Trauma

hold your throat right there,
naked child with no sleeves.
take me to your cave to be worn,
wretched, dry, salivating.
caps on your teeth to root
the dreams.
hold me to your chest,
that time it was the deepest.
white planes gobble time
with great ease.
kissed meant cut,
creap, zip went the thread.
forgone slots like fixed
sewn skin.
grieve for twenty four
then be solved.
loose, fluid, bleeding some
irresistable blood.

stillborn

Now. Today I sit in waiting. Wanting badly to find myself in a moment where no element of life is being conceptualized or conceived in such a way that robs itself from the beauty of living. To achieve this state of being in the past few years, some degree of intoxication has been of some degree of necessity. We vacate our plain minds for the purposes of expansion and existing in the moment. College classic.

Empty tall-boys of Ice-House, resinated bubblers, and Glad zip-lock baggies of marijuana, half smoked, are sprinkled throughout the university town on this early Sunday morning. I awake, at eight a.m., the time clock of my body ticking me out. Even all the yearbook faces at the Guns-N-Roses cover band show last night weren't of any comfort. Now that certain token friends have dispersed, is the positive prospect of Isla Vista mute? Leading to the question, was it ever of truthful satisfaction?

Stillborn. The first of generations to grow up in a faction lacking the endorsement of God. Instead, aesthetics have taken over. Perceiving the ideal in looks and notes contrived by images on screens. But the irony of being bare in a desert with nothing but our challenged senses is that people loose their common access. Free agency may give them greater creative license than ever before, but these diaphanes upon diaphanes render the person impenetrable. The person, when asked "How are you?" isn't even really there. They are so cacooned by the egocentric-encouraging religion of our 21st century that no one matters except that/ or those that rile us from our paralysis by making us feel.

Felt. When that other plane is accessed it's like a drug. Let me self-knowingly correct. It is a drug. Translucent orange pill bottles, sexual ecstasy, smoke balloons, exercise adrenaline--people--all there to prick the stillborn into existence. Okay yes, sometimes it is just as simple as looking through a window and seeing the ocean, or discovering with open eyes a flower growing through the asphalt. These things have hope to awaken. But are often only appreciated by those that are self-consciously aware of being stillborn. For most, appreciation for such things seems rare unless the object, or scene directly reaches out to that particular individual, awareness only provided by yet another screen or talking head, telling the numb to see or feel. Oversight more times than not, kills any form of sovereign appreciation.

So what now that we're born already dead to ourselves and each other unless accessed by drugs or screens? You tell me, because as of late, I can't seem to find any comforting resolutions...

stymie

sty‧mie  /ˈstaɪmi/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[stahy-mee] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation noun, verb, -mied, -mie‧ing.
–noun

1.	Golf. (on a putting green) an instance of a ball's lying on a direct line between the cup and the ball of an opponent about to putt.

2.	a situation or problem presenting such difficulties as to discourage or defeat any attempt to deal with or resolve it.

–verb (used with object)

3.	to hinder, block, or thwart.

here in canada

The multiple perspectives of ourselves chanting a whistle rhyme. We dine and wine for pleasure, what else? Give me your garlic smell because the apex of your legs smells like fish. Too obvious shitface? See it on the eyeballs through the screen to your silhouette and the way it was meant to be. Fingers seem as if they should be available, flexible, at all points until it’s too cold to punch codes into buildings or form words. You are this and that shitface. I always talk around the subject, but today I’m going to point at its bulls eye. We are indulgent folk who are criticizing ourselves—each aching, passing moment—for what we want to indulge in. You, sir, I want you in my pants. The psychedelic fashion makes for a punching sensation of time. I don’t care if you think I’m perfect, stupid, stupid, fecting, stu, pidting. Say it with your tongue out, my eye lids weeping for your approval. Is the wetness on my toes the likes of defrosting? What are you doing, in there Sarah Common? I, sitting here on this couch, and you in the paint. Keeping going, don’t ever stop, or look back, but of course I will. Bells give off the feeling of time passing, and we wish to defy the linearity of it all, point a, birth, point b, death, blast the window open letting the outside air in. Smelling so good. Dripping down, pitying, emoting, while the pussy cat watches from the corner. Passing by pictures that effort to parenthesis memory. Places so soft, sometimes self-professedly scarred, long hairs covering the wounds. Sad that they should be called wounds. Bananas heal all such wounds. Friend’s make for devilish perspectives when you;re weeping without choice. I’m frozen now. Didn’t you say that we should forgive all destruction regardless of severity? Were you reading this ever. Was anyone sufficient when the twenties could bring on such egos. We’re, sob, so, sob, open, sob, to, sob, sob, destruction. Getting fucked up makes it feel so alternatively bless’ed. So good. Cook it up with some sesame and garlic. Cook me up in your kitschy kitchen. No bite, just sweet. Like the coconut milk soup and wine.

ponder the birth

ponder the birth when the date strikes.

one year back i was aboard a van taxi to a campsite that lies outside of venice, italy with girls, disreputable to my taste, invading my karass. one year, with what to prove, if proving be something necessary to mark time and the distinction of age.

i was shacked up in a bungalow with an old woman presumably from the mid-west of America, and i hadn't minded the lack of love on my birthday weekend because becoming acquainted with the city was to define Twenty. someone from the past did save me though, we waited for her vaporetti for a fearsome hour as she navigated the italian transport system to rendez-vous for the weekend holiday. she deboarded the bus boat, flooding relief from my tightening throat. the time spent together was dually wonderful and torturous. thick spaghetti, buxom glasses of wine, a jazz restaurant with bras dangling from the ceiling, a new zealander's drunken kiss, ping-pong with senegalese staff of the campsite, losing ourselves on the outskirts of venice with the tenderest of spanish families--moments i haven't thought of since... to remember them now makes me feel blessed. on october third, two thousand and five, all members of the karass returned to paris to oblige their obligations.

i've always had a wrecked feeling inside when most all people of my karass prefer schedule to sporadic spontaneity. somehow when those i consider members of my karass point-blank neglect to make sacrifice for what i feel should be willing love, i am always saddened. why can't i just expect nothing or less, always. but the birthday fell, as planned, reconciled, and welcomed, to solitude on vaporettis taking me to the techni-colored water village of burano where a genuine pannini and glass of chianti held me over for the stretched trek back to the sixteenth arrondisment. this following the most cool and sweet scooped gelatti, which had been breakfast after a delightful night of drinks with an australian family and some southern exchange students. we'd crawled through the thin streets in pouring rain to another bar. how i made it back to the campsite, i'm not so sure, but i was so alone and if i hadn't have been wiling to venture in solitude, i wouldn't have molded such memories. in retrospect, i deem myself courageous.

most times in europe as i hopped trains and planes to touch different places, disregarding companionship as a necessity for travel, i did feel quite alone. however certain tokens of alliance kept me soothed. a package sent from the santa barbara west coast that i anticipated every day but never received, french customs finding it more appropriate to ship it straight back to the west coast. cecila and julie's strange bond and their embrace of me. madame delacote's care.

what i took from the moratorium from life, abroad, i'm still not so sure. one year following the wet birthday alone in venice, i critically admit to being quite the same. still weary of love and the excessive ways of men. still graced with a heavy soul. still antsy when stagnant or alone. still absorbed in the duality that renders the sensitive thinker in a constant battle. jerked by the highs and the lows, with no avail. i've been fortunate enough to evade any direct tragedy. i have a slight feeling this next year may not be so peaceful in terms of death. but how happy i am to report that although at certain times in this last year i felt utterly out of control of my own life due to the misfortunate ways of others, i've gained a grip wholly independent of heart strings. i've taken a job that dips into one's psychology. this is not always easy. but i hope to find motivation to do something with/about the evidence that sadly drenches upon me whenever i enter the realm of isla vista, or the whole of our society in general.

i want to find someone who meets me. subtle in our approach, we'll take eachother's hands, both laden and light, and grip-- without expectation. without necessity to be falsely complete. we'll tell each other stories with our hands, on sand and between trees. we won't care for just ourselves, but bask in eachother's abilities to care so much for others. most importantly, there will be an oozing confidence in all that we define. okay, this "we" term has reached it's fantastical capacity for the evening... onward... (boko-maru on my subconscious)

birthdays often feel too loaded to bear. perhaps it's when the moon falls that makes this date out to be so weakly trusted. sha-sha to bottoms up, shouts the man scratching out the m.i.p.'s. the chancellor sending birthday wishes and safety instructions. if i were to be back in a foreign country, this day would be like all the rest of the days that mark my birth. counting my life in annual swings, without a viable sense. my birthday wish this birthday of the most reputedly non-arbitrary of birthdays, to be happy and in love with the karass that gathers around me.

a note from the underground of my heart: smile, when the transient lifestyle beckons. disconnect stealthily from this concept of connection and hope in the selfish life mates, live the days as lived on october third in venice, when the downpour sucked at my ankles but not my felecity.

practice sentences

These, some of my trivial thoughts while living abroad, used as content for practice sentences composed in my creative writing class...

I was in dire need; I had to attain a source of satisfaction; my mind was nearing a threshold; muzzled by my sober boredom, on the brink of ripping implosion; I had the moderately molding apple, the instrumental poking pen, the two-euro, rip-off-of-a-lighter, the intoxicating Nag Champa Indian incense; I had to get high, high like home, to my soothing, native mentality; on an expansive, idealistic, breathing journey, I wanted to inhale the grass-green, tea leaves; but there was no remedy to be found, no remedy.

Suave, without any shame, not sober, not drunk, with sexed eyes, without a heart, the Frenchman worked his waving hips into mine, below the raunchy illuminations of the dance club, and whispered upon my neck, beneath my ear, words incomprehensible to an American girl.

Skies run like metros and my vision spews. Six million leaves and ways to leave the place behind. Skies run like metros and my vision spews.

Grandmother is old, stone colored, and alive. She tells me to run to Bagatelle, not wanting me to fatten. Marie Antoinette sat on this same dusty, moss-creased bridge and masturbated. Newly implanted prostitutes make pleasure for a price in the forest.

I feel warm on the periphery of Paris, when the leaves succumb to God’s poem, shouting “Ahhhhhhhhh” in robust whispers. Leaves remind me of babies, and when they are curled and brown, they remind me of dead babies. We know Marie Antoinette didn’t have any. I wonder if I will.

The stumps tell the leaves to shut up. And the gray screen, color of pussy cats, beckons the rain. And we tell ourselves to abuse hope, destined to die in palimpsest wrinkles wet still with mud. And we cry when we suffer because we come upon a pathway through the yellow-lime trees, laden with pungent excrement. It is unforgivable.

I am a huntress out to murder the essence— small but just as vivid as the tree that perches at my opposite. I am the huntress. Color is my prey and I will play the mortal game until it is mine to display on hard mantelpieces, digitally now. I am the huntress and I will prod the rock until it bleeds the thickest ruby blood. I— you façade-bearing savages, raped by green paper, deplorably parched for more—am the huntress.

francais scrabble

Salty, fish juice feels saucy/On my ginger-cleared pallet/Men and many elevate/To hissing and kissing ground/Subterranean jetting/Pellets move them, anonymously/Alone/Did the dirt disappear after the silence was robbed from the ants?/Did they dislocate to Luxembourg/Fresh scent, companions to the old dogs?/Take down imprints of scumbags/Homeless with the luxury of dreams/On avenue, fat lady, white smeared/Has her patisserie with the rest/I find her colored rags endearing/Her frequency silly/Satisfying/Even she finds purpose in Paris

some old "inky" from france

In the inky crux of my body, I left the place that was all else but mine and spat choking on type-written words, tricking by stuffing, facing by ignoring, to try to transcend

wanting. Him, feathered after the war, singed burning for hopelessness on the outside of the island, fainting the Man, his clean, aesthetic needs for neat, smart streets and owning the fattest, pink cow in dreamy pastures

wanting me eating cow cheese and milk—enormous—suspended in districts sharp with sharp trashcans, green like the Jaguar that got them to the flat, securely affording foie gras bought by au pairs with blank checks while they are robbed of two euro coins, poor

wanting sly marks in sly circles oozing hate from talking heads making mercy, making sacrifice for unwrapped, dirt-colored other heads who meet in staunch basements to dance and find mediums between identities amid sheets of prophets and blood

wanting me inside the city but outside the news, with ciders and wines of glory, thrusting my head out of metro line six to see an offering of the sunrise on tracks to the abbey submerged in packed sand, on an order to see, because I have the dough to see

wanting mind-inventions and misconceptions and futile wonderings of woman kissed kept nestled against my box cat who were never there or found so I painted smudged scenes with sad satire, synsthesia sexy, stark bald somethings to pass the time instead, because I have the dough to pass the time

wanting to shed and fuck the scheme interpolated in me by the Freudian capitalists that want tits and pussy to mean expansion and imported cigar smoke at heartless, slick conference tables they can see their nose hairs in, while the dough renders sharp and prickly in my back pocket

wanting it not to matter, but I won’t give it away, never will I get it away, to the shivering, lovely Israeli man squatting in the metro stop I blink eyes with, sorry, not sorry enough to take the minute to give the change because I don’t have time and the dough is stuck in my back pocket by me, but I’ll blame the scheme of the Freudian capitalists to have and build and be happy.

But the lovely Israeli man is shit lodged in the sole of the shoe and doesn’t have any, and neither does the Arab woman without a toilet or an oven or a breast, so she sells her mastectomy to the tourists because how else is she to survive, while the rags of a man in the Portuguese pension spew and yack words in his language that I don’t understand, maybe begging, too, or telling me the meaning of life, but I wouldn’t know it because I don’t know his language

wanting art for arts sake for the murdered God in the smog that raped the stars instead of the dough, while Bob Marley moans jams smoked in reggae tones selling tee-shirts everywhere from Hell (hope the moral) or I think heaven, to burn pollution tonight, burn illusion tonight

wanting to go up high with him and melt into the madness and cynicism feigning Beckett’s language tweaked to show the void presupposed by history that is life, weeping for it even though my tears were dried up long ago to be outfitted in armor for the affliction of my mother and my grandmothers and him that fucks me

wanting stars fixed in time tonight to be hope, as Yeats wrote in poems entrenched in battle, cracking necks out at angles to see them, faithfully confessing what one needs and dreams to get through the tea-soaked pages to The End alive, if you are lucky

wanting saxophones and smooth ivory keys to tell stories elucidating human idiosyncrasy, passion, dying for one more blow of clean sounding air and one more key hit, while dipping my heart in the ink, suffocating in pieces of papers of blood-black words until I die beneath a gathering of stones, wanting to give Him a name and call Him God.

wha A o

What's to be said, hello dolly. Can't make sense of comprehension right now because all I want to do is get lost in beats, tones, lipping words from the inner-part of the stomach, instead of lost in the moths. Their invasive wings in my house make so much sense. Why I don't sweep out the cubbards and demolish their nesting ground, I'm not so sure. Laziness is pegged as the reason.

I am a degree. One, perhaps seven, of obsessive compulsive. Can't everything be in line. Damn New Found Glory on the radio. Eww indeed. What encourages tastes to change? Revolution in decision and/or circumstance. I'm no longer satisfied with Zeilsteen Radio, switch it up to classical. Not even then--can't I escape back to Ms. Ruby with the Clap as she sings Tracy Chapman. We were talkin' bout a revolution in my most delicious of rides. She makes it nearly enjoyable to be a commuter. However at the end of this week, I'll be vivisected by wheel forms. Drive to the university land, where knowledge and intellect are commodified, park the car in the grid-lock, and bump the beach cruiser to the hall of Cheadle. Cheat-lll. Avoid $420 some dues to park my car within walking proximity of the office.

The office. Is there any way to avoid that concept in my future? In the office we effort to bandage the non-consensually sexed. Bureacratically why of course. It's not necessary to share details, because no one really has patience for those. They say it's due to lack of time, but really, their ears are corked with cement in the mornings before coffee and the poor-man's shower. Corked, NO, not corked, LIFE stupid lady. Did you know we have moths in our cubbards and they even have tried to share my pillow, not subtly, they zip right down on to my Beech, dark red pillow case and act as if they can stay their because they are... they are... they are, mothy!

Today I feel like seeing someone cry. Just wrecked with distress and passion. Unable to see past the tsunami of tears shredding their barely unpeelable eyes-lids. Even if it be me in reflection of some streaked mirror, because when are things impeccably clean unless your neurosis force you to be a house-wife and engage in an intense affair with dust. Dust, dear sir, is my nemesis.

Work it, man. Let your freak-flag fly.