OUR ART IS THE ART OF OUR LIVES FAITH IS THE ULTIMATE TECHNOLOGY IT IS OUR BELIEF WHICH CREATES STEP WITHIN YOURSELF
To a bed of thorns a nameless reader wakes Will there ever be a perfect name? Not even perfect, but what’s a title to a book of poems?
The Kids Who Stare Straight At The Sun
I wanna be where the honeybee is on the other side of the fence with wings.
Welcome to the age of Imagination. Empty storefronts all across the nation waiting to be fucked with. Nightlife is stagnant, stale like old chips. Children can transform into anything and everything amidst our limitless abyss, which seems far from hopeless, but hopeless they live. The American Dream is officially dead. Everything is changing and yet the value of tradition stays the same. Evolution is looking us right in the face but we’re blind to this kind of change.
The good, the evil, the power! I'd say we're addicted to all of it. If you look around you can see the kids are dying by their own hands and their streets are full of poison. Who puts it out for them? And why are they so excited? Maybe that's ignorant. Because are they? Excited to be dying? They can't be, but they are dying. Crying too, pleading screaming for mercy from their creator. People are unhappy, and they have been for so long. There's statistics on statistics on statistics. People are mentally sick. Are we truly trying to change this? Our solutions are weak, and we can blame it on the big bad government forever but what the fuck happened to loving your neighbor? I'm not a Christian, I don't believe in him exactly, but I do believe in something, I'm a soulful being. A human being, as are you. So imagine all the people sharing all the world. Practice what you preach. Fuck hypocrisy! Imagine truth set free!
We write the times. I could lie and say we're fine but I like imagining things differently. I like imagining myself steady. I think we should all imagine things differently, how else are we gonna escape our reality without dying? Fake it till you make it has always been my least favorite thing, and I assure you that's not the same as imagining. Imagining you don't fake anything, you're simply dreaming awake. You don't need to project any of it into reality, it's only for you to believe. So believe it.
From the Midwest Waiting Room
I’ll tell you what’s to love about a bad thing There’s no better time to go and no worse time to wait Adults once children left in the same heat Pack your suitcase for an island by another name
In uniform properly disguised as the rest the girl on hollywood blvd in the white leather lace ups is just leaving the eucharist
The fools imprint on my mischief I am a dog Impulsive What about her essence has you fixed? We’re hungry at our best In search of deeper sorrow Born to burn out
Stringing pearls Slipping into nylon Repeating to the self You are worthy of love
Rich pinkness bountifully lining the thread Completing the stitch Freeway gripping onto my soul like a chokehold My bloody spit stained to painted lines for miles I cracked open a black magic bottle About twenty five miles down the road You heard it shatter from the attic belonging to the mad hatter I just sat there
I wish I could remember how I got here I wish I hadn’t torn off both your ears I wish I would’ve written you an epic Because I could have Considering all the time I wasted
My days felt wasted I was a drowning ship With liquor on board Sloshing around in the cabin With everyone too drunk to realize what’s happened
I’d become a monster of my own making I stitched to me, a sentiment not so sweet I watched us boil in the heat I sat around and screamed And you watched me with eyes so patiently I met them and blew everything
I look back and the hotel room is in flames Probably because I like to feel everything Crying laughing screaming Shouting up at the stars to believe in me
We were talking about wars sitting on the bed this morning Your yawn made me sleepy
NONCENTS
The street rips into me Cuts me open sideways Guts spilling out onto the concrete I sat up against a tree Got up and it hugged me I started seeing things Talking to angels in my sleep While the fleas feasted on me I feel like I’m dying always The misunderstanding makes me sick Infected me with hate Nervous now at the sight of your face I’m unsafe And so you think I’M dangerous The ultimate rewrite My life becomes your free write
Between money & love I want nothing. If you shy away from the truth I have no reason to trust you. My heart broke when my history was left to rot in a basement. You fed me beauty and then stabbed me with the knife you used to cut our meat. The past is enough to kill me. Poet isn’t Poet if they learn to eat with a stab wound at their feet. This family is a disgrace. I sense the solitude and the practice coming into me. I am Poet, I bleed out my mouth, you watch me. Wishing you gone doesn’t make me violent - it makes me honest - it makes me human. Death by blame shift. I set a boundary and you torch it. This violence of mine - it’s virtuous. I hold truth close to my heart - you burn it. Your deflection becomes my evidence. I will not let you flip the narrative. My survival will not be twisted. Accusations so manipulative. You weaponize fear to get under my skin. I end up feeling like a parent. Like I have to protect us all Against bullshit I didn’t cause You stay safe - You stay soft. I call you to say fuck off and you fuck off. You hold my hand and admit you’re not what I want. I feel shot. While you both get off to sunsets and soda pop. Then you berate me passively. Blame me for my being unhappy. My family murdered intimacy and then asked me out for a drink. You can’t bring yourself to name me. Go get a professional to cosign your beliefs and stay away from me. Take your lack of curiosity away from me. Who are you? What do I need? Two things you can’t seem to answer for me. Now that’s fine, but get the fuck away from me.
Night of the Moon
How could I not write It was our whole lives Cast out in front of us
A trick almost An escape too close to reality My grip is loosening completely I know nothing. Nothing but eyes I wish now to memorize How incredibly fucking silly
A night so holy So perfectly complete Like a fresh blanket of snow First thing in the morning The glory of sensation traced back to your figure Like a trigger made of diamonds I shutter to the whisper of what was surely Pronounced by Gods as so I know nothing but the Night of Moons And where a trail of smoke leads To a mythical bedroom made of gold Solid and pure But broken open like a hole in a seal Realest person I’ve met in my life Says the child mid diary entry mid night I say to love with her. Love her.
The shit I’ve accepted. I write reality I say - and then… Smoke - empty stomach - same old attitude Bad clothes - bad teeth and hair and skin When it could all be better. I could demand more.
Poet: Not enough water, time, healthy food, or exercise
NPC: NO WORK! WORK MORE! WORK FOR MY FRIEND! WATCH MY PETS! FUCK OFF!!!!!
Poet: Ok
Poet: I just wrote a poem, what a good day
NPC: THAT’S NOTHING, YOU ARE LAZY
Poet: I came up with an idea that could help people
NPC: YEAH BUT IT WON’T, YOU CAN’T EVEN HELP YOURSELF. AND I CAN’T EVEN HELP MYSELF. I’M FAT. OVERWORKED. TIRED OF TELLING MYSELF AND OTHER PEOPLE THAT THEY’RE TOO TIRED.
I CAN’T UNDERSTAND THE TRUTH.
Poet: I hope you know you’re horrible
NPC: I TRY MY BEST AND IT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU
Oh fuck. It’s everything - from food to sleep It’s all wrong I can’t save us this far down. Wherever we are. I’ve accepted my having something to do with it. You can’t be okay day after day after evening After evening spent like that. No. I love you very back. Cold shoulders. Warm Faces. Lies lies lies. It’s Livid The coffee the writing I didn’t know this book would be for limbo But I should’ve assumed
You go back I go back And somehow when I see you again you’ll know not to be so stupid You don’t even know what you’re doing I want to offer it to you again - this time - knowing what you need
The transformative mouth - truly All the power sets in - the fire The working person
I bask in a truth so unique. To publicize my mind would be a crime. It all fits in there just fine - it whips, it guides, burns, and survives. I’m always two feet from a door with a shitty rough draft in my hand looking for the type of recognition someone like me wouldn’t even understand. I’ve been tricked, like my uncle was - poor thing - spent his whole life in Hollywood and there’s still no movie - I couldn’t tell you how he sleeps. I’ve completed over ten books of poetry. The foundation doesn’t know me. I get sad for a moment and then I think. The writing of mine is so important to me because it reminds me of me - and if it does this well enough - the irony I think, is that my words could remind you of you - and no amount of readers could ever matter because no words hold that kind of power. To be an author, to be an artist is to breathe - and we’re being tricked I think - into working externally - being led outside of ourselves in search of greatness - when greatness will forever lie within. What validation do I seek? Who’s word is the highest?
I’m angry with our world I’m angry peace seems impossible Then I get happy I’m angry Happy I’m alive enough Happy I care enough to be upset By the impossible I can feel my spirit lifting These words coming Despite nothing - for everyone
Street Walkers
In the belly of the beast We’re on beat Freaky past bus lines And tracks We’re little monsters in the street Asking for meat and silver Beneath the downpour Packing our nails with dirt Sipping winning wines Made of old fruit
Interpret Nothing
The rage I write with follows me around Festers like shame or a dream that warns
My shrine for our mystery holds a dusty blade A tiny confetti square A drying out wax flower A mussel’s shell Stamps, a sex toy, a skate tool and a red staple gun
The rage I write with hates It smokes and fucks too! Have I become the sum of four odd breaths…
We pause the conversations we’re having with ourselves to pass one another on the street where Mad Men hugging wooden boards with their feet are flying past me red for gravity Wearing scars and missing teeth Racing black-blue bodies down killer hills risking tomorrow for history
Anthropomorphism and The End
I’m wearing a synthetic gem like I believe in nonsense And it’s stolen I name the operating system like you would a child And pay it my attention I grab my pet and paint it rainbow So it’s coat suits me I press my hair and melt the ear flesh For years until I’m competent I snatch flowers off the vine and out the field Resting them on top my ears
Barefoot on the roof with a day moon and seagulls I profess a short fuse to you Spewing possibility as the thief, as a lady As Lady Poet
While oceans turn litter to collectable Swollen seas meanly eat the pretty label Of a tooth cracked bottle Now dulled sweaty in a fist Sits the token going inside Walls, ideas, commitments Lies in plain sight
Strap that seaglass on silver And wear it through the winters Name it too, like you would your baby Soft reminders
Unlocked City Door
My right eye read the note left, and it started to twitch like you do in bed. The note said something about a burnt down house and a better view of the moon, and it was written in ink on my leg.
I’d predict the unexpected before breakfast to avoid it The mess, the pictures, the press Unnatural disasters don’t rest, and the moon isn’t going anywhere Build a skylight and buy glass cleaner, unless you’re the one setting fire’s Ignoring a shoulder for a depiction of order Spaced out like a little purple flower
I don’t take advice, and I won’t give it when I’m older I threw a glass bottle from a window out of anger I turn to face the digital hour, and aim to design her louder Bolder is a self published writer
As a thief, locks and keys are purely symbolic to me, and I find that behind an unlocked city door things are truly interesting. A lady poet is writing. A rapist, rat, and alien are fighting, pouring beer onto the floor in defiance. A hippie turned addict gone violent, in the bedroom feeling up its weapon. These types aren’t concerned with a break in, and when I poke my head in, I’m welcomed, and they all ask me what my story is, and I’ve forgotten what I’ve come in for.
I can’t figure the thief from the angel, and something stole my coat, so I stopped buying beautiful clothes. I pick up for the robot, because it’s calling us nonstop, and then I hang up. This isn’t the job I want. I’m eating cheese like a mouse behind the machine telling it what to cut. This dead computer, my savior, the fragile working thing destroyed by one rock between the screen and the keys.
If I grow old as the smell of a rose, will god love me more, or will he choke? If my home is a version of heaven will he adore me more or be jealous? Do you ever ask yourself why you do it?
I took a shot at a rabbit once, and I’m glad I missed I asked myself, how do you do it?
Down that hole Like Alice, I’m clueless Being brought gifts Whilst growing and shrinking human having tea and cake with the insane again
Feeling bit into and gushing
Sipping green with the traveler from Tennessee Who said he’d go and buy a teapot with me
Yeah, No, Fuck You.
Got off in the backseat How’s that for accessibility? Rebecca bite me! Ouch burn Ooo come fight me please?
I’d been faking it Hadn’t made it far and my body’s all sore L shaped headache galore Smoked half my pack cause I’m bored Wanna forget but I can’t Wanna get up and dance but I can’t my foots pinned to the floor and the other a little deer in the road but hot damn I’m one hell of a poet
Writing life in six moments like all my living is one continuous poem
twenty first century hippie
I’m not catholic, but can I attend the adoration anyways?
I saw flowers for sale today and I need to pray to anything.
I understand you picked them, but why did you?
The dried poppy on my wall is useless, as is any flower business. Well beyond the age of reason did I figure this.
I sniff liquor off the painted lips Get blinded by the glittering slits Tonight to me the city looks like midnight sky mirrored onto concrete Shiny wet twinklings strung from branches lining the kept streets Reflecting in chromatic gas puddles and mini asphalt seas Swarms of drunk souls fluttering in waiting lines around me It’s PROM night in the Cow Hollow for all the Yuppies! The artist saw sequin walking he told me
I like wine in a teacup because it’s kitschy as fuck. Turn me all the way the fuck up! Have we met yet? Hi my name is Livid.
I decided it’d be me to bleed the streets non edictally Giving you the worst of me In red paint Fucking up your silly empty driveway Give me the right of way already Aren’t you all on pills and dying? I’ve got something better than powders Sip this magic like english elixir Let it fix you up You’ll be burping prose all month Promise me you’ll scream it all at the top of your lungs!
Kitschy Undercover
“Cover the knife” around stones with promises they can’t keep pencils with personality and stuffed mockery smiling its eyes at me saying buy me
All we say is thank you, and I’m sorry the modern day words rotting in the mouth of the herd Isn't there more?
Another hour escapes me What can I do to feel free? Stop photographing fucking ice cream. I don’t have the confidence to preach.
The houses on the hill are white with red roofs The rules read sketch a tired face quietly while dreams is playing sell lego’s to bad people and give fake compliments damn it! This is a business!
Determined to write verse heard across the world I don’t follow a single rule and watched as her head hit the slippery bar floors just as I’d smacked mine against the teeter totter pulling myself up to gaze at you harder and in the distance you can hear all the plates breaking against the ohio tracks fast and angry waking the twenty first century hippie from his sleep
Rigged game, how do you play it? Professional thieves, how do you identify them? God damn ornaments with smiley faces and shit, do you buy it? DO YOU USE THE BACKS AND SOLES OF DREAMERS TO SELL DREAM CATCHERS? Tell me, how does a human being get used to packaging?
Brainwash me into thinking this is healthy Oh so good for me! You have nothing on the high wire artist who’s convinced me I’m free! The wire walking dream made reality It’s impossibility spun into invincibility Phillipe is Free!
No Rock to be played in the gift shop I’m not me I’m earning paper dollars while asleep even because my body’s anticipating the day I’ll spend waiting around two open doors for money There’s no time for inventing only selling, sleeping, and pretending on the thinnest ice and it’s not only today on this day of my life Its history It's what did she do differently other than writing in pencil this morning
Remembering those metal instruments and wishing for a desk I took things seriously and got depressed safe to say it's for the best because I like the way I dress in comparison to them I’m not sick of it I’m sick and high as shit I don’t want dress coded I’m goated but I keep choking on my own spit I can’t seem to express it only red hearts and stress sweat undressing to the sight of your neck and breathing in your wholly naked breath your trust pressed against my breasts our sex made infinite lips locked to the darkness and I feel like the hire wire artist entering into a life or death kind of focus growing breathless but we’re restless love making hellions in heat hot enough to make it our deathbed
I decided I’m the lioness making you the witch and our wardrobe’s big as shit holding all the coats we stole off the backs of the rich heartless pricks who treated us like garbage when we didn’t have the cents
but we’re more intelligent so we wore those coats home in the frigid snow hung them for their first time being held by wire One week later we set them on fire at a sort of fashion show in Narnia So much smarter we spread the ashes as though they belonged to martyrs and made history behind closed doors like the legends we are and then we went ahead and burnt our only exit and the car sat right where we were and heard the whole world at the mouth of a shell You said it was loud I said oh well
That’s how we dodged jail and you pointed out how this would make a great tale and so I carved it into whale bone and sold it to my own soul for a grand and some change and god damn did that sale change everything everything I’ve ever wrote appeared somewhere on earth in stone and so you cast a spell to protect my word and when we touched back down to earth I murdered the entire herd grew a mane and embodied universal change but evolution spit in my face and we lost all hope in the human race and it wasn’t long before god came warning me of my mistake appearing pale and drunk off whiskey he tried to kiss me and I slapped him silly thinking god’s nothing but a drunken mockery of beauty
Ohio San Francisco
This morning another woman and I were deciding on which bakery items we were going to steal - she empowered me to take what I wanted - said fuck it and got 6 donuts - I really can’t afford it at the moment - and I didn’t want today to be so bleak - I used my autonomy - I’m a san francisco thief - $5.99 - fuck me
OHIO
a confused orange bitch - and my sister is too - except she’s paler and fatter - all tall and loud - like shut the fuck up - just shut the fuck up everyone - grab the glass plate - smash it up against the house and run - so far down the street I ran - jumped into a van - now I’m on the train - kicking back - telling jokes - wanting more I guess - how selfish - but fuck it - I’m a poet now - bow down - suck my thorns out - get neat - call me a freak - I need the heat - put me on a leash - tie me to your dreams - everything is dirty - so why so clean - take that shit out please - get down on your knees - get punished for claiming my identity - stealing little parts of me and making them yours to keep - don’t call me pretty - watch me lick my teeth - watch me whip your shit with bleach - get neat - stop trying to call me if I said fuck off already - only come back begging - don’t hit me with something sweet - that shit is disgusting - I already told you I have trouble being friendly - I don’t hide things - but last night I said some things - stolen donut glaze on the keys - whoops sorry - but not really - because I’m fuming - all hot and melting gooey - on a tuesday in this humidity - thinking about you and me - for way too long really - listening to the same shit that drugs me - lighting up the same shit that loves me - pissing off everybody - I get off the train - don’t feel like saying hey - kitschy translation - hey how ya doing - we should probably get moving - everyone is running super fast like it’s there last chance - so it must be ours too - and so we’re sprinting like super fast - about to trip - and then you yank my arm back almost breaking it - I think you did - but you said - if we keep running - we’re dead - I laughed my arm back into place - I told you we were running late - and you just winked - turning your back to me - I stood there in disbelief - in limbo with no leash - watching your destiny unfold in front of me - I stood there completely amazed by it - and ran over to see - or to stop you from fighting it - but you hadn’t disappeared in it - you were sitting in the fog ahead - ahead of what I wondered - I had no idea where I was headed to with the others
+ I write the self assigned adventure I today am a mythical creature Forgetting all awareness of distaste Towards the playful person The childlike wonder confined to a number of years We all leave sugar mountain with our tears But today I make a promise To seize each moment as though I were on A rescue mission of a lifetime I have to rescue myself from myself this time
+ Fat off pricey sweets craving bedroom heat without a paid minute to think
Yes with roses at my feet but for fucks sake I’m bleeding
Just don’t chase a thing Just buy a thing Go for a drink A smoke A sweet lip up the street Fuck the bartender with funny jokes flirting Wake to zero thoughts Sold by morning
Four Winged Creature
I feel like I’m gonna trip very hard and right onto my face, or be super late to a date I never arranged. I almost crushed a butterfly while I was thinking of you, so I picked it up and spoke to it, until it flew a few feet away before plummeting to the pavement. Where some boy spotted it next, and I was worried he’d step on it, but he didn’t. He picked it up too and took a photo of it on his fingertips, and later I saw it crossing the street but I looked away when the cars came, I couldn’t see it die, or, I didn’t want to. It’s eternal in my mind. Holding onto my affection, for whom I was really speaking to.
And while I am the butterfly I almost stepped on, so is everyone. People use bodies to inject dreams for fun, the otherness, to us, so impossible enough to bestow upon it all we’ve ever thought. Each alone with wonder for what’s never to be understood inside the other. We name it love and plummet.
I got rid of all my mirrors, I know exactly what I look like, I don’t need them.
The Impossible
I write to reach the impossible treating the unknown as an invisible stairwell tripping up unseen steps with confidence
Doubt posing as the sound of music and I don’t want us to hear it Over the bullshit I bite the magic dragons ears off and call off our search for God
We begin spiraling upwards deaf together The kingdom sits so incredibly precious
We look SO incredibly badass
Skyscraper to Skyscraper
Know I won’t miss if I fall Taking a walk Holding your hand across the tightrope Misunderstanding the weight of it all
Preach the consequence of failing to face your existence Each walk is precious Skyscraper to skyscraper Searching for heaven
Romanticizer
I pictured us cold unloveable monsters
you see how much imagination has been at play on all four feet
ice or heat real life or fantasy writing or good morning
Who are the humans to describe the nature of demons?
All gossip is schizophrenic gossip Telephone won’t Telephone hasn’t stopped shit
+ Blushing in darkness Dirty swallowed by the night We’re treacherous Wishing to relive this every chance we get
The Investor & The Noble Amateur
Destiny, please fight my ego The investor tells me we’re early Only twenty
There’s someone on the phone A past voice telling me to come home
My hair is soft and I like myself, still.
The Investor :
The new world orbits Around my becoming I’m numb to nothing
So grossly fascinated By rockets that shoot out the earth Like spit
Towards all Holy motion Force be the fire
The Noble Amateur :
Foreplay so remorseless Force be the fire Over our dead corpses
So you speak Spelled out in bone too eh? You’re a poet in the making
The Investor :
The Thief kept you around for dopamine
The Noble Amateur :
Enter my dream sharp things entering me slowly
You’d call this a nightmare as if struggling isn’t healthy
But a dream of five moons Now that’s a warning!
What do you want from my story? Why does it seem you’d have no trouble writing it for me? Deciding who I get to be? Why is it you desire ingenuine anything?
Like those expensive women tossing themselves across streets in silk on Monday for good old fashioned play
The Investor :
Some people would rather die than backseat drive Okay?
I’m entitled to the good life Because I want it bad enough - That’s right My art is the art of my life From the junk drawers to drunk prayers I stare into the eyes of greed And condemn the idea for shitting on Personal experience…Okay Okay?
The Noble Amateur :
I’m Entitled To The Good Life Because I want it bad enough - That’s right My Art is the Art of my Life My poetry is our table top Lit up by candle light
If the wannabe king and I Are eating beside each other
I raise my glass to him I raise my glass to him as the real life Noble Amateur
Pilot
My assigned and rebellious will to invent something priceless tucks me in tonight like no mother ever could Its romantic violence portrays death beneath my eyelids It puts the hourglass bedside It spills its tedious lullaby all on the sheets like wine Staining a drunken frame into my mind It pours its half empty glass down my throat and lights up another ten smokes for each one of my holes Sick bastard reads me the most fucked up bedtime stories it’s ever wrote With pictures so graphic they pinch your nerves
It licks me clean and sticks cane sugar to me Disguising me as a free sweet Then you turn around to taste me And I ask you, is it working?
Tell me, do I deserve things?
The Dentist
The office is blue and the flies flew from the fruit and into my shadow
“You bite down hard on nothing don’t you?”
At the hand of the dentist In awe of metal instruments I’m Impressed
The Standardized Mind on U.B.I.
I want a shower with a nice head And a soft bath mat for my feet I want a gas stove And fresh meats to cook each week I want a functional wardrobe And one incredible pair of boots I want a quilt and nice pillows on a bed And a big beautiful vanity to stare at my head I want a big robe to hang near my bathtub And slippers to walk around my house in I want books and bottles sitting open And right up against the noses of my guests I want candles lit every night And musicians playing by the fireside I want the people's love And I want to love the people I want the earth to hold me correctly While I cradle it in sync
Noble Amateur
Moon Ink is fucking with pens past ten PM Guns, Cans, and the Heads of men Blood red binding Black paint kissing street Tiny knives slicing lines into things
How I keep it going. Coffee in the house A tab, tabs, a yellow cab as a contact A bad mom and dad
I run circle eights in a tiny space I order meat because I’m dying I write in the cafe alone looking at no one I have no money Only honey sugar sugar, sweet sweet loving Memories, Curses, Diseases, Bruises, and Shy Feelings
Sorry I’m never sorry That I always speak the truth even when it hurts us Fuck do I know what’s good for us But I listen as my gut throws words up Honest ones that cut And I mean every one of them
I don’t know where trust comes from A Cocktail, A Meal, This Drug, A Muse A sore and confusingly sensual ruse Nonsensical news to you I know
And If I sound wild or strange It’s because I don’t trust a word I have to say Just enough to say it anyways I have no control over the thoughts in my brain Only enough to think the next thing I'm not the one writing I'm not the one writing Its ink to me Black lines retreating Rhyming only what's stuck to my memory
Who keeps it for me? And how much is in me?
I want away from the case I want my paid break Where’s my predatory donor? I need an apprenticeship, a bite of something rich Could you cut me a check just to fuck with?
No fuck this, I’m the land pirate I go and get it I get away with shit A sneaky fucking slit I’ve resorted to it
I won't go without a taste Read ambition on my face I'll get it all and leave my sour trace
The Investor
You blew into the vent like one hell of a catch with keys to you at the hip bone on a ring with mini things You remember?
You said awe I know What we own is special What we grasp and hold in the palms of our perspired hands What we see through eyes of grand innovation Yet what’s spared if not our children?
Luxury turned misery inside the mind of a twenty first century human being Slaves to glass locks and keys Sugar, Porn, and Weed
And if you did have a soul What would it say now to your symptoms?
It’d confess we’re magic grown kids going against all that really is for something grander larger than inhaling forest air bent capturing some complete picture filling the blanks in here and here painting particles of mind using plants for color looking busy like we’re proving something not to our brothers and sisters but to a mystery that finds us withering showing us again and again the ocean’s always been there pointing out the buildings standing over us and the poisoned ground for looks because of love and all the other destructive emotions because we felt them felt we could rule with them without noticing we’re at an end growing beating mad against nothing aging asleep to elastic static on television
And then you said If nothing else you’ll die an example of the mess and it will be written and you can’t control whether or not we understand it and why could you?
+ It’s difficult to be serious now The things I hate about you Are the things I hate about myself Of course I finally want to slow down I’m tired now of all the running around But when I was running I did believe in impossible things And that belief fueled a certain Magic in me. To run brought me Relief - running is passing things By quickly - and I passed things by In hopes of a more impossible life. Possible sounds so simply amazing Now. The best writing I’m capable of Producing is this. Honest and free. That’s all moon ink should be. Should is a fine word I think It bleeds into believing impossible things Should winks at our desire to be free! Should is exercising ones beliefs People don’t like it when you tell them What you think they should do - they don’t. Moon Ink should be honest and free - and so should you
+ Boots, when they fit, prepare you for the war that’s coming. Get your steel mug, and your backpack ready. Do you need a comb? A toothbrush? A routine? A necklace? I’ve written up so many lists. I’ve run back and forth from the house to the store too many times. I’m sore before the war has even started. Sick of cars, and paint, and knives,and guns, and guitars, and skateboards. Dirt and dust and little pieces of trash getting on and into everything. Holes in everything. Stupid little shopping trips and gifts and tricks. Bee stings to bullets. Time travel? I can believe in tomorrow and in the end of the world, but can I be a hero, a leader, a woman, and a poet? Of course, of course but at what cost? And for what cause? I’m infected too. I want it all too - whatever it is - I want it. Power and control, peace and soul. The boots that fit and prepare you for the war that’s coming.
Morning Papers
I’ve got this problem you see. I like writing when I’m not supposed to be, It’s how I got good, how else am I supposed to think?
Itching this single hive until I leave here today at five unless I’m fired by my own design - confused alive - I turn twenty one in a few nights, been writing most my life, so my best work really happens overnight.
I’m not bragging, I’m severely addicted to writing and it’s gonna bite me.
I won’t blame anybody, because society is you and me, and I’ve experienced enough heat this week between financial insecurity and anxious dreaming. I’ve been preoccupied entertaining the mind in all things, unalive even, and lately I find myself disassociating, finding there’s pain in not participating, but that it’s getting harder and harder to say the wrong things while removed from everything. I make out the irony in most things, and connections like that make it harder to sleep, due to their inducing endless questioning.
The worlds we know but can’t see - this is the job of poetry to me - mapping out a universe beyond bodies which bleed, making art a living part of me, beyond one identity.
+ Destiny, please fight my ego The investor tells me we’re early Only twenty lugging suitcases up dying city streets
I turned my back to an angel and it took the knife from my belt re-presented to me with the blade facing its wings it spoke “pay more attention”
We go eat and the fortune reads “a bold attempt is half of success” my subconscious is on the phone again calling me back home to watch the narcissist wail awhile longer and to better see the look belonging to my mother
I haven’t left the investor alone in so long Is god an angry god? Would it be upset if I ripped your head clean off broke all that fancy glass you bought for guests bound to hate you before the meal
Sabotage you accuse me of the thought Did you read the part where you die? What did you think of that? Say it to me again Sabotage and then once more but slower It sounds so fucking sweet leaving your lips because it let’s the doubt exist I know you're nothing but a crook breaking in to me escaping the responsibility that comes with speaking things into existence
Can’t you see I’m a codependent cunt Daddy I should really thank you because at least I found a rich one I’m his whole supply on a green leash batting my eyes at revelations and the bountifully weak vision
destiny, adore me I adopted the need to be needed My lust is inexplicably calculated Adore me more adore me More. reveal my heroism tell the stranger I am the one.
Why I’m Entitled To The Good Life
Why I’m entitled to the good life Because I want it bad enough That's right My art is the art of my life The wannabe king and I We dine
The nicest people I’ve ever met Had the messiest drawers I’ve ever seen in my life My first ever mistake was taking advice My second was taking my time It’s not a question of words It’s a question of Gods
I have no words without Gods I have three faces One you know, two you don’t I don’t know any though I read the beat in my chest Ready to explode That beat is all I know Like moonlight and water it makes me whole Okay with not knowing myself at all Because as much as I try The roses are rotting While I’m stupidly full of beats Feeding an egotistical beast Who only eats beautiful things I’m entitled to the good life Because I’ll die trying to live it Like every other human
3:49 I woke up for the rest of my life. Poisonous pink flowers planted along the highway I wrote an epic poem for a boy when I was seventeen I saw a man headbanging outside the perfumery This poetry speaks Volumes at least He asked me What makes good writing And unlike writing good Good writing should possess elusivity Achieved only by true puzzle making Each word won’t work to tell a story Each word works to reveal a story Rejecting predictability Good writing is impossible writing Writing which feels unauthored by any one person Paradoxically written by one person Good writing is radically honest Good writing turns life into ritual Confession into spell Good writing doesn’t follow rules Treats each page like a canvas Each sentence is a new color A new mood A new texture Your hand My sweater
Creative writing is about making the ordinary more exciting Taking the ordinary and creating rituals tied to spiritual realms A pencil becomes a sword, a weapon of mass persuasion Slaying the dragon of preconception
Impossibly human in its desire to explain the unexplainable Good writing illustrates this phenomenon Good writing illustrates our desire to know our self (God)
The Noble Amateur :
Since the dance I’ve searched for something similar I force my food down now since the dance I wasn’t sleeping too well since the dance So I worked the front desk of a hotel through the nights
And sometimes a song would play And I’d start dancing
The Investor :
The urge to be honest is violent There’s ice that chills your drink And there’s ice that kills you Moderation is medicine Better than Lovers Better than Friends
How To Get Away With Dreaming Awake
Purge every possession acting as a distraction, your reminders, time capsules, and your albums. The few things you can’t bear to erase will become obstacles, so choose wisely. Once your assumed needs are gone you’ll be left only with tools, your walls will become a box filled with tools, the little gray brick you use to make calls, your bibles back to back on the shelves, a heat machine, proteins, grains, and an endless water supply. Find and buy, or take lots of paper sewed together and hugging something durable like leather. Get an ink pen that feels good in your hand and between your fingers. Your written dreams will not be water, fire, or person proof, your written dreams are to exercise the impossibility of the dreams themselves. The language of your dreams only you can know, but the impossibility of them can be easy to forget. Must, you write them down, so that when you look at her it’s all you do, until your hand and fingers grasp the ink again and she becomes whatever she must be, to you.
Luckily for the dreamer who writes, no one considers them as they are. Writing is the only effective disguise on a dreamer, with it they’re free to dream whenever. They can be seen hovering above a half filled page, pen in hand, going unbothered by the polite. All while experiencing a reality as real as any. As king, as an Angel, or a Child again. Whatever they are, they dream hard, and not by choice. Nothing is a choice. This is how to get away with dreaming awake, other methods of doing so are for the insane. Imagine you were to speak exactly as you wrote, or if you were to read all of your verses exactly as you wrote them first, aloud. You couldn’t, lest you be diagnosed or killed. A dreamer writes lawlessly while the world has laws. Then there is to act, which will paradoxically destroy any dream. Most assume action and boast about having achieved their dreams, but reachable dreams put real dreaming to rest. Action becomes inaction when dreaming awake. Oh but then you’ll say you have more dreams to achieve! And spend your whole life achieving instead of dreaming.
I warn you, as I was once a possible dreaming poet, paranoid and full of anger, danger is to think you know things. I wished suffering onto my enemies despite mercy’s plea. I’m not where I’m supposed to be, but where I wished to be, and guilty. My dreaming is left to the landscape I’ve chosen over everything. My rage won’t go out, my city drives me fucking mad, It asks nothing of me, and yet I give it everything I’ve got, over and over. I wish to absolve myself, but no god will do me any favors. I am human, before I am a worshiper, and a dreamer before I am a writer. God resides regretfully inside me now, as I sickly seek out tragedy to wake the hero in me. I sold my soul to achievable dreams, and there’s no getting it back. So I warn the becoming Poet, dream only of the impossible and all this soullessness can be avoided. I once wanted a business, money in the bank, an endless love, and to never be alone in this life. What wildly difficult desires these are! How suffocated the soul must feel upon their presentation. All a true dreamer needs is a notebook and ink, they will then reign over kingdoms of their own design, and gain immunity to illusion.
Cherry Lips
"You're trying to get me to fall in love with you"
The horses in the trailer are all smiling at me
Coffee in 30 minutes I miss your lidless coffee cups Splashing us both
I crave the sight of you and your to go coffee lid-less Splashing around something wild
Black coffee cascading down your hand
It's farmland. Corn. Wheat Sky. Barns. And one hell of a sunrise.
Sorry is not the right word Truly I’m What’s a better word than sorry There isn’t one Forgive me Forgive me. I should have tried harder to trust you To give in, to give up, to love you fully I did try, but I didn’t breathe right I want to keep trying - I will always be trying I know I will be Even if you’re far from me Your hands, your eyes, your face, your love is with me It always was And yet demons rose Up and out my throat As though I could say anything in the world And I could, and I did, but I shouldn’t have. I welcomed the mess, but I made too many, Our love holds me to the brink… It holds me inside a space Where earth feels as though it’s splitting from my face Where a rose blooms and explodes itself in a necessary rage Red hot like candy Spinning inside a uniquely delightful misery I sob myself awake Doesn’t explain how money is on the way I just want to be where waves and cliffs meet Sipping coffee and spreading lunacy
This stillness Without bursts of joy Without the wonder of the eyes Their wandering curiosity Coming outwards from their being It's all talking Pats on the back walking A hug that does nothing You realize good hugs are a luxury
You and me in love smokes like one hell of a drug
If you leave me you won’t ever go so far in feeling without a shock of my believing in all we could’ve made. This is not a dream, rather, the reality of love making.
Every song we played rang torturously true because my mind is sweet for all those poets who raged endlessly Musing all I could ever want with you.
What I admire in him is everything I’ve struggled to be
A true artist blind to his own brilliance
How beautiful How anti
Who in the fuck am I to love me?
PETER Rabbit
A man gave me half his money Outside the diner in the morning
Your touch is electricity pulsing through me Rose closing up in the evening Oh the fucking fury
Id punch you harder Beat you Kill you maybe
With money maybe you’d become the very thing you hate Is that why you fear it? Do you fear power because you know you’d spoil it?
So horrible you’re over it More quickly than you got into it
Clusterfucking misery You rotten beast Slashing the eyes of me With a sight so awfully pretty
This complexity Better than me Anger which doesn’t belong to me You showed me
I could allow you to swallow me Chew me up and glue me To the inside of your body
Let me stay there Let me pray there
Watch me die there Inside your heart there Slumping over naked Thawing in the fire
Catch me alive there In your blood A spy there
Transmuting these voices Keeping you in focus For God is not the only one who notices
The paperboy from heaven The savior made livid
I want to make you angrier I want you to shut me the fuck up out of fear I see you all too well and I won’t let you die here Inside the magnitude which swallows you
It’s swallowing me now too All while I’m glued to the inside of you A space coming out from within you An infinite space consumes you
Would you let it consume me too? Would you glue me to the insides of you? Would you even accept forgiveness? Can you face your destructive nature? Can you battle this nature alone forever?
I will allow you to disappear And reappear An invisible angel
Near and dear and wanting Close and slow and holy Let me adore you completely Let me adore all of you completely So completely so you know Humanity
Let it burn you Incinerate you So you know
God is your one and only answer Let me be your dancer The one and only actor Never needing to know what’s the matter A faith based matter
I watch you and observe you with such sweetness I hate you so much I’d stay I hear your desire for perfection Let me shoot this down will you?
Let me write to you behind bars you build around yourself Let me in that holy space The one which determines your fate What will you determine inside yourself?
I want to walk down the road of disgust with you I wish to meet disturbance with courage I want to rise in love as to conquer the hatred of this world No matter how cold I’ll give you my hand I want all your keys to unlock me
Chianti Classico Dark luxury chocolates Sea scallops Anatomy art Waterfalls Weird People
I’m on a date with myself on Kings Hill So serious and bold I changed up my whole attitude
The smoke went down my throat nice The wine dripped down my pipes cleaner The food will feel like healing For I’m a believer
You don’t want to hear the sound of my voice I made up my own rules and followed them like law You were beautiful once Like a river stone Smooth and unique with grooves and teeth
My dad convinced me to cut off all my hair Said it would be convenient You send me dried wildflowers from the market You say you miss me but we both know you fear me I want to kill myself over money It wants me hungry My stress is eating away at me I want to go back in time And say a few less things You don’t love me You’re lying
Don’t mistake my song for sickness I don’t sing to tease and trick The heat spitting from my throat Is vicious yet Ruthlessly truthful and delicious If my song sounds like sickness You’re right to be suspicious You’ve inspired insidious wishes But my song is not sickness It’s truth clinging onto innocence Wishing love was objective Wishing that no matter how sick the truth sounded You’d listen
Your inner world burns chemical You hit the one and only note invincible Chills down my spine With the bricks exploding
Backwards you told me You loved me You sped down the Midnight runway Just to catch a glimpse Of a flame so holy
Limbo
Are the desperate ever accepted?
I got a call from Limbo Unexpected I picked up the phone and it said Disguised thoughts are of interest.
Later I meet a man bearing gold and fruit he smirks and I take a million looks before I label him danger in pretty attire Politely Infiltrating Promising worlds to the vulnerable
Tonight he’s telling me my worth while the wood burns with its smoke slithering through his broken scheme Telling me what’s to love about a bad thing
In limbo breathing in less oxygen than smoke burning pencils in a circle of tropes
The tortured makes eyes at me pulls me aside and says Don’t you dare adore me Hissing at me, but all friendly with an indescribable beauty
What if I’d wished to be disturbed? Don’t you see? I’ve taken uncertainty’s hand romancing uncomfortability and dancing taller by the day
Alien Desire
Are you warm enough? I want to soak inside the tub until you call me by my new name
I want to craft the perfect leather shoe garnering zero complaints Articulating only strength all on it’s own
I want the sun to turn me orange pink rose
All business is tension and I’m stuck in it wishing all my skin would fall off me revealing a freakish set of bones spelling help me
Never quite sure if I’m ever really more than a bag of bone and meat for the alien species bound to plastic wrap me, but regardless just adore me, and make tonight exciting! Let’s go please, we’re going to be late.
Hues perfecting "this is the poetry" My mind expanding - contrasting with fashion - undesirable action They're napping again - Humility just doesn't understand It's all a made up plan Alcohol finally sounds appealing to me It's all a made up plan revealing itself to me Working away on business just the same as cats and dogs chasing things Skin deep inside this misery Opening up God out a cavity recently created inside of me You want - I want - to be crazy - crazy enough Whoever wants it bad enough I'll race you to the front Eyes like water pouring into deeper water I'm the preachers daughter - light me up one more Smoke is a whore - So lucky so almost fucking lucky Heaven above me - self harm below me So almost lucky I would've been a dreamer
I sent a poem to my best friend She didn't say shit - Immune to bliss Brain like a neverending riot
+ I never said a bow wasn’t cute I said how do you do it? My sister wrote a damn good piece About jumping out of an airplane at 18
Fresh mint on my lips Are you alive yet? A poet yet? A legend yet? Your life feel like the movies yet?
Dancing is only fun if you’re doing it like you fuck Slow dancing is hugging while you sway Melting onto somebody
To be honest I want to be a dancer So I use words To move me instead I want to feel it. The night. The day. I like it when you grab me, pick me up And throw me I like it
+ All of a sudden the art matters none That’s all ego - the art must be the art of my life To hammer away at something for respect I don’t even know what I’d do with I’ve always wanted the same shit Just got caught up in the idea that I should be known for it But truth is I don’t even know what I am So I’d be known for confusion
I write poems like singers sing music I’ll do it for, and for her kids Getting these words on my body Didn’t mean do something - it meant I am something
The cherry tree will come Everything must stay packed And I must keep silently collecting
Lucky Brand
I want you and everyone to know that I’m lucky but I don’t know which coat of mine would make people believe me
Which haircut would hit like a soft fuck Which temporary sole says I’m cool
I won’t get rich playing a fool I won’t fall for a heart so cold
Keep rearranging images bent for by a stranger to you Keep up your pathetic ruse
All just to die somebody’s muse I felt like that once too.
If beauty. If you & me. If a connection were ripening We’d be free of the sickness felt when questioning The pain in second guessing I think this way If love were present the pain’d be different A kind of pain you feel when you aren’t sure What to do about the gravity of love Which finds you shivering So cold and different - bold, lasting, icy Hot like ice Not fire The Burn of Forever
A burn like forever Only losers visit friends that should be lovers Everyone I’ve ever met is a horrible liar And for what I wonder?
Let me down easier Honesty a better teaser At least then I could dream for real Rather than throw myself Up stairs and on to the floor
Your small talk such Nonstop space Tracing back to a name in a book I hate
+ A mini explosive in my chest Will tempt be beating its misery
So far from the sun I sleep Drenched in dream so vivid How could any man not be Full of questions ? The evil seeps into pores Like moonlight and water We’re whole And as a part of me I fear Our company as something grand But beneath the body
So stupidly full of beats and Roses rotting to feed an Egotistical beast that only Eats beautiful things
+ Cherries and cigarette smoke. You write the day - the movement - the current The waves. The sunshine. The tension. Rage - kiss - fight - bliss - blunder Undercover - darkest cherry lips - better Harder - not for summer - because It’s all for summer who cares the Fuck. It can be wildly inappropriate and still dedicated to her.
Poet writing good poetry in action I do want incredible art But fuck of course I need to Double down - That’s why Shit don’t feel right Hell I can’t Even do it. Whereas I already Know this other shit.
Fuck the Fairytale Expose the Nightmare
It’s not a question of words It's a question of God This I know
KISS IT
You're tired of your own advice I can tell because it's obvious You said the same bit ten times In a night
Your fear is infecting My state of mind
Go down the road to a different house Ease up and get drunk there Away from me Just relax and breathe Away from me Away from me
If you ever regain curiosity Come and find me Sitting sideways Just to spite you
Breathing in that sweet smoke Which only poisons you
Zero Dollar Honey Bear
Cologne and Feces, kitchens, perfume, and bleach on concrete. Laundromat writings, tidy, neat and washing, drinking loudly on a tuesday next to half naked freezing bodies. Are you starving? For a buzz lovely? Okay me too. Let’s go to the market, the pharmacy, pay one seventy to avoid babies for one year only. Down the street they sell the flower taxed. Let’s smoke that shit and relax, up by the park, we’ll move the needles out the picnic's way. Let’s sunbathe on the roof today, we might be the only ones hanging from and on these metal latters, what’s the matter with these fucks, pay too much for an art print or something? What’s got you bummed? Striving to keep up with everyone?
Julianna
The witch of the wanna be dead women
Clasping attention a silvery powdered cherry pretend inhaling
Satan’s Little Sister they call her what a pretty smoker what a sick little head on those shoulders barely strong enough to hold her she smells more of rose than roses do soaked head to toe in cheap perfume
When I die, throw my diaries in the fire. Julianna’s famous last words
+ I’m training myself to eat I’m blooming
Why did you do it? What did you want out of it?
The Midday Cowboy
Tracks
Spilling from their pupils a lawless affection misspelled religion and stained life’s reflection birthing 8 billion livid children
All while a bird on barbed wire sang to a dusty insect wing in the doorway All as a body in the tub sedates while its friends are out dying
I met a mid-day cowboy from Montana I forgot his dreams I was busy
The Midnight Hurry
I ignore the surgeon general's warning in our midnight hurry
I’m not sorry I don’t blame us for escaping
You say you don’t write poetry and then confess so brilliantly
As a devil’s wet dream In a circle of punks moshing Kinky, Inked and Raging
Catch an ember you once said to me We’re as close to fire as we’ll ever be To us, the end has always been beginning
American Anarchist
Oh the riff I’d play if my Father had stayed I smoked pot with a murderer Daddy might be a big creeper The kitten’s neck reeks of poison I think I’m really in for it
Telephone booths and fast food Political assassination on the news Puffing on poison outside the museum The glowy lights beaming The person screaming Telephone booths staring back at me In the train station waiting room Marbled water fountains Walls covered in wood patterns Little burgundy chairs Staring me down as I sip my coke I don’t make a sound Chicken Nuggets Analog Clocks Front Desk Receptionists & Abandoned Luggage Oh so fucking stupid Trash can looks like a sculpture My friend just called to say I stole her T shirt
+ Permission from the Gods to reinvent myself again This time as a weapon My identity true, separate from this fortress They won’t know it As they never have seen me Too bad I want it all but better The lake the ocean the river Second I’m paid I’m out of here Big Sur? Why not spend a week there?
Buy your cigarettes in Ohio Or at the Vegas Airport
New Name New Face Fresh Slate Large Ink Landscapes
+ I don’t even want to write I came upstairs to hide I got motivation amidst the silence I have guilt for taking care of something Innocent and sweet Coffee in the afternoon Laundry spinning Started raining Couldn’t leave Couldn’t get up I was hoping it’d be past three Montana camping I think I need to go back To the mountains I just wanna go back real bad I could taste beginning
Cold and smoking In love and joking I found me You never visited me I was beautiful A mid day cowgirl
White Orange Notebook
0/0/1
I am to be a mother Assigning heirlooms to you before you’re even considered My own officer refraining from staining pure marble with amazing slander My own audience, saint and muse, as I’m not published, and in Limbo Stuck with half bad angels who feed their lust the ripest apples Dressed as skins inside an empty space turning its colors Slaves to myths convinced permanent obeying no awareness My blood pumps wild fast to the thought of this before it’s written And I wouldn’t be shit if I possessed patience I’m demanding my destiny be lucky Withstanding evil eyes unkind to me Moving with the moisture of your lips pressed onto me You’re more alive in sickness than in sex to me Our creating takes working as though we’re expiring
0/0/2
In the eye of a doll Uncutable, round and small Gorgeously forever fragile Unknotting chemicals Reeking of rose As poreless frozen porn in a photograph absent of breath Pursed loosely stained lips blow you a kiss
But I smell like I think And if you cut my eye I’d fucking scream
0/0/3
My panties were made by men, or extremely stupid women, and I only have faith in irony, because I’m intelligent. I wrote a little story trying to explain how sick the world makes me, and I did it successfully, but it’s only fun for me to read. The story went about how the make believe guides humanity more strongly than the true nature of reality. It’s about how I gave up truth to dream, and all the guilty thinking that whipped me into writing. I go mad over the mystery classically, while falling into love erratically, yet it’s only entertaining because I’m suffering.
0/0/4
Shave Head > Wax Pussy Write Poetry > Quote Poets Impossible > Possible
Do you misunderstand yourself? Or do you drive me insane on purpose? With all this fucked up shit talk
My reflection told me to go fuck myself What did yours say?
0/0/5
Approaching the absolute And I thought you were talking to me this whole time I can’t hear any of this anymore I assume death is nearing I want to sell out and live a life of luxury We’re talking like gods in our twenties It feels gross and disgusting to want things
0/0/7
I whipped my senses till they were bloodied and defenseless, because I don’t know shit, but I wish it, as an animal who speaks english. I’m beautiful enough to live and then die having accomplished nothing important. I could simply die pretty in the land of the free and constantly complaining, but I like imagining my life’s worth something.
0/0/8
…Eat Lipstick you plastic bitch!
0/0/9
How important is my sanity now? Fate is the fever insisting I cool down No, Fate is the whore I’d like to fuck because she’s the most attractive one while leaving room for what’s to come The men are throwing money and firing off guns at fake wars in the woods The hollow woman, darkest cherry lips She swallows those bullets Sucks in and photographs it Go on and get off to it You little model, my little rockstar, why don’t you just try even harder? Grip the mattress all dramatic Snap tiny elastic bands scented everything to spite the real thing Be easier for me to read What’s that you’re drinking? What's in the bottle? What’s in your belly? Nothing? Hand that to me What’s that you’re not inhaling correctly? What did you want me to say? Spit on me like you would concrete while you’re smoking? You’re not bad to me, just bad for me, and everybody Who’s more disgusting? Who’s more unlucky? Who deserves money? Darkest cherry lips just lie to me They blow kisses and own me
Rings, knots on the finger, even ink, none of it works for us Grip the tool, grant the item power, cut the fucking wire Paint lips but why bother? Buy lace but why bother?
0/0/12
The abuser’s coping is some really vicious poetry I was done before I finished reading Now I’ll relay a poet’s advice onto you Feel it all regardless of not wanting to But what he forgot to mention, and I suppose it isn’t very poetic but… Don’t rape your children.
0/0/13
Moleskine invented a notebook so I don’t have to, and the workshops are bad just so I don’t have to go. I’m behind the front desk with no hair, and our houseman said I was prettier before, and to my face. Men are really like this, and so are women. Aesthetics are wholly human.
Ladies leave perfume trails And men, their cologne ones
0/0/14
In an obligatory heat, could you admit this is nothing? All in a day I created a thesis and destroyed it. I am an angry bitch, honest, I named myself Livid. Every notebook is a broken message in a wooden sea of dust. Holy fuck could I just shut up? Yes I write well, but the subject matter, well…it’s pointless now. Please just buy this to help me raise children by a real ocean.
“God Bless West Coast Life”
0/0/15
The waiters next door are already in their white button downs They’ve been at the corners for hours now My new job is on Broadway, right by the jazz club where we had our second date at nineteen, with our own bottle of whiskey. Fuck me I’m writing like Lana Del Ray.
I only fell in love like Hollywood raised me to, until I met you.
The Reporting Poet
In this notebook lies a blueprint to divinity Earlier I had convinced myself yet again that I haven't been working! How can this be?! I've step foot inside the Kingdom within me Here in this notebook Heaven and earth converge inside my being
I am one with all things Holy
Let there be peace within Let there be light for all eternity
You and I are the workings of infinity Forever bright Forever loving
Timeline
This time that's passing has a special warning The unlit The aggression The tension It's impressively depressive The cheap plastic toys from China The coffee's nothing taste The warm spot in the sun to watch all the disgust unfolding It's brilliantly untelling Uninteresting but dramatic All anticlimactic All disappointing wackness Havak everyday like a pop quiz I miss none of this I haven't made a good memory yet Just sitting here soaking wet Not hungry breakfast In pajama pants late for every adult class What a gift this is to be bored of everything but feel as though I've felt enough to say something without coming off a nobody It's gorgeous to me
If what we seek is peace Let us first seek peace with nature the natural flow of water remedies freely growing Let our needs be met by God
Allow poetry to persist in all we do Let us be blessed to be blessings Let our creations embody all creation
If what we seek is peace Peace we shall have
We are bodies of LOVE Mind Body Spirit in all we do Good writing is Mind Body Spirit INKED!
So much beauty in knowing that the best poetry cannot be bought nor sold The best poetry is your soul The natural flow of water like the natural flow of ink in creative heat
At the gas station learning to pray for my enemies I pray they seek the grace of God I pray they find beauty in darkness I pray they find the Kingdom within
For my enemies have become blessings Each fire burns in the direction of Glory
I hold these fires close to me I let them burn me because I'm fireproof baby! Just like my boots I'll walk right into the flames People think I'm mad crazy
My creator protects me My faith underestimates nothing
That lens capturing the journey is big expensive and pretty Just like our eyes up against poverty We're so rich in faith It's glorious and outrageously fantastic The big burning ball of fire setting over endless fields of wheat and corn exploding Outwards towards the sky for all the people
Bless us with your attention We'll give it back ten fold Don't even mention it
I'll scratch your back right back baby
Truth or Death We the People Refuse Deception - Truth or Death - Soul over Body
We the People Demand the Truth - Destruction to Ignorance On our lives In the name of freedom
Truth or Death - Destruction to Ignorance BLESSED IS THE MATCH As we strike watch our hearts catch flame Hear the Saints Truth or Death In the name of Jesus Christ Amen.
Today I was tested three times Mind Body Spirit Father Son and The Holy Spirit
First, when I got here I was flooded with abandon In fear you'd forgotten me I sat down and said - life has not forgotten me God has a plan for me I get up to leave and I see you looking for me
Second, after our prayer I was not delivered But I tried to be Pleading the blood of Jesus Three times in the mirror
Third, after I'd failed to be kind We prayed for my sins in the Kitchen and I became a follower of Jesus Christ
Tonight I witnessed God As the temples of Father and Son Pressed into each other
Tested three times Mind Body Spirit
I went out for a smoke Five in the morning
Yesterday a Man of God was Murdered Some of the country is celebrating the death of a man who stood for free speech Some of the country is mourning what this means
What I find _____ It's always at the fault of one of two sides This isn't right - It reeks of lies
Person to Person Eye to Eye
Government is attempting to start a War We don't have to fight
My brother My sister
You and I We are life
What good does it do, cause, produce - for you to live your dream through the lives of others? If you don’t possess your own values what do you have? I won’t get caught writing you these sick letters. I must work towards the truth of my heart. I don’t wish to harm.
Why Am I Starting This Conversation?
If I’m convincing myself of these things, that’s a kind of crazy beautiful thing. Of the math I don’t understand His eyes and hands The oceans which would drown me without sorry shopkeepers nicknaming
If I’m convincing myself and we don’t know what I am That’s a kind of crazy beautiful thing.
This morning out pretending I taste the bitterness, the ignorance, the bliss Everyday it’s fuck the temperature The numbers, the cast, the undergarment Local buzz?
From now on I’ll bleed colorlessly In the street the men are talking I go up a set of twenty four steps Pray to bathroom tile I’ll hear better
I burned my soul without witness No God cares What I am cares What you claim to be, cares
And what I am is a Poet And I can’t sell my soul because there isn’t one And that’s not depressing It’s liberating, amusing imaginary things Lest you convince yourself of these things That’s a kind of crazy, terrifyingly human thing.
The boots did arrive And they fit So I’m set to fight
And the men are planning things As I dust my feet With one hundred poems Stuffed beneath me
I sip my wine slower now Up on the mountain Eating too
The nonsensical mishappenings belonging to you and me is what makes us both extraordinary. Wired to bring about order and truth, I scrub the floor of our living room. I take pride in scrubbing. You take pride in creating things, I take pride in seeing what’s here and working out the kinks. I’ve never thought to write a song, or a rap, or a poem describing how great I am or how much love I’ve felt. I like to touch on guilt and the confessions you’d direct elsewhere were they not already on paper. This is why it doesn’t add up to cash in, this is why the cash coming in doesn’t add up. I don’t boast about how great I am. I talk shit - I treat language like my bitch and fuck it. This isn’t pretty enough to be sitting on a bookshelf in public. This is for the underground rats, the skate punks, and the poets. The nonsensical mishappenings belonging to you and me is what proves we’re not free. I don’t write for money and everyone’s mad at me for it, or let me put it this way, they’re mad when I say I never want to sell my writing. And I suppose I already have but I still feel the same way. I never want to sell my writing. I don’t need to, I don’t want to, and I’m not going to - I can’t.
Perhaps I should craft notebooks for the dreamers instead - no computers - no bullshit - just craftsmanship.
Maybe creating my own version of what I hate isn’t the answer. Notebooks and underwear I enjoy, so I’ll start there. Though All this go-getting isn’t good for anybody
Just when I thought I’d done it All my socks split open at the heels I kept walking of course And so my heels split open too
I need glasses still I’m legally blind although I prefer my sight to perfection But I still need to get them Because drive the roads I must And get myself to school I must And see the world as you do I must
Walking blind to work isn’t enough I don’t get it.
Owning an infinite pair of shoes isn’t shit without socks funny enough So I bought socks because bloody heels suck But glass windows in front of my eyes And sitting behind a windshield going 60 And attending classes to earn my degree None of this sits right with me For reasons all too obvious it seems But then I start getting into it and everyone just looks at me like I need a hug or something
Like I’ve gone off the rails or something for not hating the soft lines defining my world Am I absurd to take the sidewalk? Or better yet make a vow to my feet and to the ground beneath me promising to always walk
What if we had waited for the seas to cross us?
What if no man ever assumed he knew what was good for us and no woman either?
What if each one of us grew into our own teacher?
Is this not possible?
Must we assign title after title? Must we be numbered as though the count is always correct?
Must we continue to ignore the fate of our world when fate is up to us?
Unless it is not. And if you believe we have nothing to do with fate We don’t.
Do you refuse to entertain the idea that humans royally fucked up? Good and Evil are no longer evolving equally. We are not the first to imagine good and wise solutions to the nature of evil in this world But mathematically it may be too late to save the world. We have let this happen And we’re letting it happen now The destruction of our world.
No one was too stupid to think of the consequences They were thought of But the immediate rewards outweighed humanity
Life is short - we all know this Love Money Power Beauty Time Energy Soul
People want it all They want to rid themselves of cancer they caused
We underestimate the consequences that grand individualism within political society will cause.
We root for the destruction of one another when we root for the illusions of luxury.
Look around you What’s actually valuable?
I’ll go as far as to say I don’t think it’s possible to see with eyes at all.
And it’s not just the sound of my voice Or the heat we make of this room
It’s love IT IS LOVE. Love for each other, love for ourselves, love for the art of poetry, love for our own poetry, and love for one another’s poetry.
And so when we say life is about love I think what we mean to say is that life is about feeling How we feel - what we feel - how much - who for - what about
Feeling is what matters most in my life And with that said Good feelings can lead to bad things And bad feelings can lead to good things None the less feeling is everything to me
So a material items purpose is to invoke feeling And the same can be said about an organic item
Material items aren’t bad but the relationships people tend to build with material items can be severely unhealthy
And perhaps oftentimes this is due to people misunderstanding that every thing on earth is intended to provoke feeling
Feelings help you write poetry Which in turn causes you to feel more
Feelings especially strong ones which you did not seek can cause you to feel overwhelmed
Strong feelings you don’t seek but feel are apart of everyday life due to the deterministic nature of the universe
Common advice would be to get these feelings under control as soon as possible especially if they’re interfering with your ability to function and perform normally in society
And unless you’re a poet or involved in some other highly emotional field - what do you do?
Feelings are the most important part of so many lives And now you’re at school or at work, or in the car and all of sudden it hits you You’re a flesh suit on a rock in space stuck in traffic on what we all call a tuesday
We’re expected to be extremely emotionally intelligent Expected to wrap our heads around reality daily Local and global politics Close and distant family Local and national government Education that lies Hunger that lies Fashion that lies Food that lies Culture that lies Animals that lie Plants that lie Environments that lie Communities that lie Sports that lie Weather…
I say expected because if you don’t wrap your head around it what happens?
Health Wealth Inventions Discoveries that point to God Questions that torture Entertainment that corrupts Elements which kill Laws that instill Morals which will Ethics that fry Wages going hungry Preservatives in everything Vaccines saving sorry lives Computers that think Robots that dance Rockets and bombs singing for the countries
Are you following along or is it difficult?
Who’s to say? Another day - another domesticated goose chase The scrap paper poetry comes out to play making all my “best” work read like foreplay because THIS IS THE REAL THING - realer than the shit I’d write on a Saturday. This isn’t a phase - there’s no technique - a move few people could pull on a tuesday. And it’s quiet in here this morning - full moon met my eyes this morning - white lies cover my spine in mourning - THIS IS THE REAL THING - restless misunderstanding - wrestling with where I’m standing in the place where mouths are always moving - it is what it is until it’s something different. You look at me and say something and I ask you do you mean it - you say a lot of words back and none of them are yes. Hunting down the truth is a solo mission, good liars won’t help you expose them - but who's to say ? another day another wannabe sage.
Light made Invisible
Convinced of hypocrites They craft the sculpture and then break it They preach the poetry but they don’t sing it Their voices ringing inside my head repeating lines belonging to the dead heroes of their heads
Litter the morning with borrowed ideas Making you seem more in touch with something human
May their lord forgive them.
Books will Burn, Words will Live Glass will Break, Poets will Die But Poetry MUST survive
And how will it? Where will the evidence exist? and how will the Poets of our world have lived?
Doubts Written Letter to the Soul
Many terrible things happening now
If you do slow the fuck down you might earn respect A check and an expensive breakfast
But is respect what you’ve ever needed?
I do see now the steady mulling over day - to - day turning over Repetitious caring acting again a cut and dying flower beautiful against the hour guarding all doors yelling NO you’re already moving too fast the others ahead of you will laugh
You must ease into their landscape now show them you can write well of nature of their nature of all nature
And be cautious speaking when you get going on and on about the wrong thing you won’t know it cause you’re speeding traveling too quickly to hear yourself think which at times is amazing the banter worth nights awake the tossing and gassing and going on criticizing but with integrity because you felt like you really knew what you were saying and sure enough the next morning there’s a story
There’s violence before coffee Blue raspberry heat Buckets of butter in brand made little treats Making a mockery of your best dressed painting in heat Fools talking shit as summer meat Dressed pretendless bleached taints Flooding the milk drain with welts on the face singinging the same weak refrain Asking have you ever heard of this I’m bored of this Get scared of this Make me proud of this God Damn it
Ah that’s it I like this when I see it working The poetry Turning lines in your face mean At last, I discover I’m power hungry But I believe in me I’m good I’m not lying I believe in what I’m saying and I got good at saying it so maybe you’d listen because I believe in it but Evil believes in itself I’m sure of it
So I’m looking to the scholars not so much I’ll be sounding as they do but just so I get through to you with science because I’m no Jesus Christ unless I’m home alone with the incense burning In a winter night cold and hurting convincing myself of these things
While housewives shoplift for fun Masturbating against boredom Upping the stakes for fun Callin it lawless self love
If the object of your game is to be as different as you could possibly be from who you actually are while maintaining your sanity throughout the act, you’ll fail, and if that’s the plan, oh well then.
An Investigation
Interrupt me please I’m just twenty one and without disease I have no excuses to keep speaking or to stop breathing I’m so awfully bored of harvesting so I’m out hunting with a loaded mind My own best protection against illusory shit like the end of time
LIVID
I’m not depressed, I’m furious!
Get Fucking Dressed You’re Late For The Circus.
…is this when I thank God and my country for allowing Gods or some shit?! Yes this is when.
Well FORGET IT.
Phoniest Advice you’ll ever get…is fake it till you make it, and although it’s phony, it works as good as good luck charms do, because magic is real when you're in the right mood. Suppose you make it a white liar, where’d you get to? pretending like that? Maybe I’m just bitter. No, I am bitter and I wanna threaten my life to the billionaire, just to see if there's a heart in there. No, I'm bored and broke and unimaginative just for today and I’m in a fighting mood, not in a believing in magic one, and a billion dollars would shut me the fuck up - for a minute.
I forget to make tea, to relax and unwind peacefully, I do a lot of thinking for nothing, and it’s getting pretty fucking disgusting. I think these thoughts are worth nothing, no I know they’re worth nothing, and that’s what’s funny, I guess I’m gonna have to start asking for something, but it’s bullshit, I don’t believe in it. I don’t want money to think, or to write, or get drinks. I want dropped in a jungle, after robbing REI at gunpoint for all that’d contribute to my survival. Weakly I wish to die painlessly, but that’s a twenty-first century treat. I could really die sweet in the land of the free and constantly complaining. It’s not a pipe dream, it’s fucking morphine. I’m a true stranger to real suffering, and so monotony pains me. This isn’t poetry, not even prose to me, it’s confessional absurdity written precisely. I sit back tightly, waiting impatiently for the day its clear to me, the day some scientist better understands how trees speak, and they start answering all the fucked up questions for me, but not in paid therapy, the information will be public and free, as it’s supposed to be, on google or something, but the scientist needs money, so every night I look out a little differently, and lean into a false reality to get to sleep, and that’s just being intelligent baby! It’s wild, it’s fucked up, it’s crazy, I wish I’d have been born early, seriously. Joking but not really, my brain is a burden to me, If I work it out I could end up doing something good for humanity, that’s what I believe, isn’t that the task of everybody, be the best you can be, yea, well what if the best I could really be is way too fucking good for me, fuck me, I oughta go make some money.
College Essay
Disillusion drives me to devise a universe that has not forgotten me Is that wrong of me? Ingesting ingenuity Fearing only the meaningless
If I have faith in a flower and its ability to show me something does it show me what I wish to see or what I’m meant to see?
Makes zero difference to me.
Verse seeps willingly from my being Singing of Science, Romance of Sleep, and of Maths
Watching sickness breed frivolously creeping beneath heavy soil meant to be an absent minded muse to be Repeating Fate Loves Me Fate Loves me Not
Three Truths
Innocent and passive Incorrect in allowing things to just happen forfeiting its happening
I don’t know where this confidence comes from if not my reasoning My logical truth speaking saying you can’t bite the bullet with those human teeth
So my imaginary truth starts working transforming bullets into candy only leading to my lazy chewing and the emotional truth now brewing suggesting I combine the two
Treat bullets like candy in the field become fearless and you’ll never lose
A twenty one year old understanding of Truth
Truth is a phantom, it itself is lying Out of focus and in hiding Invisible as far as the eye can see
Truth is a god damned personal misery Most clearly Truth is whatever the fuck a human wants it to be and I’ve been forgetting how beautiful a thing it is to imagine freely seemingly creating using absolutely nothing seen
So go ahead and imagine me differently Truth is lost even in a jury
I miss some of the writing I destroyed out of shame
Three sevens and the whole moon, a horse shoe, a turtle, and a wishbone in the hands of the real life tortured artist trope, against the noble amateur, In Limbo, where they’ll fight for the fate of their souls. But first! Mechanical Pencil Vs. Needle, another day of guessing in San Francisco…
I’m turning my work in now that it’s finished, but there’s no one here to collect it, because I self assigned it, as The Reporting Poet.
*
I’m bent over backwards calculator but I’d take on an alligator Measure me three times and desire a fourth opinion I just took five times the dose and I still don’t feel anything
The Investigation goes on another day
The Investigation
I almost had a heart attack today because I wasn’t writing I think you’re right about breakfast in the morning’s I’ve just gotten to work, the usual empty I feel caught here when I’m thinking, like I really know I shouldn’t be because the shop is perfect. It’s perfect for poetry. Its glass, its light, materials, tools, screws, whacky people, and wood. I lose myself in it too easily, and I really hate when people interrupt me, it drives me mad crazy, but I swear to a god I just can’t help it lately. I’m coming home with wild poems in my pocket. I just can’t stop it, god damn it! I get off on it! Just because they say I shouldn’t? Just because you wouldn’t? But good, because we can’t all fuck off and be this lost in another world so close to you. How long until you see me there too?
I was thinking this morning and hot water burned me. There goes thinking consciously. I’m in class again. Getting out of it, inside of it. All paranoid from the TV. I swear someone’s gonna murder me, even though it’s unlikely, because what motive would one have to kill me? I sound all depressing because that water burned me, and because I’ve forgotten how to think clearly working empty for money.
If a mind reader got to me now I’d be a goner, wouldn’t we all be? Goners?…I’m complaining on the clock again. I’m thinking awful thoughts on the clock again even though I know they’re awful, but would good ones do me any better? Would they cause me to see any further? This caffeine is what’s got me all twisted, I'll be all manic in just a minute. What’s all in your head Livid?
My investigation started yesterday, when I realized, I see shit you don’t, remember shit you won’t, and do it all anyways, despite every word I’ve heard another person say. Raw off the climax. This is my season of attack. Patience on track, seems I’ve got it back, as I’m not dead yet.
An Ode to Fatality
It’s the twenty-second year of the twenty-first century And despite my renunciation I too reflect the era A product of products In a tiny cotton gusset
The lobby smells like alcohol, and the models who all make me blush discuss drugs and their incomes. They all agree it’s rude to be asked how much money they make modeling. And I’m thinking Is the love worth my suffering?
Warned against possible dreams and of philogyny The veil of individuality falls off beautifully
I think my destiny is to become a Sage.
While all my writing is honest, it is not the truth. I am my own editor as well as my own father.
If I get money I won’t be a Jenner I just realized the rich aren’t all losers I want riches too But so I can write for you
We should be handwashing Our clothes stitched by The hands of our people
What lies they fed us Speed and production And they call me impatient
As if I’m not calm in traffic As if I didn’t sit through soulless classes As if I don’t submit to everything deadly
Lies no longer allure me I’m on my knees The love I feel Unconditionally soothing Organs yearning for moonlight Soul keeps drinking Sipping Chugging infinity In a hot backseat Driving through a midwestern state
The Tortured Artist
So the trick is to keep every relationship private and every thought to the page Recasted as Art - Immediate Medicine But FUCK do I love the memory of you losing it to the Pixies
What merciful fire Sparing the hate which fire contains How did I forget the miracles of my life?
I honor an unmade saint.
The Coffee Shop
Its curing me already And I can’t understand how we didn’t end up here You’d never leave here You’d probably drink black coffee until you fell asleep here I’m incognito Can’t believe the two people I know are still here I haven’t been here in years I’d kill to take you here The waitstaff - the waitress I knew when I was a girl She tells a regular she had to buy a new computer She hugs them on their way out - making jokes and such Bar stool for diner food Coffee mugs are the same It’s crazy how people can stay somewhere so long Order up Craig is in the back I don’t recognize the guy on the grill It’s so small in here I’d probably never leave either I’d stay forever Clinging to one of these stools and a mug Writing about us I didn’t sleep last night I love you night I didn’t even have to think about it - us I let go for once
I’m overflowing regardless Intuition luminous Righteous enough for the bullet
My words wanna bite it Shatter my teeth with the silence Glass bones exploding gorgeous
Keep speaking the words Violent and precious You’re something like a gift
Baby Joy,
I trimmed too much of the Cherry Tree Leaving it vulnerable I went lopper crazy on the poor thing Felt strong and important with something sharp on me This summer I’ve learned How to properly prune a Cherry Tree I’m twenty three I’m not saying my age like it’s a bad thing You just focus on the new growth at the top of the tree You don’t go wild on the sides and everything Just leave that be May you always bear many cherries
Love Aunt B
My ears fill up with skin everyday My belly button secretes a poison
Beneath what i’ve said Is blistering silence An all accounting silence
Like once the mind’s been stripped of its memory There is no language to speak fluently
It’s all mundane misunderstanding Each timeline whipping some new child into misery
Unpublished poetry tucked away neatly like documents proving you were born overseas. Your lipstick stains on the handkerchief you wiped your first borns’ eyes with. Decaying photographs of your mom and dad, your brothers, and your cousins, and of course all their children. Pencil shavings, eyeliner shavings, eye shadow dust, and dead moths. A dried flower from a bouquet you were proud to have once got. Smells like deodorant, smells like wood rotting, looks like everything human but the flesh. Looks like a cluttered drawer of martyr. I think I’m depressed.
Pretty artists sit by the windows in the chairs overlooking water somewhere alone, as they should. We’ve all known since the beginning about their loose teas, things made of ivory, dead flower clippings, and magic writing instruments. These wizards aren’t idiots, they’re escape artists. Masked by the light of day, somewhat invisible to the common man's tendencies. They breathe in a particular fashion. Spewing optimism and then you open up their cabinets and get sick. You watch the beauty leave their breath as they spit on you by accident. The romanticized death wish is a disease. Truth is ignored for illusions of freedom.
I let my friend die in a dream
And I write of death so casually Stored in my mind’s library a different history
Is it wrong of me to question my role in these plays? Muddy sunken rotting face in a creek Nakedish and thawing
I let my friend die in a dream
You won’t remember like you want to and in time it will make no more sense No more sense than now In fact, it will make less sense less sense than it ever made Yet more sense than it ever needed to make So in time
Liquid Life
I hold a field of flowers responsible for my nature Running through them as a girl I could say I became aware of my body In a field of daisies
but my Daddy went from a yellow room to a boat in the keys sailing aimlessly inside some eighth sea as the liquid space astronaut from a Midwest city
Away he wonders thinking to our drinking fucking loving dying crying music What a gift to miss is
Dried flowers fill his abyss.
In the wasteland for the wanderlust he floats just off the island where the reckless dream of less impossible deaths Ingesting anything avoiding nightmares in their sleep laying sunfucked salted lazy by the sea
Us land creatures from the deep more in love with honey from the bees Impossible dreams are born in the busy I don’t send wishes to the sky I put them to work on the island of my mind
Where the immortal dine beneath a blazing pink sun positioned in a purple sky setting below bluegreen waters Just beyond a jungle filled full of ex time travelers Shedding dopamine in motion with lungs exploding beyond telling
“I hear it gets hectic, but I wouldn’t worry, we’re level headed”
Dear Pessoa,
I fled to the luggage room to read the poetry you left because I couldn’t sit behind the front desk crying
My grandpa thinks I should stop smoking I think artists should stop getting horny on tracks like it’s pretty and I think pretty girls should stop getting rich off shit poetry What do you think?
So misdirected No God - No Center Just talking out loud over and over
I was attacked by darkness and still, God brought me here I find myself aware here God within - I see Faith is the Ultimate Technology I lost faith I found it again and blessings have come to me
Paradoxically all my hate and anger comes from a place within me which deeply desires divinity
Yet true courage is living in the light Even when others refuse to do so
I feel now how faith can heal me from pain brought on by feeling unprotected
The light is here The spirit is with me
True violence When you stop screaming You start holding it Heart turned to hate
True expression is real world expression Imperfect face to face interaction
The real writing is what they’d never publish I’ve sent it out before But I know the desired words
You so delicately strip yourself Just to cut away
Headache gas - tired voice - how much blood left to lose? Bodies lugging dreams across cities Out of excuses and the knife has been sharpened We must give up something Grow into something The rage I feel I lather it on like soap I cleanse my body with lost hope You call me crazy - that’s how it goes We’re learning our minds make us sick I should design a new cure while they develop the trick Sticky hot lands - with no view - just land Less fruit trees
The sucker free city - it’s magical wonderful beautiful I’ll be ill anywhere but there Only for me - ocean air A nap to the sound of waves Stretching in the sand Working up a true sweat Wrote less - spoke more - it was horrible I don’t want to travel on a plane again I will - but I don’t want to It’s not comfortable at all I’m tired of being uncomfortable when comfort is only a thought away Its all on I I is all I shoved the stupidity down and out It didn’t look pretty They didn’t love the sound of me I’ve never been more free Now is infinity They’re all with me The story will come to me Its writing itself already Sex eyes cute eyes sad eyes Bad party bad invite - this is our one and only life *wink* Gods don’t like the look of us like this We’re our own being - mighty and holy I went blind overnight 3:49 am I woke up for the rest of my life and I’m living it
Nihilism Vs. Faith
It’s been said that Existential Philosophy is the opposite of Nihilism, and while this is valid and an idea worthy of good thought - I’d like to put Nihilism up against Faith and Faith alone.
Existential Philosophy as the phrase itself suggests is complex as fuck.
And while Faith is also full of complexities I choose to put it up against Nihilism because I believe more people have a better general understanding of their Faith rather than of their Existential Philosophy.
Faith in anything is Faith in life, and Nihilism being the belief that life is without meaning. Nihilism on one shoulder, Faith on the other - can one exist without the other?
I am a faithful nihilist An optimistic anarchist And a grateful asshole
Conviction is killing us Or perhaps it’s the comfortability conviction brings that’s killing us
I don’t believe in doors like you do And I never will
Perfect is real Make it so or wilt So goes the inspiration
But I don’t Believe in doors like you do And I never will
Did we ever strive for balance or has the thought always been too difficult?
Nihilism on one shoulder My angel on the other
Like the perfect loser And it’s every one of us I swear this much
Conviction is killing us Shoulders closing in on us
Burn down the doors you must Faith like a cure to Nihilism Balancing ideas Giving meaning to the meaningless
An idea as meaningful as Nihilism I can hardly believe it
Holding a belief is having Faith in yourself No matter how hard it tries Nihilism can’t be real
Will it ever be right? I gave the books I didn’t understand away And I wrote letters about love to no one And I’ve washed my hair And I’ve bought oil from wine grapes And I’m convinced a pair of shoes will save my life
And If what I want so bad is wisdom I must admit to myself now That I’ve not put efforts towards… Nevermind that.
If I say a pair of boots will save my life Then they will But will it ever be right?
The animal died The man and woman worked The books I gave away won’t forgive me And the grapeseed will soften me no more than my own hesitation
I could’ve been at home writing But I went out instead And now I’m debating a third shower to clear my head
But it won’t The past remains fixed to me A broken hearted tune playing
The angel of my shoulder Screams out to me Begging me to remain good and knowing
Begging me to stay patient with myself As I find the words again
The angel won’t quit crying
I don’t understand what I want but what I want is to be right. What craving, what sweet desire wasted. I’ve realized I can be right and then I realized I don’t want to be, no more than I wish to be wrong and pondering. Ignorance inspires activity. Sex and candy does what exactly? It invigorates ideas of being - giving into something sweet as you’re expiring rather than desiring nothing. Wanting things, sweet things, this is a very human thing, and so what could wanting nothing mean? Is it insane of me to reject my reality? Is it insane of me to want nothing? I suppose nothing can be considered something.
Rather than wanting things I do the right thing. There is usually one right thing. Perhaps I always do the one right thing and now I’m just tired of always being right for reasons I can’t seem to find.
I am the smartest ass with the most class for what you might ask? My holy mask, the one I wear for the world. The very smile on my face worn perfectly.
Okay okay okay but it’s not a mask And I’m not the smartest with the most class But if I was wearing a mask I’d feel hidden But I don’t This is who I am I am someone who is right about things you don’t understand
I’ve beat the devil at his own game And there’s no one here to reward me The demons make it known to me Free isn’t free without responsibility
So now I see
There’s pain and suffering with or without me I must suffer to also be happy But more importantly Others must suffer to also be happy Not that they must But they will So they must
I cannot choose to see my fellow soldiers as weak I must work with them as though they are strong I must work with them and with the belief that one day My fellow soldiers could be as strong as me
I must continue to lead My fellow soldiers don’t yet know themselves But they do know me
I must set examples in all areas of my life And be right because I’m lucky I cannot fear a game I’ve played and won a million times
I can’t get bored before the real recognition That’s my grand fucking prize
I don’t understand what I want But what I want Is to be alive
Glass Prison
Complain without being the victim Play the villain
What did you have coming? What did you want coming?
Robbed of rest? again tonite oh please! Soaking wet a broken sweat balancing on sore knees
What did you have coming? What did you want coming?
Made up in the hourglass Reflections doing hair on its glass
Waxed Red Spread naked in oils
What did you have coming? What did you want coming?
And somewhere in the mulch letting go of messages beneath the moon sits a young girl clutching paper destined to introduce her whole soul to the entire world
Rant
Defend what you hate when it gets hard to think? I can see why you drink. I can see why you stare at bodies you’ll never speak to. I can see why the painted eyes get you why those waists insist you. How her pain tricks you. What’s real darling? What’s real to you?
The Tortured Artist Outlives Ignorance amongst aspiring heroes lurking capeless Wiser than ever in a coy twistedness The Tortured Artist Outlives Ignorance
Coincidences piss me off
Welcome the suns skin splintering silence waking neon buds shut like eyelids Enticing me to sleep
Wrist and bone Bending
I’m not sorry but forgive me, I’m infatuated Asking to be read again and again
Poet as poem dazing between soft inky pages buried in a chest beating dusty longing for the strangers affection
Giving out meaningless apologies Sex eyes and a bedroom voice Extorting Kinky, Inked, and Raging Warming up with skin like leather notebooks
As a fever dreaming On a cold stage In heat and on display Emerging Graceless and with grit Fated yet elusive Proving a productive rage on purpose
Toss me all your dying roses It’s encore for the tortured Don’t you know this?
I’m sitting hesitant to introduce next to the glue drying with fumes dancing around me Not in print but printing Buried in our bedroom heap Sleeping in our gallery Waiting to be executed
00/00/0000
Following illusion consciously What do you call that exactly?
The Purposefully Disillusioned Family
Knowing love isn’t interested and puckering your lips anyways ending in a kiss that neither wished happened the way it did
I want to write a fairytale rooted in reality I want the kiss to mean something off paper to me
Spine
I saw something reflective so I dove Down a one foot fitted road Fetched a dog without a bone His antiquated eyes full of tried miles His roads unfolding blindly Trying ever so kindly to guide me But it’s all street and talk to me Skeletons walking Repeating teachings Bound to a kingdom Ruled by treachery Forced lonely into encoded beauty
In a day my world dies only to be revived by kindled time As if active in my mind, sand is fitting inside And looking to a smile in the sky I feel I’m cursed by design On a sliver of planet Inside a simple mind
They keep bibles out of psych wards for good reasons Impressionability walks me past last year's seasons Where I’m catching all my fear red handed saying put my sanity back where you found it!
God
Up on a hill sits a white house Home Moon the Brook family called it Homemoon Up on the hill the Brook family lived With their dog Blue, their horse Lady Their cow Lily, their goats, chickens, and barn cats Birds and butterflies flew all around the place Deer and bumble bees Fruit trees and the smell of the nearby sea Kept the family happy Mr. Brook was a good man He kept his family safe and happy He never worked too much He made time for his wife and children And he could as a successful writer He published a fantasy series based on experiences He shared with his wife Mrs. Brook On their adventures around the world
Organization haunts everything like a creep begging for conformity and posing all neat Pouring into the most legendary mystery
Why do I wonder what it means to be a human being?
We’ve undeservingly consumed it all.
Dear Balance, I am a shy sickness. Moderation how do you do it?
No last names
I don’t want to be afraid of anything
So I master the art of decision making and immediately I let the tank go empty I get out all bent saying what a cliche by the sea loving and choking on your whole body in the backseat
Years later I start jogging down the yellow lines and start believing I’m right
Right about the cold and the dark road beneath us
Right about my poems and their inability to reach us
Hope just drove past a full yellow bus Change my lines I must.
My God wants dirt beneath my nails
A land covered in sand Timeless - Endless in its bliss Wind whipped trees Your body asleep in the sea of rock eroding
Invisible My impossible angel Your eyes are faith in a nutshell Faith bound to skull
Body separate Body whole Forevermore
Will of heavenly gold Heart of both amber rays of sun and snow from blistering cold
God supersedes your mind Faith is the Ultimate Technology To discover infinite wisdom is our destiny Disregard conspiracy The truth your loving eyes will see
Ignorance starves us of hope Father, your love I know This knowledge presented to me As a feast of beauty
Take what you find ordinary and seek all its divinity For it is there yet not for eyes to see
Walk with the power of our Father If you seek the truth you will be answered
The land is a buttery soft blue I’m sitting next to you wondering what to do And learning to be patient and excited With anticipation for The sun I’ll be waiting
I learn to be still and soft like the blue That holds us I hear the insects of the night Creating a steady sound I hold close to life
The seasons have come and gone Each year with the colors and sounds Of God
I’ve come to enjoy change And the time - all the time A good thing takes
Why is birth so exciting to us When truly birth is the universal Symbol of death
Assigned faith in a world of science is nonsense Your faith should lie only in the true nature of reality Otherwise there’s over 100 lies to shop If you buy it That’s as good as it gets up against the beast of truth
Call off your search for God No matter the even No matter the odd All is lost in the search for God
Oblivion is obvious to rest Our struggle is fucking epic
Semi Permanent Heart
I want to die in uniform Whatever’s stained Bury me insane Bury me a whore
No matter what I die a beginner
Choke on both my middle fingers You fucking loser
Disapprovals Problem
In the silence after an explosion our breathing isn't even God has left me alone in this moment on purpose and it’s hard to be upset because I know this
I know I sit at the root of the tension I know you’re innocent in your confusion but this changes no reasons of mine
When the emotions get to be too much and the words just get thrown up you’ve simply had enough, so be done Simply Hang up the phone
I once knew an addict who said she remembered everything Lying to me and telling herself something
It’s okay go ahead and cry to me but do it in my arms at least
The Rockstar’s Daughter
Perfect love casts out fear!
I'm blessed to be a blessing
I look up at the birds above me and I trust you Father I trust you with all of me
See my trust in you father Inside my heart See it breathing
Truth or Death but then I wrote a poem for a stranger on the road
He was thankful and I see now I feel now I hear now The spirit in my soul
For the fourth time being tested Can I think for myself?
Tarot cards in the grass at night I feel everyone around me is misdirected Even the most beautiful souls I've met Desire guidance
There is the power of love Which I believe and cherish Love lies in the spirit
The smile you give A goodnight hug and kiss Friends gathering for peace Family full of hope Marriage full of love
I found God before I got here Inside my desire to be whole and this divine meeting Has changed me forever God inside my fever
It was beautiful Raw Soul in a backyard The entire day became our prayer
These Friends, God, I trust them. I put my faith in us all My Father, you've made me a daughter
The sleep which comes to me now In this big beautiful dumb house May it be holy "Blessed is the Match"
Faith is the Ultimate Technology
Perhaps you lose your mind in order to find it The time is now - you are here - be brave - be loving Let us remember what is good Cherish family - count blessings - be grateful Order can be found Take time for yourself - keep your mind clear - stay healthy You can't escape reality Make up for your mistakes - learn and grow or suffer alone Act on love It will pass you by if you don’t - life is too short - love! Lose yourself Take risks - think for yourself - try new things - go places Find beauty in everything There is poetry everywhere - a friend in the loneliest of places Feel your emotions Express yourself - speak your mind - speak the truth Do not fear failure - embrace it Do the thing you’re afraid to do - challenge yourself - be brave Let your soul be heard Name yourself - know yourself - love yourself Be weary of your obsessions Stay grounded - let truth be your guide Love Over Evil They might not mention this pre-k through 8 Or even in the twelfth grade But LOVE is SCARIER than HATE Make art out of life Publish your creations - join the conversation
Supposedly the hardest conditions And yet I’m free of misery Kiss me silly It’s all a breeze when you’re free
Guard up? It's been up. So why do I need a hug?
The Real Life Cheerleader
This boredom Which I know Could bloom just the same As nirvana
It recounts Everything I’ve ever wanted
No need to rape the soils They’ll give But not in evil times or spaces
Nourishment vs. Manipulation Those soft sweet phrases you Use to disarm me Palatable phrases that make me guilty
I keep trying to eat Enough and of the right things I feel incredibly weak Between the heat and our unforgiving misery
A lemon tree A cherry tree Mint basil oregano Bread - homemade in san francisco Local jam and honey Coffee cats and me
Lean all the Way into it
I think last night I sweared to GOD if you died I wouldn’t know how to cry and I swear to GOD I just might be one of those crazy guys in disguise the ones you’ve been worried about all your damned life
how can I break the news to you more than twice so you understand this is not a mood of the night but the mood of my life because I need you to get this right
You and I are married in spirit I rest with you - you replenish me Feed me and care for me in sickness As I do for you - In health we fly Down the street - up the alley - around corners You and I set flaws aside Connecting beyond the flesh Our bond is sacred You can't disappear it - We're infinite It's why we'll never lose the thought of it
I did not seek God I assumed control I acted on fear - again and again and again
Not now Now I pray for us I pray we'll bring children into this world I pray for your relationship to your spirit and mine I pray we find peace
I sent him my soul Bought him a Bible Got a new crucifix The nice man helped me His smile was so sweet I cried a lot on my walk Before and after
I need to pack Do laundry I didn't respond to the insanity Only to the clarity He says things are falling into place
Keep missing me Keep missing me
You're a fool to think you want me to leave I love you
It has to cut because I can cut skin I know Skin I really see This is the only truth I know so I must set it free Hurting who I need to hurt in order to see clearly
This is a story about how When I was a little girl I grew the Biggest trash pile in the whole world I lived in a small house in the middle of nowhere But every time we went somewhere I brought something home My Mother Martyr and I held Onto the darkest secrets in the whole world Locked away beyond our big door in The middle of nowhere Where amongst those secrets we made magic
The Cluttered Drawer of Martyr
Plum lipstick stains and your best Eyeliner shavings decorating your best kept drawer of secrets You open it up to the smell of your faces To bags with zippers broken Storing medications and razor blades And more familiar things Like photos from the past and earrings Inside your jewelry box wrapped in cloth Its elegant details against plastic tools A timeless piece for treasuring Inside the cluttered drawer of martyr met by Hurried morning after hurried morning You make your face a less pale promise Of beauty You gaze into the eyes of vanity Rolling on scents so grossly sweet Curling hairs and powdering your face Pain indeed is the price for beauty But not the kind of pain you might get used to Past the palettes of shadows Past the filters the fillers the photos The pain you feel in exchange for beauty Is the pain in realizing you’ve been Painting towards no particular means at all You dress as so To become the veil Which only lifts by hands of your own Hands you really own
The poet emerges slowly graceless and with grit throwing their holy fit
in someone’s bed of roses traumatized by emotions effect
he saves me and I save him and yes there’s violence
but it’s virtuous
I swear to an existent god with both my fingers crossed that all the harm we’ve caused is good
Fruit.
Eating fruit in the sand Adventuring around the dunes with no plans Society is a scam We bathed in the lake last night Cooked meat over the campfire I had dreams asleep in the front seat Two sages sleep on either side of me
Reading Kahlil Gibran on the beach Smoking Biting into fresh fruit We're so blessed it's ironic
The world turns a ferocious turn While we sleep and write poetry Read and cook meat Over fires we've started Burning wood we've collected
+ I’m sorry I don’t care that i think you’re broken. that you sound insane every time you speak embarrassing, you scare me but you inspired me once lit up my world. once. before drama and years of self involvement you are a fat mess loud lazy depressed no homemade cookies by your hand i don’t care about dress up
The Rockstar’s Daughter
I brush my eyelash off the page far from obsessed
I remember admiring busy adults playing teacher as a kid
We make change, not sense Act out your gift for idiots
Don’t fake shit and you will make it
No guidance Just impressions
Make room for future understanding and forget where you’re standing realizing you’re always moving Conviction only exists in the movies Change is another word for living
The Techno Anarchist
Train is getting hotter I take off all my layers Redeye train like truth or dare the whole way Sobering, the morning Street art on the tracks so holy I wet my face Drink train water and stay awake On a spaceship to nowhere like fate Late nights on the redeye its a date Between me and my soul Playing footsy underneath the table of my will Like a backwards pill Breaking out stomach acid Breaking up sentences out of a habit Then out the mouth like a hat and a rabbit
I imagine a train worker In 2025 attempting the make the most of a dead form of travel
What a hero.
Virtual Reality Gods Virtual Worship 1000s of years ago Societies with advanced technology Were wiped out by anti-tech societies with more powerful armies
Modern society is left confused about lore And texts about Gods
Modern science is unclear about Whether or not Gods were once real Or not
While all of this is going down An alien species has arrived on Earth with similar traits to a well known society described In the most popular book
This is a complete coincidence And the aliens are actually evil But people assume the opposite because of the book
Gods were never real Evil and technology was
What gives? Why have it? Perfect morning doesn’t include it. Never will. My art is the art of my life I want photos framed - not Posted and liked and jacked off to I want them guarded This is my life Everyday is the same I’m surprised I acted any different as in - reactive To what’s been everyday For some time now I let hope break me down I want to start over something crazy And so I will I’d never feel like this come next year Fuck this shit Directionless - drained.
The rebel risk taking sweet talking lover - hero - punk - mistake maker. Wild - young spirit alive. Artist heavy. Lore heavy. Livid to be correct. And if I walk away. I take on something stronger. I cosplay her for three weeks to see if I like her more despite everything. What could they do - say? Identity - Sex - family Drama. These are messy when they're honest. The world is honest too, and we’re older, people grab shit, nothing is a secret. Avoiding writing anything that actually matters is an attempt to write a best seller. Give up on the idea. I don’t write those kinds of stories.
Reptilian People and the Bad Advice We Give
Write a letter to your least favorite person and burn it This is my best advice on ignoring the obvious
“Who heard that” “Are we next” Says the children dressed up in outfits fit for popstars Only meant to sing for presidents And abusers pouring up their precious liquid Which costs the fortune made off the backs of the innocent This is my worst advice on ignoring the obvious
Going around asking questions Is a first world death sentence
Give me an excuse to lose and I will
Pearls before the interview Weed smoke, black tights dress coat, and rosy perfume Hollywood goddess high before the interview
I glue a knife to me and hit the streets I get there and I’m making tea Decide I’m no good a servant So I poison the boss and leave because while I was there out the teapot came a genie who told me money is nothing If not in the hands of a King So now I’m sweating rose five feet from the throne
I had to sail and burn be wet and dry out I built my own house and no woman knows me now but I’m next in line A true King All my riches belong to the real ugly me
Riot Against the Clit
TV said I’m the only one left So I put a fish hook through my lip and walked the strip topless Desperate attempt to start a war with sex TV said I did it
Fiend Skit
“What a fucking beast, how cruel of me to inject true reality into your being. How wrong of me to rob you of your addictive feast. How wrong of me to kill your fiends.”
“Shut up you worthless fuck”
Moon Ink
I’ve made it so you can’t miss me Poets to the Motherfucking SFC I’m not sorry I write so neurotically I get off on angry, not crazy, just mad baby I love it when my hands pain me I love sounding polished like leather lately I’m ripening daily, demanding the right kind of attention early, seamlessly it seems Although in my night is when I knot the bleach, and lay lifeless as the lines undress me I write while you sleep is what they say to me To which I reply GET THE FUCKING BEST OF ME!
But I’m only fucking kidding! - I want recognition as one of the living. I do want my work to pay off, but this isn’t my fucking job, so pay me in consideration, toss rose if I’m worth praising. My reach is the most important thing. Share it, Copy it, Paste it, Poets to Frisco, No More Fucking Waiting. Pack a suitcase, paper and ink. Come squat like beatniks in these Victorian dwellings, live like hippies in these hills, split it six ways and see the expensive thrills, spiked coffee cocktails, and salty rich seafoods. Let’s feast on it too! Riot Style! Write for straight weeks and milk the city’s billionaires for supplies, and studio space, because the band needs some place to play, I need somewhere to stain, spray and go manic comfortably. Us artists need time to go insane, to paint and write the brain. Poets to Frisco. True Art to the Bay. Don’t let this city fall under the weight of neo technology! Dust this shit and shout it! I promise I’m never unreasonably restless! My unmade glory, like the bed, is the task I take comfort in. The shadow sitting barefoot on the stoop, cold and smoking, is my doubt addicted. Inhaling cancerous delights convicted senseless. I dream up the body next to me proudly, and blow smoke towards it graciously. It talks with me and thanks me before its sleeping, just for my speaking, and when I sit down alone again and remember who I’m writing to, I sound my age...but one day I might write sophisticatedly, I could slip a little diamond on my ring bone and assume home sweet home, one day I might tell you to burn all my books, turn to page six, or to listen up a little closer. One morning I might wake up believing in Gods. So while I’m impressionable, I self publish this proposal.
*
You see, I’ll carve my time out a man’s clock, I’ll acquire enough stock to do what I want, and I know what I want to do. I want to print poetry on blank walls and empty pages all across the country. I want you to read me nonconsensually. I want the inspired rich to feed me. I want all the yuppies practicing poetry because of me.
Conventional methods for teaching and supporting the Arts are monotonous to me
I believe a becoming poet should assume and reject teachers using their own intellect, and always fourth guess titles, identities, and notions belonging to those holding great stature. I believe the becoming poet questions even their soundest lover. Mine’s got uncut wood, tapes with numbers, tapes with songs, number two pencils, plant liquor, and an inhaler. His pockets sing from coins for inks and printing. Our money goes dancing down a broken drain, but he fixed it, and it’s okay. Some lady handed us a fifty and he handed it right back to some somebody. Right then I knew I wanted him to be the one to protect me. He was wise to rid us of the money. Money we’d of forgotten spending. Those green paper dollars wring my neck tighter than a collar, and my dreams attach the leash to me, using my body to paint the streets. I’m in my white heat, and no I don’t mean two caucasians fucking. I want to make the type of history that leads to all the kids self publishing. I want everybody fucking writing!!! Entering the Art ring with screws loose in their fucking brains! Shaking up the entire fucking scene. I don’t hunt to feed, but to feel intense hunger for something. All of what really gets in my belly deteriorates, it burns, it shrinks. Whatever my hands bring to my mouth - It bleeds, it lived, not for me, but I can’t help my being hungry. Just don’t let us eat until we’re dying, on our deathbeds, like you do with everybody.
Do you get what I’m saying? This is not writing for a tortured generation.
RAT FUCK
That whore of a poet called me a Narcissist After calling my work brilliant Just another poet Makes me sick
The art keeps coming At a rate so fast I’d have to pay someone to organize all this and make it readable Make it sellable…Just Another Poet called me a narcissist. A whore of a poet called me a narcissist for seeking a certain type of engagement. TRUE ENGAGEMENT YOU RAT FUCK. I want this in writing just for you. I want you to know there is no one perfect way to write and publish a book.
I want you to know that people who walk around telling you the do’s and don’ts of life are fucking assholes. I want you to know that I’m one of those assholes, but I am not a narcissist. YOU RAT FUCK. I want to get all this shit poetry together and publish a book everyone hates. Simply because it sounds more exciting. Nothing fun about doing something everybody loves. Nothing fun about whoring myself out to Zuckerberg Bots! YOU RAT FUCK.
It’s not about attention seeking, It’s about understanding formulas for quality engagement.
I’ve been way too fucking quiet. That’s the problem probably Smart Intelligent Emotionally Aware Women Silencing Themselves Out Of Premature Guilt…fucking ridiculous...why wouldn’t I believe that my words have the power to liberate thousands if not millions of lives. Yours can too. We’re just staying way too fucking quiet. Quit being a Bitch.
The Paper Angels
I dream a bold dream In a fallen world
Papers all over the floor Each, accounts of madness I've endured and adored
People write books Publish them and sell them
What if we wrote lore and passed it all down to our children
Hell what if we have them organize it and make what sense of it they will
It is not all written to be understood It is written honestly To inspire thinking and dreaming
Which is why We give it away freely It costs nothing To be close to God and hear things Write God down and Sing!
An Angel A dark one Then a light one
Fire and symphonies My city calling out to me Our meeting tonight in our womb
Whoever is robbing us and sickening us as invisible poisons Should fear an unexpected weapon
Relentless affection for the Truth The streets are my pages now The streets are OUR pages NOW!
It's all street ain't it Underground - Lawless Let Truth take back our streets Paint the streets with Truth
Truth is I hate my name because I don’t like anyone that’s ever said it. One day without a cigarette - I sound different. Developed a TV crush. Had to remind myself mid conversation - that what you’re saying - none of it matters. I don’t hope for your failure - I see it loud and clear. You get off on instilling fear into the minds of our great nation. You wish to convince them. Get them to download and buy your stuff. Make out to your music. This ain’t what I want. This ain’t what me and my people want. I want to inspire the voices of our generation. Get people writing. Get people to connect with themselves more deeply. I’m not selling anything. Ain’t shit for sale by me. It’s all free and none of it’s cheap. This is my impossible dream. MOON INK. One million copies yearly. Poetry raw and pure. I know now that I’m walking in line with my vision. It’s close - It’s here. I can shed the weight of fear. I can be myself. I can be me, here.
Calling all poets 24 paperback copies of your book Printed and bound for free Then distributed in the city of San Francisco - Overnight
Moon Ink publishes And distributes poetry at no cost To the readers or writers
We set words free on a mission To eradicate illiteracy Through the popularization of poetry
Anonymous Anarchist Publishing For A Better Future
THE MANIFESTO IS NOT DEAD As impossible as something seemingly so possible has become We must invent new ways to perform such seemingly impossible things We must experience literature in less pre-constructed ways Poetry should find people the very way it finds its poets Through lived experience Discovering poetry rather than seeking it Is a ritual which honors the nature of poetry to the fullest extent Poetry is not written to be worshipped It is written to inspire worship I want to create a network of artists who come together To invent new ways to distribute and experience literature America is a blank page to Poets who see this We can infuse beauty into the darkest of places We can create moments of reflection in the minds of our people We can work together to honor the nature of our words We can determine our own value And stay true to what we know is right As Poets As People First - feel again - as the Poet Feel - as the Poet
This is holistic Poets find us - they contact us We print their poetry And publish them overnight Delivering fresh poetry from around the world Right to your door
THE MANIFESTO IS NOT DEAD
Moon Ink is fucking with pens past ten PM Guns, Cans, and the Heads of Men Blood red binding Black paint kissing street Tiny knives slicing into things
We The People Write Reality We must fight against what we’re sold to dream
Freedom isn’t free without responsibility We shall master the art of decision making We shall understand the true nature of causality We the people can become self-governing Because We the People Write Reality
By Any Means Necessary
Our poetry finds the reader as poetry finds the poet - by chance We are self published - We are Poets
We do not wait for perfection We do not wait for recognition We do not wait for permission
We publish by any means necessary For the People, By the People We Write Reality
We don’t price poetry - We set it free We reject the commodification of literature entirely Moon Ink is not Sold to Dreamers Moon Ink is written by Dreamers Delivered to you by the soles of their feet
For
The Noble Amateurs The Exceptions The Becoming Poets of Our World Our People
This is an experiment in publishing An ongoing investigation The start of a REVOLUTION in Writing
Spread the Truth
This is an experiment in publishing. Operating on a whim that says most poets don’t give a fuck about net worth. Forget the publisher - Meet the Network. Street Angels distributing poetry under the cover of night. *This is our one and only life* So don’t sit on it - the notebook - the lust - your ungodly desire to get what the fuck you want. Let’s spill it all down the concrete runway cleared off. Your heart, our will, one night, and the city hears you for life. Imagine bold text spelling out poetry which can be seen by the people of cities, walking and driving their streets. This is our goal, this is our dream.
Blank walls like blank pages in the cities Begging us to litter soul in every crevice Belonging to their surface until all we see Is the inside of hearts poured down skyscrapers
Moon Ink is an Anti Capitalist Distribution Network No Gods - No Masters - No Banks - No Borders
I wanna spit on your face
From the escape she’s shouting we wrote a book and she’s tossing its freshly printed pages into the alley mid-night down onto the people past sharp windows with pasts of their own
and then it all slips into sun and into nothing and thoughts of miracles unthought of
Born to do something born with invisible wings to the optimist and to a false prophet teaching
This is my offering to an understanding belonging to something forever unspoken for
Escaping quietly caressing daisy whispering I couldn’t care how you feel anyways
screaming through the hole in the ceiling
I’m not catholic, but can I attend the adoration anyways? I saw flowers for sale today and I need to pray to anything In a room of silent incense run by lunatics
I made islands out the sidewalk cracks Moshed to wild cats in ski masks In a basement packed full of smoke Holding abandoned coats Off fashionable teens With filthy teeth getting smacked in a scene
And I wrote something decent recently And It read so sweetly You were on your knees weakly studying me freakishly as if I’d really accomplished something, but I can promise you it means nothing. Now come read what’s in the fire burning. What meant so much, it hurt me in writing. Pretty words are not exciting. I realized something recently. I wrote a book while I was sleeping. In limbo I was dreaming up the Poet who’d challenge me. I sit on both my shoulders anxiously. My good writing isn’t pretty…maybe I should be screaming through a hole in the ceiling.
Petals Pressed Onto Paper
I seek the borderless nation Let us rise in Anarchism As true blooded Americans
Watch us townspeople Dethrone our ruler To reach a land much sweeter
Dissolving our patriotism In exchange for loyalty To to earth we breathe on
Feel the flowers Cut them and pick them up Exchange them for honey Do not believe the thief When he tells you petals Have nothing on paper
Your pretty face With brain packed in Behind the eyes You think I am the change Petals become bread Bread I place into face Bread which digests itself Into my faith
degreeless sensibility
The legit writers are rattlebones singing the daily gossip with their eyes widening at the sight of empty risk
They’re in the courtyard comparing voices pushing prophecy to the business minded Behind a paywall for the check
Sipping in their cliques On their weekend trips Advertising a face of many
The old writers are burning each other like they have a clue
While the wallflowers of your city are busy brewing in their bedrooms Testifying and Self publishing Working with the local building Handwritten letters and Internet
This is our degreeless sensibility We’re giving it to you
Lady Poet
New plans old words new work old wounds Missing people names faces but there’s horses And those old faces remind me Of the way it would’ve been Had I not been the only one to leave Horses juices fruits and Hues so bright and pretty What to do. It’s no question really. I wish it was you, me, dad, magdalena - all headed up to the lake right now I imagine you fit with a big sun hat Magdalena would be healthy looking too - dressed in baby blue Holding her little girl Dad would be in boots and blue jeans unpacking a big cooler full of food Cracking jokes and tickling us whenever he could We’d have a dog - but a big one A lab or something We’d all live longer We’d fight but it’d make us stronger
It’s funny really What could’ve been Really might’ve never been
Say Hi Back
In the city of trees what was meant to be consumed us
What could’ve been won’t get away from us and if we meet again we’ll be worthless Remember then as enough
Be as who you were becoming and must you never forget to keep growing
s.h.b.
Your density does not erase my experience It deepens my isolation
Judging my wants and needs Rather than engaging with my inner world
Do you know who the fuck you are?
Should
Time has swept me Sweet syrup in drinks buzz me sweet lady raspberry absurdity What will I say to you when you respond or ask me what I am or what I want? Our water’s only hot for so long I run up and down this freezing evening as an exercise in believing Believing I have something that affords me excuses for my actions and for allowing other ones
but I say so what if it does now …Yet in mind I’m balancing another chance to understand myself clearly to hold a vision of me dearly but when I try I grow miserable Yes I’m here but what am I next to you?
Not insecure but bewildered by my desire to bother
One true sentence. An obsession with truth is a death sentence. Oblivion oblivious to any prose exposing the unintentionally hidden. A sentence like this worth millions?
No time alive to live The paradox that is
Luck & Faith from the Wannabe Sage
Who’s belief creates?
Do we feed into illusion to produce change? Does it feed into us? Does it feed on purpose?
Is to trust in the unknown to be lucky?
If you have faith in a flower and it’s ability to show you something Does it show you what you wish to see or what you’re meant to see?
I see belief designs destiny in more than a few ways Fate is nothing without my imagining such a thing
Pained by a stiffness I only met running We are not the only ones scribbling sorcery In a moonlit bedroom mimicking the tide
Doubt is always mouthed by the less desired life
Know when to sacrifice your pride You are forever reborn in the strangers mind Paint all your lies white
You’ll die a kind of dream in minds without time to memorize your lines Woe is life.
Alley flower
Just in case you didn’t know the people who live by the ocean are still people
Who do you think the poet is? a chill pill bursting open to alleviate you only when its cool Try again The poet is a loud ruse blinding you from the inside romanticizing its own lies for its whole life
Why do you think you spell better advice?
I still can’t sleep Because the perfumes on the Countertops are calling out to me
I wanted to tell you something
A mirror in the bedroom of a goddess What goodness wasted on powder and make up I wanted to show her the living creatures In her hairbrushes and blushes I left her a whore to illusion I felt something heavy I ignored the weight for destiny
Down the street Just beyond a cheaper door Lies unforgivable gore Puffing on doubt Passing it out In bundles of yeast and anger I burnt him with a sentence
All this city talk. Talk of unhappiness and violence. Talk of death. Talk of worse death. A stranger gifted me my first hunting knife. I bought myself boots to last a lifetime. Dear Children, I sit by the creek, now in a patch of sunlight. For you, I aim to live a simple life. Where fruit calls out to you from the trees. Where waves roar back at you freely. Where you howl like little wolves and nobody looks at you weirdly. I want you to see that all we need has been pressed onto us already. I want you to be free. To run through fields barefooted and naked. To speak to trees. To meet your creator. To see birth and death and the blooming of nature at your doorstep. It's all for you. The grace of God in all you see and do. Eternal love and peace found by the creek where you collect stones with your father. Dear Lord I ask you, do not make me a mother If I have anything less to offer.
Lets get more dirt under our nails Uncover the truth beneath the sound Discover the spirit inside our vessel reap it and cultivate something magical!
I say I'm a writer and you hear something other
Writer is no good a word for me I'm a wordsmith baby! A sage in the making! A poet to be!
Forever becoming Root me to God or nothing Truth or Death Ignorance is not a true luxury
I know this is a story I need to find a crucifix for my rosary because Jesus is missing Next time I touch myself it'll be skin deep Pleasure oh sure Not a trick Not a loser Keep laying down fingers Such a sore lover A lie first presented Like a knife in your neck Then you stretch Rather than shrink down You lay all the way out Rays of sunshine kissing your breasts exposed something Perfect. You cannot - and will not ever be able to pretend That what we felt by the river Wasn't God inside our fever Restless drinking Smoking jumping
I wanted you more than I wanted me I am the Poet, I bleed out my mouth you watch me.
3:49 am I woke up for the rest of my life Without a dime But what's a dime to road home
My grandma Mote wrote books She smoked She cooked She went to the neighbors yard naked once My grandma is bipolar
A Draft to OpenAI
3:49 I woke up for the rest of my life Poisonous pink flowers planted along the highway I wrote an epic poem for a boy when I was seventeen I saw a black man headbanging outside a perfumery on Fillmore St. This poetry speaks Volumes at least He asked me something - what makes good writing? And unlike writing good - good writing should possess elusivity Achieved only by true puzzle making Each word does not work to tell a story Each word works to reveal a story A truly incredible story rejects all predictability Good writing is impossible writing Writing which feels unauthored by any one person Paradoxically written by one person Good writing is radically honest Good writing turns confession into ritual Ritual into spell It doesn't follow rules Treats the page like a canvas Each sentence is a new color A new texture A new mood Elusivity Elusive Unpredictable Unpredictability Impossible Taking the ordinary and creating rituals Tied to spiritual realms Impossibly human in its desire to explain the unexplainable Good writing does not explain the unexplainable It perfectly illustrates this phenomenon Good writing is our desire to know god
A business woman. On a mission. Zero Expectations. No matter what she walks out amazing. Flawless Lady. An angel. A baby all grown up and wonderful. She’s beautiful. Clear headedness is what I need the most. The silence, your ghost. The history playing out like a show. Read more write more - but read what transforms and inspires But not too much though Write down everything you think you know This is what I want now A series of intricate and blissful tellings of happenings All around me The news - everything - personal - all of it Little black notebooks - telling a life
The magic of my life is my life, and the art, my art, is the art of my life. The diary! But when all is calm & bright. A woman given a sword and shield to fight inside this holy war. That is pure - the poetry I need staring back at me from a shelf I installed myself. Perfectly. I don’t want artificial coloring anywhere near me. All I did want was you. It’s too simple now. It hurts now. FOCUS FOCUS FOCUS. What would it all be like vibrating from a place so high? I think I could forget my fury. Write as Lady Poet - for once. Own it - the diary madness is all I’ve ever had to offer. I’m an artist not a fucking teacher. You can’t teach this shit to anybody. I don’t write kids books and my name isn’t Sophia. I know how to be badass and righteous - I don’t sacrifice shit.
This day starts off somewhat strange. I manage the coffee. The high quality treat. I manage the emotions that arose over silence and eye movements. I’m a freak. So confusing. Never to be understood. Mystery. Yes please. Writing those characters. It’s my destiny. I know them because I am them.
Cleansing the home. Setting the tone. Cleaning the fuck out of the bathroom - pantry - fridge - basement - get wardrobe in check - cross shit off list - get amazing food! Breathe. It can be beautiful actually.
Death is near and warning
The low vibration Cant help but notice it It'd make me sick if I wasn’t Nevermind, it does make me sick Every once in awhile I found myself Somewhere like here eating something like this Drinking something like this I’ve gone numb to it. So many other thoughts Regrets. What to do with it.
Little black notebook Little black dress
I must write the morning Wake up natural - to sunlight Water & pour over coffee - hydrate + energize - make tea Stretch outside - flex + wake - set intentions Shower - soap + oil - clean body Dress & style - feel right - right fit Holy writing moment - hydrated ~ flexible ~ clean Breakfast - hearty healthy energy Walk into town Sit & read Run every other day Light lunch Research + plan Afternoon nap Ritual Dinner Tea + water Stretch Shower or bath Read Sleep
The art, my art is the art of my life. The morning coffee. But also. The movements. The structure behind it. The grace I treat a day with. The day is something I take in as a friend. I want way too much out of it. But I take it. Somehow. Maintaining my sanity as an ever evolving being. I’m Asha to the good ones - a goddess. Sophia to the thugs. Officially five places at once. I want to meet this new version of myself. The ever evolving version of myself aware and in motion writing real entertainment like a poet.
So make it magic Words like tricks bend and whip I do believe surroundings help create these realities Drunk solitude - the absence of judgement Love racing through you The high you feel Following sacred self confidence Manifestation of abundance It is all within
I want this creation to hold you Every sentence can be intense It can all become tragic and dramatic Wild and thoughtful Life is messy and beautiful There are no rules
Align and then write
I’m being convinced I need this, keeping track of passwords, logging in, logging off…I just don’t get off and I can’t see how anybody does?! Anything requiring a password from me feels stupid and cheap. I’m going to let my mom pay for my therapy. I can’t talk to anybody. It’s all nonsense to me - what they’re saying. I need to let her think she’s doing something for me, and funny enough my lunatic boyfriend thinks it’ll be good for me. He’s just getting back into good graces with everybody, and here I am feeling dead inside, ugly, dependent, and infected. Well I’ve really had it. What I’m doing now is so much more productive to me than logging on and logging off and being asked what I named my first stuffed animal. And I quit the blog because even that is a form of selling yourself to the world and I just can’t agree, and they’re asking me for money, to have a website in the wild wild west of the world. I even assume my email will follow me, hunt me down and kill me, all these platforms attached to my name. I want to be nameless, I don’t know what my name is. I’m insensitive. I’m blacking out but I don’t drink or do anything that’d cause it, I’m just blacking out while the world takes my soul by way of parents who introduced me to it all. Ignorance, irony, I’ve been told to lean all the way into it but it scares me. I’m done trying to cause something. Not here, not with them, not with people you’re so close to, they don’t really know you, they can’t really see you. I’m done listening to anyone but myself, I didn’t want this, I really didn’t, but I see them as the future fatal blow to my existence. I hate them, I even hate the man I love. I hate every friend I’ve ever met. I know I’m godsent. I’m no narcissist. I just know I’m godsent and that I’m working for him now. And he says I’m okay, he says I don’t need to prove anything. He says that these people don’t know the harm they cause, or the stupidity of their gods. He says keep writing not because I was told to keep writing but because it’s my eternity, it’s for me. The language I barely understand doing something incredible for me, and for others when they allow for it. But screw loose shouldn’t be sitting in the basement. I want to make more copies of it. Lots more, that’s actually my only new goal. The same one I had before. He could even work for me from afar.
Lists are stupid but simple And they work Outlining the to do and do nots
The Spread of Poetry
Our word is our resistance against ever increasing illiteracy in the age of constant connectivity. Together we’re bringing more poetry to the public by publishing poetry in as many different places as we can, and for free. We want poetry in the hearts and heads of everybody Businessmen, mature women, and all the working class children. We want families making a seat for it at the dinner table. We want it sitting on church pews. We want teachers reading it aloud in schools. Poetry is the future of News. *
We trust in poets, and in poetry that supports literacy naturally, yet publishing our poetry solely online disrupts the inherent value of writing, and diminishes its value in our society, but no more than a publisher determining monetary value and selling poetry inside a library. We cannot price human imagination, so we don’t. Instead, we free it. We write for, and with Everybody.
LADY POET
Avoiding done up girls in love with faking it Bow around the neck? Dear Lady, How do you do it?
Dear Lady Poet,
Do your lines sound something invisible? Do they move like the hero in a war? Dear Lady, do your words whip and burn or is your verse still sweet like Eden? Do you still whisper it a secret to mostly demons?
Do you still break cheap porcelain plates on the Ohio tracks?
Still, has it not occurred to you that romance is smacking your head against the teeter totter?
Do you still not see the human being in the big city headbanging outside the perfumery? Give me just one image more exhilarating
I’ll be a beginner at death when I’m up next and my lips will have expressed their message to godless weapons named believers in one type of heaven
I’ll speak like drunk kids laying backs to the sidewalk directing crossed eyes up towards stars pretending to know exactly where they are writing the nights as theirs
In these poems I write for you, I’m polished Ripened by breath Seamlessly demanding the right kind of attention Although in my room I’m hovered over a familiar page twirling strands of bleach Watching closely as my lines undress
Stability of The Heart
Why shouldn’t the kids name this book themselves? I’ll admit I care for legacy like a mother with anxiety Unhealthy as my obsessions may be All I ask Is that you open your heart to me So that my words may climb inside and keep
Promise me Do not ever let the poetry of your life Rot on the surface of your sleep
Rip yourself open and WEEP a thousandfold dream
00/00/0000
I was happy that day, happy crying because I discovered I wasn't an alien or an angel or some bullshit but that I was a human being with idiot parents that still had chances at shit. A hope so hideous, I lived.
