journey to the moonstone

from, the battle we didn't choose. the ritual life to the empty bed. i have loved this collection of photographs. enough to share on the body of my mind.

http://mywifesfightwithbreastcancer.com/

Jennifer, RIP

about #2 tiles

what the purpose of repetition and acknowledgment of a soul geography is, you fear to imagine. this constant imbalance. this gastronomic swivel of logic and the sensitive. be tough young soul is all you hear, growing up. be resilient and move forward. there is a purported theatricality to the crescent victor of the emotional poly-hue. a plastic bravery, in cloaks of the social swing. Shakespearean and literary, the facetious doll, redeems the fullness of the life unlived. in preparation, in discordance, and in constancy of what begets, the life of dreams and shadow cues. fulfilled in the resilience of the behemoth, in the philosophy of the poly-phile, a mobile sentiment in a social web, in a network of the evolved commodity, a mechanism, a clockwork, a poly-maze stereophone of the unconscious, you are to fight in life. to recount the dream of existence. to add purpose and civility, and story-tell. and narrate your narrative. catalytic, for the gratitude of posterity.

but how many people encourage you to weep out loud? to admit, openly, that there is a lingering insecurity. a feeling of fear about the self -as if you don't know you. that you are not ready and unavailable, emotionally. without reinforcement of your capabilities, how do you know that you compare to the rest of the millions? in the physiognomy and physicality, beyond a point, wouldn't you feel unheeded? why would you internalize in polyps the love of man? and woman? and hide behind the ashes, the trilogy of love songs? and mold to sell your personality, because our destiny and art works revise the happy stories? there are moments when you break. you mind whirring, your body sweating, your eyes blazing, you just want to scream to the air, as loud as you can. as shrill as you may. as an allegory of your internal reality. of the confusion, the subjugation, the repression of your dream cadence. the oppression of your meta-self, believing in the poetry of the artifacts, the remnants of a positive entropy; the dynamics of the conqueror and the idealist, creased and hemmed in seams of a dye palette, a gold sonnet of the suppositions. a lot of the time, you dwell on the power of self. why do i belong to the other half, the other self? have i evolved to care for you, despite this struggle for natural existence? how does it feel to be the only lone, vying to live and dying in regrets. no one loved me. i lied and fabricated my romance, to belong, essentially. because of the notion of the craft, of the expectation. with age, if you didn't find, did you lose the battle at a point? and you lost the battle because you never experienced the duplicity, or the duality of decision-making, a hand to hold, story unfolds in bits and pieces of the solitary vogue pejorative. it is my goal to say to you, if you feel a sense of loss, an unreal self, a paper luck, someone possibly feels the same disappointment. in another world, in another word, in another construction of the self.

you may kiss the fragrance of the garden lilies, tongue tied and spaceless. and choke on the parure of tear pearls and hymns, but think of your life. a sail, a fresh. in a world you are not alone.

to right the love

to believe. one day you will love with laws, your fellow mate. your fellow soul. and bounce over the chill grapple of an aging, dying definition of what it is to marry. if you throw the spate of the 'traditional', the 'god intent', i wish we never speak again. the undying love on one hand, you preach, and yet restrict. shameful. and re-learn your morality. for everyone, every soul has the right, the prerogative, the power to love, and lust, despite the sloppiness of your recognizability.

not because i wish to politicize, but because i wish to make you think. think of a time you fell in love. so hard, so fast, so deep, that you smiled with constancy, wishing and cheering on the palate of dreams. to hold your souls, to sing and swim, to dance and kiss, with stars and wind, and magnolia blooms. reading poetry to another, in the phenomenal hand-written calligraphics. and then they snipped away your only flame, in the demonstrations of the legal prejudice. i hate them. i hate them with a passion i cannot describe -those absolute bigots and chasm-creationists of the right to love, the right to wed. and yes today, for the blind family, how do you act in such hypocrisy on the basis of a bio-hazard, supposed, that you create?

red heart. and in the symbolism of the protest. i, the reactionary, intend to learn. we right to right to sing in praise of the confectionery. of the saccharine intent of emotions, love, and matrimony, if so please. why marriage is the ultimatum, i will not fathom. but to revolt and rebel the right, the people of birth, you make me smile. and for the conservative, i have no tolerance for your stifling prejudice of coarse mishandling of human emotionality. let us move on, and learn to wed, as people. hopefully, with the legality.

to you, mr x

for your patience, mr x, i thank you. for your celebrity profile, your stardom, your weird simplicity to pursue and follow an interest, it is no easy feat. drinking, night after night, in the olive tavern, tipsy and confused, shy yet raucous, boisterous and pensive, in the chiffon of your intelligent industry, we have known, gotten closer, loved and hated. flirted and danced, eyed and smiled, dolled up, feigned ignorance, faked business, spun a reel of lies and quasi-truths, in the tavern on jane street. a quaint remembrance of the beatrice inn, i wasn't there. i never saw. you never slept. but you said those were the days of bliss. in the Bea, it was a soul phenomenon.

but the Bea is gone, and you have returned to the mundane of your storytelling, and stock broking. unhappy sometimes, stylized sometimes. you fuck drags now, with green hair and purple tongues. you want to talk about success, sometimes. the definition. the Americanism attached. the yardstick of the dollar, irrespective of the knowledge base, the data base, the idyllic. when did this equation flip switch into a materialistic outcome? a generous shrug to the quest for human purpose, but now you trade. and only care for those who queer in banks. to have come from a farm, i wanted gold, you said. gold, to prove to your kin and kind, the value of your potential, not your intellect. you refrained, you feared, frightened and nervous. i remember meeting first, your hands shaking, soul trembling, words escaping your shoddy shields. you said to me, i don't think i'll make it here. it's a psychic nostalgia of the familiar. your family mattered, despite the abuse, the peril, the dissolution and the dissipation. breaking ways, and parting souls. your hopes that died with inhumation of a love triangle. to disease your fallback, i'm sure it hurt. when you were alone, in the solitary insular. you may have cried, and charred in your discomfort. embarrassed to admit, i am alone. i didn't make it. yet, is key. but how long? for many months, ride your struggles. i have told you, time to time, push yourself to the breaking point. feel the fissure of the deep chasmic soul separatist. to dissolve in your blood humor and admit to yourself the melody of a reconstruction. who said it was easy? believe in no ultimata that comes from your reconaissance. to urge the belief in the theatricality and non-actuality of the characters in your life. yours, and yours alone.

look at birth. you came alone, festooning humanity through the singularity of your presence. yet delivered into a trove of the socialized animal. you grow in the neighborhood of the human, and non-actuaries. woebegone camaraderie and irresistible hate-mongers. casting and remolding, curling and enchanting, pacing and fleeting, groping and heaving, delving, scrutinizing, burrowing and digging, deeper and deeper and deeper into the depth of depths of what does it mean to be me? in the roots of this depth, which branch is of the superior? the maternity, the sexuality, the identity, the existentialism? what it is to become the man or woman of soul-commerce, of self-trade, of self-value. what is the value of yourself mr x? what is the value of your experience and nomenclature that your social cage refused to provide. do you regret, this calligraphy of the Bea? the metonymy of your life today -mr x, the town man, is the successful of sorts? a self-success, i ask. not the one that permeates, oozes, and exudes from the architecture of your brownstone. not the success that brings you the disability of macrocosmic impecuniosity, or for that matter, a charisma of the braggart. the success, that you made. at the Bea, by the move. by the hinge and the thrust of your soul-searching dissatisfaction. you bit your tongue, and cloaked your fears, caressed your nerves, and held your head, shaved your disappointments to recognize the singularity in death, a fatalistic simulacrum of your self-other multi-collage. this verbal banter is not to decide, but to oust. to try the test of a new provenance. to run away from your rooted presence, to lift your legs into a vicious unknown, to distort your satiety cage of the familiar, welled in fear, in angst and verve, in trepidation and love, in hesitation and pleas, and dive into the depth of me. to re-begin an I.

ex

they will hang. in bell jars. and gas gauze. and disbelief of the god recluse. a humanism of the song festivals. and chandeliers of wax lilies. you killed the republicanism, the ideologue. and saved humanity of the curse of the orthodox. folding to the gays, your orthodoxy. go hang your soul.

self creation academe #5

piece by piece. from hand to arm to the philosophy of the lesbians. i created you. gave birth to a pageant and roiling toiling farm limbs of your water crest hyacinths. in the image of the transgendered. in the image of the mirror fluids. in the shadow of the water vessels. your hair in flames. your eyes in gaze. your limbs in wax. in a moral cluster of your persona. in a paradox of the barren decidua. at triple points of your raucous belligerence. in a garland of hormones and blood splattering, moon watering, hair curling imagery. you stood by the chimney top. your bare english. your vinyl hat from the ‘70s. your perishing musculature. your drooping shoulders. the burden of a chromosome death. your disability to squeal at the threshold of pain. prodding your ribs, crushing and gnarling and peering into the pheromones of the dandelions. the erection of your brain monuments. in folds, in gyrations, canoodling in syncopation with the feline moth shadows. and your pyramid of lust, post surgical behaviorisms. you are the anatomy of a dead dream. never born, yet shaped in place with imaginations of the little ones. to produce a reproductive machinery of the mechanic by the stall. the stalwart of diuretics, you piss on your shadow. in dissatisfaction. and trepidation of misfortune. this is me. this is i. lost and found in paradox.

to introduce myself. this is the sexual, unbridled. phagocyte. like hallucinations on the bare psychotic carousel. fake monogamy of the cold misogynist. the bigot and racist. the occlusion of emotion, swelling and welling in the pathology of my prematurity. the pre-partum dissatisfactions and comforts within the womb soil, manifest in the general rebelliousness of my tinkering venules. to request my discomfort, this naturalness of the nebulous. fleeting and tumbling, and crooning inside. mary jane, come play with me. swoosh away your dance of clouds. the wiring dams and bricks and chains and tops and cues of the identity plagiarist. once the truth, once the lie. the white bedazzlement of desire. i want to be another me. dissatisfied with the presence of my churlish demeanor. the origin of which, unfounded and miscalculated. i do not know. i cannot tell. it makes me old, with time and days. with seconds of clocks. to re-begin is my new discovery.

acquiline

someday, aquiline, we will change the world. with scissors, and smells, and simple smiles. with photographs and tunes and quills and rhymes. and voice the secrets of a compulsion -you and i built seventeen years ago. breaking melodies and losing lives. yet singing beyond mountains, a country way down to the oceans. to poverty, you say. i have seen, and read in painful caricature. of the tin man and the dead. struggling and fighting. defeating the defeated. in a chromosome. embrace and willfulness. in a cosmic turbulence of the pens. scribbling a song in cherish and love. your cancer death. your sheepish, dull vanity. a tarnished smile. in loving love. and hating the pang of poor, phenomenal rejections. in the bar by the bottles, we ran to the edge. you smiled, sheepish. developing an agency of the maniacal hysterical demented. to say, my strings are torn. my heart is broke. rolling your face in the green, cool color-dome.

marilyn, marilyn. i obsess. at the carnage of the rapist. the artistry of the dead girl. the alabaster breast. the sexual squeal of norma jean, where is your myth of lust? to your orphaned frock. and prongs of devilish ridicule. the symbolism of your triumph. in song, so lyrical. so poetic. so simple. in your goggle bills, and panty hose. in a parallax of the phallic monstrosity, a kingdom of sorts. you rose to bail. you queen of songs. your sequined sex. your rouge of bliss. your lips of wax. your curls of oil. your hands and legs and string of eyes, in the polylogue of the humanoid, the paranoid, the junk-setter trend-bite. what it is, to hide behind. the diaspora of your sensibilities. ill-treated, mis-treated, unheard and unpainted, while you lived in the shantytown of shame. for in the posthumous, they gloat and lionize the chiffonade of your hungry symbolic. untold, retold, forever signed. undulating with time, the eye of warhol. the playboys and bunnies. the '40s of drugs. and cigarettes. and drugs. and cigarettes. and druggoids and cigarettes. and men. and whores. and lust. and sex. and in the paparazzi of your beauty, the cheer glow golden globes. broken, within your loneliness. it never cured. it never sailed. you died. lonely.

in the human crystal canvas of my city, you lovely man. your wife had asked. dear moe, darling love. how will i live without you? and you said. dying. take the love you have for me, and spread it round the world. you smiled, and slipped. and fell and died. remained your wife, retained your words. and clicked your cold embracing rigorous death, to return to the ashes. in memory of love. in memory of happiness. in memory of bliss. you wrote in your will, after i die, blow me a kiss. paint my lips with the tenderness of your touch. and bury me in remembrance of our love.

the vaudeville kiss

dear valentine. on the fury of a tongue parody. your sex workshops. bottles and bottles. cans and cans of your orgasm aromas. and the traditional rattle songs. of burlesque and the vaudeville plays of monologues and shepherd tongues and dicks and slaps of whim and curly flakes of tongue shrill lilt bangs. deaconess moon. you fuck the sun. and the gay gods of plague. the saint of rome -the lesbian booze-maker. she is my coffee cousin of the whore house. the alcoholic night mare of the pears on bleecker. the cars on the pink honey crisps and chrome whistles. and wax chimes on lollipops. the candle lips. i have glazed with honey from the dead doves. the bees of dali. the delicacy of the selfish whir of the pike tornadoes. and the intransigent. the reckless irresponsible hag from the little villa of the oceans. i want to scream, dear valentine. and aim at your eyes. and shoot a tenderness of alkalinity. dripping, and sweating, and grazing, like cows on hills, wearing peahen cloaks and cotton. and orange peels on dressing gloves. you wear, i have seen, blood condom with fertilizers and seeds. supplant, and replant the identity of man. the woman on the strings. the flautist who killed in the bafflement of murder. in the epitaph of the oven, and then reams of dialogue. on the latitude of words, of poetry and sounds, of rhyme and the dance counties. swirling in sex and moaning and fisting in the paddle house by the riverside. this is the wild irrationality you subsume in the intimacy of your conscience. your perfection of pretense and the lip smacking jaw-breaking eye-killing dangerousness of the 30 year old granny-fuck in the plague fields, makes me want to break the wall of my sensibilities. and throw a fit of love, wilting and crowing in the apostasy of the perplexing breakdown of my structure, for one second. the satyriasis, the maniacal, the hormonal and the diseased. clap like dolls, and smoke in hisses. grass and sea weed, and manure from the garden house. and tug at your belly chest and the stylization of your human asphyxia which makes me want to kiss. in wraps. in shreds. and rip the anatomy of who you are. i want to know. i seek and run. and fleet and sweat. and whore each night. looking and stopping. and risking the togetherness of my morality -what exists i cannot tell. i am no believer in the fatalism of your tribe. you want my objectified stratified pieces of body frames and you know what? you get it. i get it. we shoot. and cringe in the disappointment of what could have happened if we were two. and didn't pray to the bisexual gods. the immaculate virgin, died on the cross. the man in guilt. the father -in suicide. and pill overdose in the beseeching for peace. the vaudeville kiss. the time of blood. thousand feet. and learn to blow, what i did for love.

life of a pill

 the progeny of mechanics and chemical charades, a pill - its potentiality preserved in the craft of invisible bonds and inexplicable origins. trait of the analgesic, or the psychotropic, or the diuretic, lies in the arrangement of rings and chains; a bouquet of the poly-atoms. a cherry-picked design from the plethora of smells and the color palette, aim to appease a demand of escalating look-ist consumerism.

there exists a disequilibrium of therapeutics and hazard, to the body that is mottled with disease and uncanny disabilities.navigating through the labyrinth of vasculature and the pulsation of blood rhymes, to the hinged receptacles, perched and embedded in a shimmering mosaic, the voice of a pill

creaks in dissolve; to diffuse and suffuse within the strict bottleneck of anatomical architecture. in fierce competition with the natural agents; this is the travelogue of the quasi-natural pill, careening from tongues to the nano-havens of genomic machinations, peeking and prodding in aimed wander-swirls, lulling and swooshing across and into the topology of the body, morphing states in seductive tease to bare the bones of its chemical construction, hissing in activity; biting and chewing an infection source, a roily metastasis, a perplexing ache, with an aim to relieve, to re-live, to amend and mitigate, a broken body of sorts.

50 cent alphabets

 
henry.

this is your bone cabaret of the tacky nudes. a garland of orgasm, laced and encased in the lilt of the diffuse humanity plenitude. look at you, holding fists. touching cherry plays. this act of discontinuous sex: an effusion of carnality. man, the sexual being. the wonder king of plague machinations of lies, and mystery. live with son and wife. but i want to play with you. you say, with profuse carelessness. oozing a pale grease of satiety. we can rent rooms through my work. i do my job well -they'll do as i say. to wield this power of the extraordinary deceit perplexity, you vapid liar. so bland in your mesh of imaginations. in this ultra-contracture of inter-work and network, a convoluted brain. the network theory of complexity of this irrational man. lying and vying and pretending, every day, behind a curtain of normalcy. a wax tailor of sorts. a molder of kings and sleeves. the proponent of a tortured entropy. welcome to the threshold of the strings. the chaos theory of dissonance. for all of the misshapen, and the addicts. and the roiling displeasure of your ossified subconscious. you hold hands, as if. as if to charm, to please, to support. to succor. to fuck. to comfort. to play and strum and pump your skin. and knead and feed a hundred gods of space-time bigotry. your love of love, your vying deed. your hate of hate, a second fake. your lust for art. and the composition of dead poets. the chain dolls and vaudevilles. the perplexity of a sensuality. make me wild, and crazed. to lose my self in this grip of an engendered evolution of the dissolving emotionality. my testosterone breath and energy growls. and an inner howl of a non-receeding desire. every day. every second. this reflection of the self-identity on a paradigm scale of weights and stones. let us hold hands, and mesh our works and gelatin and organs. and poetry and art. and pupils of ash. and tremolos of glass. and pill crescent honey songs. the dance of snow flakes. this universe of mesh, this work of piss. anathema of the wanderlust. sing something. play something henry. play. 

half-eaten blueberry

the peculiarity of petals has been the mannequin of muse. in this pearly winter night. a certain trenchancy. on a moon whisper. i turned on the radio. static-filled. for an hour and three minutes. motioned to the magpie made of cardboard, resting by the nightstand. and peeked at the moon. and smiled. and crawled. and howled. and bathed in the light of the milk eponym peculiarities. you look drugged, melanie. i say to the lunatic. and the stars. and the cabaret crystals. the jingling prisms. and the glass flakes on silica. and the diamond beds on crates and rocks. and snarls and gawks of your uncharacteristic perfidy. leaning over, i said. i want to send a half-eaten blueberry. parceled in lead. to which, you nod. reverberate and resonate in ripples of the cloud waves. in chronicles of your luminescence. and trace and track the vagaries of your twenty nine trimesters of aborted pregnancies. back and forth, in the uniformity of a cyclic periodicity. i became an animal of the irrational. i cannot explain. i cannot piece together the chronology of my math. acumen and satiety, in check. only to say i have this lurch, a longing for what i cannot know. to sing dialogues of the dead metaphysicist and the teeming unconscious. in jars, pouring mayonnaise and shellac. in the diffusion paradigm of inconstancy. and in the relativity of the time continuum, i want to build a ladder. that remains beyond perish. toying with an indelibility of the non-conventional. no statuette or portraiture of a posed smile or magnificence is necessary. it is in the doing, this preservation of the character of self. to do something, often times you exclaim. i want to do something, what should i do? how you leave the trace, through your effort and whims, is for you to decide. to be the cultist glamor doll, or the theorist philosopher. the barbarian or the plague, is your fancy. what matters in terms, the humility and pomp. the machinations of your skin sonnets. the narrative of your genitals. a legacy of blood blossoms. a petal work of frames. and paint. and juvenile plasticine. mold and remold. give shape and breaths. and historicize the fetishization of the love tentacles. of the moon epilogues. of the lunatic rogue and the insanity of the schizophrenic. building castles and navigating, through a time of a century. to live through an annihilation of the ice widows.

to live, melanie. where do did you start?

a broken theory of shriek 7

the birth of an emotion, darwininan or neo-darwinian. i do not know. a benefit for our survival. an adaptation to co-opt and co-operate. a tongue flicker maturity. a determinant, we inject and infuse for the benefit of our race, our species. in networks and mesh. in groups and cohorts of narrowed sentimentality. seeking and beseeching. wanting, and fretting. crooning and writhing in song and tears. you hug your soul. touch your skin. dispassionate, cold, icy and frigid. it's time, you say. when wasn't? it was, is and may be a labyrinth of fatalism. i seek shelter in souls, and lyrics of song. and bricks by the river bed. in dams and shells of careless luminosity. in lapidary verbs and disabled faculty. what is it you say about the power of your capability? i am incapable, may be. with a sagging hopefulness of fruition in the domain of the reciprocals. it is not arithmetic, i said. why do you compare? there are no rules. no cues. no safe harbor for the mechanics of your interrupted sunday surprise. holding wigs, and moon beams. reading and fine-tuning a life of wish, dream. modified success. mutated parts of an invidious bias. how did it feel to love?

diseased with a tenderness and a deep, lesioned existence. how long can you long? for a while. how long a while? a century? a day? it takes time, you explain. and what if there wasn't a one? because of the misshapenness of my physiognomy. the counterintuition of my sexual fervor. after all, the physicality is the draw, isn't it? and then, the nature of blinks. the volume of shrieks. the howl and screech of frames, and beds, and porcelain jugs and steaming kettles. the first approach of the love navigation, is a lust for the frame of the body. you know, i think of creation sometimes. and if god made man, then why did he or she decide the gradient of the physical external -why X stuns and Y repulses. the prettiness-ugliness imbalance. why would your god pick and choose and create this divide? so that the individual may suffer from an unknown outcome or consequence of action/ inaction -is this a reasonable conjecture? what a shameful equation you have composed, i cannot say. this lookist, classist, sexist panoply of the century micro-cosmos, an adulterated social normality perhaps. if fatalism and your god's creation ended in the architecture of every man -why the ugly obese woman who regrets her fate. the majority expect the archetype goddess and what is the outlet? a social suicide and despondence of can i ever choose? will i ever love? the same with man, the sexual whims of let us pick and choose and point to the being of looks and beauty and then proceed to learn the man. think with the real, and not your ideology trains. to a point, where you ask. who declared the rationality of man? i see no trace. i see no hue or mold of the reason tree. for you tried, you say. you tried the sex sites, the mainstream, the bar strips, the online clique. and what worked? the web of shame. the soulful rejection of the lucky elite. you may not be one. you are not the one.

take two.

about the baby

you sighed at last and said to me, i want a passion ring, a butter bowl and a baby. 6 pm. your husband away. your indications, a plenty. a chilly north evening in your manhattan apartment. you took me by the bed and said to me, we fuck here. know how it feels? 

disgusting.

but i want a baby. a toy, you explain. for the proof of a youth womb architect. to experience the dictionary slogan of maternity and suckle-feed. i want a suckle. and shove it in her face. the anger over your motherhood and the complications are engraved on your breast. you tidy in the cups and pour honey over. the integrity of my genomics, i do not care. never will. but i want to converse with a happy lesbian surrogate. and talk diapers and perfumery. and pretend excuse. relieve from accusations of my mottled hormone strips. justify tardiness for my baby needed milk. people usher sympathy. i need sympathy and contradiction. and do because i suppose. it is an expectation of social sovereignty. a yardstick of reign power. me. a woman of vagina smells and lipstick blush rouge desirability. a super-imposition among the feminine ballads, a status-seeker want worth. come here and touch my nipples. you see what i say? they are painted. and to enhance, i sometimes stick a few mothballs in there. 

if i could have a baby, i may want it to perish aside. while sleeping. while drugged. so it may never learn the anatomy of art or the history of political philosophy. or the antics of the spiritual abyss. or the taste of cum. relieve in the invisibility of an unattained, depreciated identity. what if it were a trisexual costermonger? i shudder to envision the meretricious child. a souvenir of sex. a prototype of an idiot mother and broken hymens. me. a woman of finesse and gore. of failure and lust. an alcoholic youth. a garbage bag product of the whore pedigree. i rose to this status of subdue and filth. it was rape. come feel my lips. the story never leaves.

since i could and never would, come to my flesh. touch and breathe the pallor of my cold, unconvincing body. he never knew, and never will. i rid my womb. belated life. at 9 pm. saturday night. 1986. 

office space

windowless. art filler. my office space.