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"screaming lovewords at a cement sky"

I have been floated to this life, this hour

8/5/07 02:07 am - "what you've got I don't need and what I need you don't have"

2am my head vibrates, buzzes, spins slowly around in sad circles. my past attached to my guts by a frayed string and all the lights and life draining out of my veins. heat and love burning on a stagnant bonfire & still within my chest this buried thirst for poison. the fury of flesh attached to bones that will outlast all the smiles and surely, surely, there is a whirlpool opening at my feet, freezing and numb in the green heart of summer I extend my fingerbones to the sky, it's sullen, indifferent, the sky gives me the cold shoulder and the premonition of doom is ripe. the mystery of meat and the electrical spark of life glurting through arteries repels me. I wanted to live beneath the seas in a castle carved from bone away from all explosions where my thoughts burn up the air, smooth and supple as a razorblade slicing through saltwater. Rimbaud dreamed of seas composed of an eternity of children's tears, I dream of a silence without doubt and a night without end or entrails. I want to sleep the sound sleep of a dead poet, beyond the triviality of words and wants, but the tide thaws my heart and my thoughts hover like heatwaves over sunbaked asphalt, a theme of catharsis and cocoons cracking my skull until fragments rain down upon my exoskeleton like a magic rain of bliss, absolving absolutes, dissolving discontent. Birds bathe in rainwater despite the contaminants of our sickish pollution and all slides off them, falling down upon our aching ventricles and we cry Mercy, mercy, while the flame heats the flesh without end, a gasjet beneath blood, boiling over into the hole God left in my sordid little soul, shattered and breathing thickly through gristle and sanctity.

8/4/07 07:55 pm - the dog days of August

For the first time ever, Sammy took me out in a car, and bought me icecream.  It was sweet and adorable and gorgeous. Last night we stayed up all night, sitting on my back porch, smoking now and again, but mostly just reading. I read "Ham on Rye" and she read "Candy" and it went on for hours, hours, hours. This means more to me than I can possibly express, to have someone to read with -- nerd that I am, it means the world to me. We looked for Mars which is supposed to be super-visible due to a rare astrological alignment but no dice. Then a dawnlit walk to the park near my place, and the collapse into mutual sleep at 8 am. I've been having very strong, disturbing dreams about using, which makes sense, since August is historically my very worst month, so I'm being very careful.

8/1/07 07:01 pm - "la belle indifference"

After battling the moronic gay-bashers in Comp 2, I went to Sisters, only to be dismayed by the level of drunkeness caused by everyone rushing to use their 8 drink tickets by 11:30. One girl -- slurring, victorious -- bragged it was the first time in 5 years she'd ever gotten them all in, right before she toppled backwards and cracked her head a damn good one on the curb. Her tomboy girlfriend helped her up, holding her upright in a falsely amorous hug, to disguise her lover's state from the squadcar creeping up. I escaped into the streets of centercity, passed the shady characters lurking about City Hall -- Africans slumped on benches with brownbagged 40s, skatekids, etc, I drew deeply on my cig to show them I wasn't afraid of them. I was terrified of them, as I have been terrified of any figures at night or footsteps behind me since I got mugged various times. But you can't let them see it or it's like begging to be robbed. Some crazy homeless woman who once broke a bottle on the street to defend us from a gang of teens closing around us in a circle taught me that, and I've never forgotten.

 Into the subterranean cavern beneath City Hall and onto the trolley, off at 42nd & Baltimore, hair & shirt soaked with beersweat, spent a sticky night in Laura Smoot's bed with Sammy, then trolley-subway-speedline to Ashland. 

Home again. Up all night. I wake up to candles burning, spreading perfumed smoke, roses & coffee & sunlight trickling with scalloped shadows across the afternoon. 

Night again. I'm really turned on right now, I crave Sammy's lips, the press of her curves, the motion of her tongue, our soft commingled moans, entangled, ascendhing....she's deliriously lovely, my eternal companion. We're separated tonight. The darkness shimmers, raw, crying, alive. I'm so glad I stole this CD, God forgive me. I hope these songs always touch my heart with fingers of light. 

I'm more defined from the weight room. Now I just have to put the cancer sticks down, and I'd be in some cheap imitation of good health.  

Outside, earlier, I burned myself. I was thinking of writing something amazing down, and now all I can think of is the pain skyrocketing through my poor cigarette-stung fingers. 

"Causing it to fluoresce in the colors characteristic of the elements present:  in the Helix Nebula, blue-green from oxygen and red and pink from hydrogen and nitrogen."

Something so poignant about painted heavens, & silken girls smoking cigarettes beneath all that with a look in their eyes that promises sparks and synchronicities. When I close my eyes at night, that is all I want to see, girls possessing a fey grace giggling as they dissolve into supernovae, then flashing patterns of the architecture of the electrical field. It's time for indolence and detachment from reality. Sometimes portals in the sky fall open and you stumble through them, you are sure you're meant to fly, a girl with tattooed wings showed you  how. 

8/1/07 04:08 am - 4:09 AM. alone and uncertain.

I have too much going on in my head. I have to channel this energy somehow, then maybe I'd feel like walking to Pennsauken. I'm sure if I could snuggle with Sammy, I'd feel much better. Though I used to be pretty wary of this comfort derived from contact with a beloved person, I've learned to value it openly. I miss Sammy and some nights are only tolerable if I can listen to her breathing and feel her warmth.

8/1/07 03:23 am - on a lighter note....

Bret Michaels, of Vh1's hit show "Rock of Love" has the same gray hoodie as me. 

Sammy Smoot is beautiful, amazing, electrifying. I lay around on my bed all night playing music, thinking of kissing her into a white heat, get all emotional, giddy, sentimental; I let a random slideshow of Sammy memories course through my head. That freezing rooftop and crimson dawn.  Her shy smile and fiery eyes. The way it tasted the very first time I kissed her, when her room was totally different, a tower of assorted cigarette boxes by her bed. It was deep summer, crickets droned endlessly, the air vibrated. We didn't want to sleep. I'd slip off for ten minutes and have her wake me. The next day I said I loved her, it fell out of my mouth and I stood there horrified.  I'd spoken in all honesty, but no one wanted to hear those words the day after the first kiss -- even if everything was illuminated with silver light.  But she was fearless, pure, happy, swept away like I was, and smiled, accepted, believed in me, and she said those three words too. Being on top the Cape May lighthouse with her, and how in the photos we took, it looked as if we were in jail. We watch stupid shows like Rock of Love together and giggle, play pool semi-badly, smoke at regular intervals, and I'm calm and happy through all of this, each moment burns out and ends forever and I'm fine with that, as long as we share each little death together.

7/31/07 08:16 pm - "if music be the food of love, therefore, ye panpipes, play on....."

Today, uneventful, I float detached through words, spirals, whirlpools, images. I want to write about kids I've known, kids that glowed in industrial twilights, kids with an unquenchable thirst for poison and noise. Suburban blocks abandoned at 10 am, all the drones at work, the dropout kids left alone with their smoking and sexing and painful dreaming. There's a void here, no denying that, and it's easy to fall into. Don't open yourself up too much, or the void comes pouring in. It's so easy to drown in depths of dry air, and I've seen the ones I loved choking to death beneath relentless currents of apathy.  I've seen them swallow gallons of beer, until their logic was all shot to hell, there was only empathy breeding agony left for them, they wanted me to be a violin in their void.  

So there was this night I was in wretched fragments underneath a leaden downpour that has stained the tender inside of my skull so severely, ever since that shatterbrained night, the fugue-suffused, melting cathedral sound of a good steady rain has stayed in my head through all the deserts and institutions I've journeyed through.  The sound of rain is no longer a sound. It's a symbol of every lost girl I've laid a hand upon. That sound, the world's sobbing dribbling down steamy, reflection-tousled windows, has rended my cohesiveness apart.
     I was nine-tenths ghost the night I came to her door. She was very dear, gentle, and sadly sweet, very sublimely and very obviously smashed out of her sleek little head on junk. She soothed me with her skin's liquescent glare. I wanted to cup her Sapphic cheeks in my palms and shiver my face across her essence of sugary smoke.
    It was all dissolving, it seemed -- the sky, our time together, the windows melting away, the wind erasing our faces. The broken pieces were hanging on by a fraying thread, so I found myself begging for sanctuary, an absolution that wasn't hers to bestow. I was spectral and clumsy and wanted to leave everything forever. Spirits were glissading through the secondhand smoke, rainbow fragments were all over the floor. Intensity had imprinted our lives upon the very texture of the reality there. We had wished the walls away for years, resenting their existence because we spent so much time staring at them. At some point those walls ceased to exist, and the house became haunting and profound. It became a luminous realm removed from time, where murmuring creeks of starlight silvered empyrean meadows -- that's what drugs can do to you. 
     So there I was gutted and bleeding all over myself, drenched. How had all those years passed? Our blood had been tangled together so I didn't notice the days dying again and again. I stumbled over my rain-heavy shoes, smelling the jungly feline reek of the place, smelling the songs that stained the wall. She'd always consented to my downward spirals, my plunges into oblivion, my pinprick pupils and invulnerable expression. She killed me with her consent. She'd let me in to nod off in the bathroom, and call the paramedics to yank me out by my feet. It got so bad I began to think of that bathroom as the nexus of the universe --
    A molten weight at the base of my tongue.  Even the loveliest of moments seem to separate us from the ocean we're all exhausted from carrying, that toxic wellspring locked behind our ribs and defense mechanisms. Defense mechanisms we cannot know or feel ourselves without. The tide sweeps us ceaselessly into thte sky, so I focus on her name like a religious icon. How strange a brain is -- lights dancing inside meat, that's all, and it feels perfectly depthless. I focused on the hologram of her face, her hands, we ascertained the fluidity of each other's borders and didn't speak a word to each other. She no longer summoned sunshine from my crippled circulation. I felt suddenly as if I were infantile and lost in the neon ferocity of a supermarket. The sparks kept spurting out where her pain-soaked voice brushed the air while she formed those words that weren't for me.

7/31/07 08:09 pm - Van Helsing Boombox

only time will tell if I'll allow
the scenery around to eat me alive

I want to sleep for weeks like a dog at her feet
even though I know it won't work out in the long run
so I burn down the wall, breathe my good shadow
those arms I once knew, hold me like gold
I learn how to speak a forgotten language
I fall in the sea but forget how to swim

When anything that's anything becomes nothing that's everything
and nothing is the only thing you ever seem to have

but only time will tell if I'll allow
the scenery around to eat me alive

I want to sleep for weeks like a dog at her feet
even though I know it won't work out in the long run
so I burn down the bone, breathe my good shadow
those arms I once knew, hold me like gold
I learn how to speak a defeated language
I fall in the street as I howl at the moon

When anything that's anything becomes nothing that's everything
and nothing is the only thing you ever seem to have

7/31/07 06:58 pm - 'I was wounded. she was beautiful."

I am a lesbian who is all about Charles Bukowski. I am someone who, as an 18 year old stripper, was exposed to the beastliness of masculinity, and never forgot it. I avoid nearly all manifestations of masculinity, yet I am hooked on the words of Charles Bukowski.

I love words. I am always reading passages from books to myself, wishing I had someone to share it with. Typing up great excerpts makes me feel closer to the writer -- to feel their words flowing through my fingers, it feels as if I can create great literature as well. So, here is something from "Notes of a Dirty Old Man," which is so repulsive in places I have to skip ahead a few pages. Yet there are these certain parts that are so raw, you can feel the nerves still twitching beneath the bloody words. Here is one such selection:

"we move in. sit down. there's the bookcase. I lay my eyes across it. there doesn't seem to be a dull book in there. I catch all the books I've admired in there. what the hell? is it a dream? the kid's face is so beautfiul that everytime I look I feel good, like you know, chili and beans, hot, after coming off a bad one, the first food in weeks, well, fuck, I am always on guard.
   the Bird. and the ocean down there. and bad battery. a lemon. the cops patrolling their stupid dry streets. what a bad war it is. and what an idiot nightmare, only this momentary cool space between us, we are all going to be smashed, very quickly into broken children's toys, into those highheels that ran so gaily down the stairway to be fucked out of it forever, forever, dunces and fools, dunces and tools, god damn our weak bravery.
   we sit down. a quart of scotch appears. I pour a quarter of a pint down without pause. Jack likes me coming on. he's been carrying my soul and he's tired. he grins the grin. he's ok. once in a rare lifetime have you ever been in a roomful of people who only helped you when you looked at them, listened to them. this w as one of those magic times. i knew it. i glowed like a fucking hot tamale. it didn't matter. ok.
   I smacked down another quarter pint out of embarassment. I realized taht I was the weaker of 4 people and I did not want to harm, I only wanted to realize their easy holiness. 
    "baby," they start saying to me, "you are drunk."
    and I am. and I am. and I am.
   there's nothing now but to be turned inot the heat or sleep. 
   they make a place for me.
   I drink too fast. They talk on. I hear them, gently.
    I sleep. I sleep in comradeship. the sea will not drown me and neither will they. they love my sleeping body. I am an asshole, they love my sleeping body. may all God's children come to this. 

I began to go crazy. I was sweating, stinking; little circles whirling whirling whirling, light flanks and flashes of light in my dome. I really felt like I was going to go screwy. I walked over and got the suitcase. it was easy to carry. rags. then i took the typewriter, a steel portable. it had a good solid feel:  gray, flat, heavy, leery, banal. the eyes whirled to the rear of my head and the chain was off the door, and one hand with suitcase and one hand with stolen typewriter I charged into machinegun fire, the mourning morning sunrise, the end of all.
   He raised the hammer, and that's all I needed -- the flash of electric light on hammer -- I had the suitcase in the left hand, the portable steel typer in the right, he was in perfect position, down by my knees and I swung with reat accuracy and some anger, I gave him the flat and heavy and hard side, greatly, along the side of his head, his skull, his temple, his being.
    there was almost a shock of light like everywhere was crying, then it was still.  I was outside, suddenly, sidewalk, down all those steps without realization, like luck, there was a yellow cab.
    I was inside. UNION STATION.
  it was good, the quiet sound of tires in the morning air. NO, WAIT, I said. MAKE IT THE BUS DEPOT.
    WHATZ MATTA, MAN? the cabby asked.

never mix pills with whiskey. boy, they weren't kidding.
    he could feel his soul foating out from under his body. he could feel it hang upside down there like a cat, its feet gripping the springs. 
     motherfucker, come back! he said to his soul.
    his soul laughed, you've treated me too bad too long, baby. you're getting what you need.
    with him it wasn't dying that mattered. with him it was the unsolved loose parts left behind -- parts of him left in empty lots, Catholic Church Communion classes, jail cells, boats; parts of him left in band-aids and dow nsewers; parts of him left in thrown-away alarm clocks, thrown away shoes, thrown away women, thrown away friends.
   it was so sad, so very sad. who could blow the blues the way they  really were? nobody could. that's it. nobody could or ever did. they could only try and get bluer than blue because there was no way home.
   he'd reached the end of cures. and Jesus, he was soft. all the hard poems; he'd played hard-man all his life but he ws soft. everybody was soft, really -- the hard was only there to protect the soft. what a ridiculous asshole trap. 
    who'd ever invented the game had worked up a neat little masterwork. call him God, He had a shot over the eye coming. but He never showed so you couldn't get Him in the sights. the Age of the Assassins had missed the BIggest One of all. earlier they'd almost got the Son, but He'd slipped on out and we still had to go on staggering over slippery bathroom floors."


7/31/07 06:41 pm - 'the dreams around here are getting to be too much'

I walk outside, still in boxers and a tee, at 6:45 pm, to smoke the first cigarette of the evening, which is really the first cigarette of the morning for me. There's this feral calico cat sitting where I intend to smoke, on a little cinderblock bench I made in the middle of my mother's garden. Reluctant to disturb the creature (which my mother actually called the police about, thinking it was dead, but that's another disturbing story, that of my mother's impending mental illness) I sat on my porch. I was pleased it liked my bench, and thought it looked very serene sitting there amongst the flowers. 
      Then my father pulls in the driveway, home from work. He glares at the cat:  "What's that cat doing there?" "I guess it likes my bench." As if it understood English, the cat suddenly dashed away into the woods. "It's scared of you, though," I said, hoping maybe my father would be sad that nice cats are scared of him. "Good," he replied. "Have you been feeding it?" I answer no, and he goes inside.

7/31/07 05:38 pm

"my continent, I mean to speak of the radical
effect of light in broad daylight
today, I held you close
beloved of all civilization, all
texture, all geometry, and glowing
delirious, the way we write: and
my body is enraptured.

so transform me, she said
into a watercolor in your bed
like a recent orbit
the curtains, the emotion
tonight we are going to the Sahara

she now has
all my saliva, since, at yr place, i've
forgotten the text I wanted before your
reading eyes which have watched centuries
of hallucinations, of skin, pass the noise
detonation. because each shiver aims
at the emergence. an intuition
of reciprocal knowledge
women with curves of fire 
& eiderdown, fresh-skinned -- essential surface
(you float within my page)"

-- Nicole Brossard.

Thank God someone has written of the synchronous erotics of literary lesbians. To Brossard, sex, writing, and reading are endlessly intertwined. They are all pursuits of the same passion and intuition, and the more adept one becomes at one, the more adept they are at the other. I've always spoken/written of writing sacred cantos on my lover's skin with my fingertips, reading stories written in scars with my fingertips, and reading has always been much deeper an action than simply digesting words. Reading is important to me because it's akin to a program of alchemy for your mind. The more words you absorb, the greater your capacity for language is. Language is a divine, burning, golden key to comprehending reality. Without language we are impotent in the most important sense. We are lost in a forest of symbols we cannot decipher. 

I found early on that reading changed my dreams and temperment. I was teaching myself how to think when I read, how to build a memory palace. I learned that preserving experiences with journals was the most important thing to me. Someday I'll have a library of journals, a catalogue of specific details to walk endlessly through. I have every letter and scrap of note Amy wrote me in jail saved in one such journal, as well as every poem we read together while we were there, the two letters she bothered to send me, art that reminds me of her. In some way, keeping a book of that agonizing period of my life is comforting. And it's all right there when I'm ready to write my book about that time. I feel I have to grow and expand much more before I'm ready to write the book that will let me understand the Amy experience. It still has a tinge of pain mixed in with it, so there's no way to be objective.

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