that didn’t last long. a month and kyle figured it out. eelhead lay there all day long high on heroin, watching films and tv. kyle went to work everyday as a computer programmer so it took him a while to catch on, but he did.

and after he kicked eelhead out, the first thing he did was turn that table upside down, break one of its legs, and threw it in the garage with the rest of the garbage.

blum

2008-11-26T13:26:00.000-08:00

"An aesthetic intricately related to human emotions is the only indispensable criterion for a literary work."

Gao Xingjian, p. 37, The Case for Literature

are you happy?

2008-11-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

yes, i squeak. i am. i feel. peaceful. half my cheek's on the nail up there. the old guy in white, there,

2008-11-23T06:33:00.000-08:00

life our world is full with its own language. for example, her in cheap cut denim jacket, worker pants with creases down 'em, expensive (for her) sneakers, and blond dye short hair. style seven stars out. then kids along 6th, sitting around, reading, greet each other while the corpse of a large conifer lives erect in our public square.
vast cloud riddled skies, vistas obscured by valley walls, each soul, each person is morpheme,

the streets unroll a palimpsest, beating our earlier selves by nomad instants

barside at the primonty

2008-11-18T00:57:00.000-08:00

a crenoline box of sushi
holden near inside a sysux heart
i walk down front clear
to the gypsies
with geometrical clear
god beauty searn
rotted noseflesh
cold
spectacle knight

i hand off my
togo box of food
to the bums
on morrison
because it was clear go

america would be eaten
will be,

addressed to the stars

2008-11-18T00:52:00.000-08:00

tomorrow i'm gonna start hittin ya muthafuckas wid stars
like zenith whether you like white sage
haitus
ho

or other science, don't care, i understand your miso is morrow's misery

ok to leave off where i starated

2008-11-18T00:49:00.001-08:00

ha ha

ration of known meaning to creations

2008-11-16T08:29:00.000-08:00

a chipmunk scampers over the telephone wire whilst the ravens are sleeping. 90 miles away the cragged shoreline erodes further. the weather there would surprise a jaded grandmother. most of the leaves around here are turned past prime and fallen, though a few young healthy ones, or fantastic vital older specimens are just now hitting that point where the entire tree looks like it's going up in flames

forget the sound

2008-11-15T23:48:00.000-08:00

forget the sound!
forget the sound!
forget the sound!
i mean forget it
like you would
forget
the memory
of your love
taking his
workshirt
off a hanger
hangar planes
of rich preten
people pur
tentious long
spell corridor,
i swear meat body
body
me, open
whitening
line...old
working book.

edible

2008-11-15T23:42:00.001-08:00

i wish time were edible. i’d eat the yellow emporer’s inner classic & fart hours later while picking up drinks at the well. to serve.

to serve, i’d say we met below rose branches, hung thorns so close to our cranial flesh, very cold and out late, we whisper heads together

democrates offed verizon, i mean he preferred its network, with several thieves in the maintenance crew. reverance from pirates. ff the ll.

i see you sushi, remember the times when my wallet enraptures dilettantes, gets sushi, now i am rags to enter the paramount hotel, try to swipe a piece of spicy crab from your japanese shaped plate. strange liz, you’re a worker and you dare be offended.

summary of all speech.

ice ah tone

2008-11-15T23:14:00.000-08:00

no start
or doubt
is a fist blue version,
a fast break exhale
cold air cold a
an i memba now
rocks
blown
from
blewey
nostrils
of giants
live
on the
television
of cosmic since

bevy venue envy

2008-11-15T23:08:00.001-08:00

sexy snipers have black bosom bodies & i’d say noone blames them for being out of the political scene. nor musicians. sexy slather all over sound & it’s okay.

verticular shrapped light, striated fusion into a point, it was sunrise, fierce golden epileptic end of a moment. no, socrates, you can’t sit on that stone right now. look! the shape of it is spread wings. and we nod to sleep now, tired from a day’s work, to seek pleasure, ah pleasure, happiness, love. these are manifestations that progressively get worse.

if you tell me i haven’t a sense, or the form is too, then your ingot absense are books, on shriven shelves, fierce fired.

that was awesome

2008-11-14T09:05:00.001-08:00

totally. i slept in late and the sun rose right on my face. i could see the orb crest the eastern horizon.

do you realize how freakin' rare this is in Portland? To have not only a clear day in November, but a sunrise, and a bed set up by a window in a room especially for sunrise?

i feel like an id pro receiving ultimate gifts via the cosmos!