Minou

2012-02-13T13:38:00.000-08:00

todas las hojas son del viento. . .

2012-02-07T11:13:00.001-08:00

Is this a sandwich?

2012-02-05T14:55:00.000-08:00

If only I had been born
A fish
Instead of a monster

shivering fawn

of spaces from shells to sands
always assumed within the counted ones
until proximity loosens our hair and the piles of stardust from our palms

loosening the locks of our starry gathered umbrals
and we can not be numbered

some in our arms upon rising leave behind the nights costume

heading out into the day to the rooms of the world outside where we uncover nakedly
things of our former selves
to set them up stark against the foliage
like paper cutouts of secret silhouettes
or swinging statues
we forgot
to click off
still swinging around in the back yards of our dreams

it is a wilderness that is not so much Rousseau like

although it is built of the momentum of wanting and its debris

sorting through the flotsam floating wreckage
we are racoons in the trash
of a statue garden

because
want looks and want searches and want wraps us up until we are the wanted, or not
and it becomes us

accumulating in the garbage to hunt or to pick each other between the waves we come in like waves and we go out like waves and the tides and the moons send us running off or to bury ourselves amidst the discarded furs of others we try to

bury ourselves in the sand becoming sand

or topple off the used upness of castles crumbling in topples off each other in heaps like

little stones like flakes of skin or leaves or the beginning of snow where it is very still

and we are the snow and we

try to catch us in our open mouths but tout le monde runs out

and we are cold sparks

in infinite dusts

in fragments of foam

in blown up marble

and we are swept off

and
we will not be ours

but flicker in twirls of differentiation simultaneously forever

and one finds oneself in it and one is familiar with it and one can be in it with everyone else everywhere crystallized or melting otherwise this is not a world

and we are all strange animals that try to go into the others and protect ourselves at the same time

with our big open black eyes towards the night

and our paws.

.

2012-02-02T10:38:00.000-08:00

.

アイヌ

.

2012-01-29T13:16:00.000-08:00

o my star of luck
smile to me

.

2012-01-27T13:58:00.001-08:00

Back of the play garden,

cloudlessly butterflying,

we made love like angels in snow.

Tilting til oceans took to hereafter
le sable rose
washed up shored

debris

from our lost arms

lost out on waves,

crescendoing in leaps into the pool across the banister

atravezando las ruinas de moteles de amor.

We’ve all heard it come rushing,

when it comes rushing in

it rushes in and all we hear is

all we hear rushing

as it comes

in claustrophobic back flips

in fish bowl swims

light it scoots in fins away

it scoots in swims

or let's it go,

going in.

The time makes everything old

so the kissing, young darkness
becomes

a monstropolous old thing.

There are parts when the monster is almost painful

reading about

the good view of him

and his struggle

to keep
along the border constellations

maybe not supposed to tells

fifteen year old secret hybrid dots rubbed out along the
intergalactic

thirty seven years ago today, he says, fingering harder

play doughs

of filtering

knots in our pretty hair.

knots in our soft tummies, kneaded under bellies of

frozen fog shit and guts tinkering

swills of beach lines in river faucets back into our mouths

plugged and making sucking.

of frozen pipes of fogged shit and guts swell
our skins and stretch across
our bellies

some of us have

some of our bellies
holler.

some belly howls cower.

some of us are cowered.

Meanwhile, Yemanja leaps in flotsam jetsam and ripples off the smokey veils

in tendrils.

Let us skip

seven waves

in mind in the morning wind bangs up the creaky doors

and going on about in the apartment.

to begin again.

The first day of the year the sky is violet.

.

2012-01-24T11:06:00.000-08:00

artifacts of the winged

.

2012-01-19T12:51:00.001-08:00

feathers and wax mythical ambition to conquer the skies

2011-12-22T11:37:00.000-08:00

.

I was flying across the burning desert.

.

Violet belly song baby.

2011-12-22T11:18:00.000-08:00

Violet belly song baby.

Some baby.

Some body.

Worldview in baby blues.

Baby Constellations.

baby stars baby wars

Baby love.

My baby love.

Baby Echoes in the baby chambers of our baby hearts.

step soft,

our dream lies here.

Baby grandpas up above,

Us below.

Watch us grow.

I see the moon

and the moon sees me.

Maybe baby moon baby

Maybe moon foxing on it

moon manning in it.

Maybe baby. Maybe.

Maybe not.

Maybe self-important flower petal

some planet flower spinning

on some flowered planet

all its own, all alone

Or amongst us wildest ones

wrestling endless fields of sun

of common, dirty, earth trash ones.

pepper in the edible and pink up the cities

all the pink moments in all the pink mouths

all the longest nights of all the newest years,

all the longest kisses

all the longest bombs gone out the longest windows

all blown out of baby darkness into baby light

Out the spinning earth clock in the baby belly,

Spits the Violet belly of the song baby out.

and he lay down in the grass and cried.

2011-12-15T16:22:00.001-08:00

...

me identifico.

.

2011-12-15T09:11:00.001-08:00

marco gets mentioned about his dancing,

ecstatic trembler approaching edge of sound barrier

the event horizon has

tea parties underwater

under where

there was the unremembered conversation (oral tradition),

swallowed by centuries

opaque circling,

pennies swirled in spinning cups

taste same

a tin or copper

I think something’s between us,

the fog on my glasses, the rain mist on my lenses

like water leaking up through the soles of my shoes,

sss got nothing to do with you.

ten hours broken into two sets of five,

you gotta try

can’t let it bring down.

You.

Look so beautiful today.

It is so good to see again.

I’ll call about that Hungarian,

still have number,

were wrong about the Finish film, was two in the kitchen,

melancholia of the black sun,

Really,

Just so beautiful.

2011-12-12T11:33:00.001-08:00

2011-12-02T12:07:00.000-08:00

.

Stones Throw From Heaven

.

2011-12-01T12:45:00.000-08:00

.

in the belly of the whale.

on the street of wasted steps.

.

2011-11-29T16:15:00.001-08:00

.

uf.

.

2011-11-29T15:07:00.001-08:00

Disimular

I wanted to move without saying anything

no solo es sospechoso

but I was white and I was marble and I was writing on the wall

and I wandered with my hand upon a surface and I pressed

the purple sandals in the sand.

Leaning out for

silver shards of splinter sunlight

Night shade

hiding on the island of the other

On the island run from

the ghost of

Run run the island and the waves.

white face of

One with the eyes open and unopen at random run some width of skin

It is sand

Counted in eyes open and unopen

In the water aunque no le salia lagrimas

Or hunted hunting spirits in the sea

whipped by the salt water light

As the breeze

None and a dinning room, the table cloth, the linens, and the folds

Underwater

The white wet sheet

Island of an island wave

Wave the island from the shore body of the sea

sea bodies On the flame of the tide

On the underside

on undead skin

Some spirit whipped tremble

On tide, on red tide and on taste of water

on city under water

Lost like thought comes to edge.

Sometimes the spirit runs off in another

Some spirit runs on

Away on a wave

On the underwater roof

Of an underwater

ancient search

for Heroes in seaweed

Spirit greens

little toy boat toy cars and toy water colors bleed

And dilute

And drift away

2011-11-29T14:30:00.001-08:00

I tried to hold still as I contemplated the magnitude of the poem

And I had to tell it to myself and it felt far away but it had to come.

Even with the red wine in the cursing cursing in the vein in the river of the djurdja straights

Would I go

Hamamitsu

Where are you? What is it there?

And what when speaking in tongues to understand

I believed in the current underneath the skin connecting all of us to everyone and to eachother and the repetition of souls and he asked me about the specificity of life and when I really like him

Today all today while the other one spoke to me and I wanted to pop his ego and I didn’t want his help anymore in any way at all because they are all just so egotistical and everything is about making them feel like they know it more.

I could be a small thing in a small space in a small world but god put me in this body and when I am drowning in the metro in Tokyo and the ants are rushing all around me ready to carry my body away

My body is away anyway

And I am a small

Invisible

But yellow mark on the wall,

My body is tall.

When he speaks to me in tongues and I see some of my thought on his mind

And can sense a relation

What then?

What of it then?

The one in the small body was loud and I thought of j. cassid and I really really like her and her work and everything she represented in the possibilities of the worlds before me, and max and his subjectivities and I wonder if you remember when you held up my face and you pressed it into yours and you stood there kissing me in one kiss for minutes like you were calling me from where I’d been before and you wondered where I’d been

And I wondered too because obviously, I repeat, obviously, in a glaring blaze before my brain and my mind which I know to be what I have and I hold true to it and sometimes you just have to let yourself go but not this time because obviously I was a drift and a float and free free from the form that was around me and you tried to pull me down and the soft blueness of the way you pulled me down lay like a shadow and will lie like one too for years to come because everything, even the way you skipped yourself like a stone and you opened my mouth and I breathed into yours and I ate the chocolate shape of your mouth eaten by mine

And you let go

And the separation

Is the beginning of an apple bit into pieces impossible to puzzle into one.

Someday when you are old enough to note the variation in the wood and the rondure of the world,

the ocean that is an abyss becomes a connection

And I sailed and I watched her sailing

And how she fired up those eggs

and it was a dream

and it was all in a dream

and it was all in a dream I'd forgotten

even as we asked about it

and knew

in a sensitive way

that it was there and it would always be there

always all along.

ひらりひらり　花びら舞い　止め処ない時のひとひらごと

2011-11-28T19:43:00.000-08:00

あなたがもし　いなくなれば　私寂しいからね

2011-11-23T22:38:00.000-08:00

.... . . . .

. . . :

:":

;;,,.,.,.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

88********((())))));;;;;...>>>>>,,,<<<<<<

///......kkkkknmn,/./.=[][][][[]][][][][][][][][][][][][][';';';';';';;.;.,;,.;.:>:>:>">"<"<>?

2011-11-21T07:06:00.000-08:00

.

dark side of the moon

.

2011-11-21T06:26:00.000-08:00

.

maybe, don't you know that it is true,
they will throw you to the lions if you haven't got a clue
maybe, don't you know that you are free
from the shackles you've been locked in
and the land of make believe
pretty little lullaby

maybe, when the end is drawing near,

we can paint a pretty picture of that special kind of fear

2011-11-20T13:30:00.000-08:00

Teethless christinas.

I was in an elevator shooting through the roof

to the great glass and it was the

Universe there

Spinning itself below

Breath fog

Where

There is no there there,

When I tried to think.

And what about that foggy glass,

Which is like a skin between realities

That you can peel into a thousand different coats

Oh foamy foamy foamy love

Of thee

I bathe while there in the clear field of

The blue light of nothing

Of magic waters

of Felicia , my magic queen,

And crazy love

Is crazy crazy love

And we are mal de amor

Hiding in fountains

to stop from throwing rocks

At Galatea and

her lovers

And the green nypmhs

And their glass eyes that beckon us to kiss

Our own reflections in the rivers

Are the seaweeds of our

Tresses,

Mine mingle

In the wind,

I am a vamp

And a fetish

And you would have to skin me

Before I’d give up

The sun

Felismena la bucolica, idyllic, sick of shepard quibbling,

abysmal self-indulgent

Swan kisses

Knocks off her own socks and

Walks to the city.

I was in the morning.

2011-10-29T07:17:00.001-07:00

I was in the morning

And I think that parts of you were there, too,

Sometimes I could feel you.

And we touched

Some times.

I was in the morning and I was,

Like almost always,

Strewn about, my eyes

Too big for my stomach.

In the morning

Before the light of day

Before the dawn.

Some of us,

From our dreams,

We ask ourselves.

We have to put a limit

On attachment

And dress our selves

In the suits

Of the day.

And others will tell us

What is up

sometimes

And we will have to bow our heads

And get it

And grow.

Some of us are full of potential

But we leak

Like water

From cupped

Hands.

Think of the shimmering

Flash of light

Shining out from behind the filigree,

From the watermarks,

From our birthmarks,

From underneath our skin,

And you can deal

In an honest way

Sometimes

With other people in the morning,

Sometimes

With your self,

And sometimes even

With the combination of the two,

overlapping in each other.

In the slaughterhouse

They will wake you

And juxtapose an image

On your face

And you will be read

And you will say something

And what you meant to say

Will be like the little white bird,

You filled her with water

And that holy water

poured from her breast,

From the ruptures in her wings,

spilling meaning

like watermelon seeds and stickiness and

pink juice

and in the morning it flew

and you could see it,

like a golden bird,

going.

2011-10-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

---------- Forwarded message ----------

Date: Tue, 25 Oct 2011 15:23:05 -0500
Subject: luisa at the umbral of the mountain

"mare"

to race
myself
we bet ourselves about my gallop
thighs
the breadth of my quarters
their haunch
the wind capacity of their exhausted
heaving,
lapped, tracked,
clinked glass
grated pant
collapsing.

you
Hand flutter
the hooves away,

brush opaque salt
off forgotten manes,
lip
for sugar.

Skip. Skip.
Skip stone skips
my short leap
of wanting
of one bridge
another

stone and beads
to link
drop
hop tranquil
whip

a rein
to separate

my island skins my arching

garland spine a
bomb
colored petal difference
because de noche soy
because
De noche soy
the mermaid at the mast,
a monster of a song called
shipwrecked flotsam jetsam

your water colored tumbling from
the mountain .

geographical rips in hide
of ancient delusion

How to tiptoe on the moccasin sky?

Threshold soy
tu streak
of coral lightning
my dividing
cielo mare
of
wound

of limb bolt wants around
to know my spirit limbs
I kick your heels
I spur your tuck until
I run
your lock
and soy
my own
opacity

eclipse me
into mare
of night
of self
de noche
soy
myself
to race
me.

ALL I NEED NOW IS THE STARS, SHINING STARS DISTANT SUNS AND MOONS AFAR WONDER, WONDER WHERE YOU ARE

2011-10-21T12:45:00.001-07:00

we are all antípodas.

.

.

2011-10-17T11:11:00.001-07:00

.

not about love
fiona apple?

.

dancing in my head.

2011-10-07T14:20:00.000-07:00

“I could hear clouds emptying themselves of their contents landing on an indifferent earth; and I could hear the silence and I could hear the dark night gobbling it up, and it in turn being gobbled up by the light of yet another day”

the void

2011-10-03T09:01:00.001-07:00

.

pide un deseo.

.

2011-09-30T11:48:00.001-07:00

.

Let the wind carry me.

.

Dream Train Runaway

2011-09-24T16:37:00.000-07:00

Dream train

and the dark atlantic sea

shell.

It smells like dry fish.

And dead fish.

And drift wood.

Wood drift in bird shape.

With drift writing on sand wall

palm stutterings before paintings

before pictographings,

avant la lettre

sand scratch.

I tried to write you from the dream train.

I stood on the platform

hurried machine as it sped

swimming my signals

I tried to reach you

the ripples

of my water legs

kicking petals and beams

of outer space indigo light

I sail through the black night

and bed down

where soft down

softly lays

my head and spirit aches.

Dream train

You are a runaway.

Catch me, please,

if you can, in my own arms,

if they can,

catch me please.

the beauty of things must be that they end.

2011-09-23T18:28:00.000-07:00

Are we fallen angels who didn’t want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to loose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?

To prove that we’ve all been wrong, to prove that the proving itself was nil…

-Jack Kerouac

Love tends to go ever further and further, but there is a limit. When the limit is passed love turns to hate. To avoid this change love has to become different.

Among human beings, only the existence of those we love is fully recognized.

Belief in the existence of other human beings as such is love.

-Simone Weil

2011-09-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

.

Heart of Stone.

.

2011-09-04T14:29:00.000-07:00

Of all things one could be open about,

who had a guru or when was a first time

you felt a kind of femininity and wanted to cut it off.

One with ruffles and polka dots,

a cotton/acrylic/polyester blend,

blue and white prom dress from the 70’s.

It was your mother’s,

you found it in one plastic bag in her old room,

one of those things that was never thrown out for some reason,

apparently pregnant with meaning.

You wore it for a costume to a middle school dance

until you hid in the bathroom having discovered

it was actually a costume of some kind of horrible womanliness

that made your cheeks bright red as your mother’s when she drinks,

or as your own sometimes when you do.

A blush of femininity that feels so embarrassed it is gross.

Later you stepped on the dress on the dampness of the basement floor,

slept on by the cats and full of centipedes.

Of all the things one could be open about,

sex and text messages from however many boys,

dropping cell phones off the bleachers,

kissing and holding hands.

Wanting to hide in the sheets alongside a lover

in the lightning lit room of an apartment

where you live alone for the first time in years.

You smell the aloneness,

you hear it between cracks of thunder.

What it means to hold hands? To kiss another?

To eat? Or to make dinner?

You texted him and he didn’t respond.

You touched him and he came in you,

he grabbed you with his legs and

you felt yourself longing to hide in the cave

his body made folded around yours.

Coming out into the light,

you see landscape of trees split down the middle,

halves arching away from each other,

branches down in the leaf dirt.

Everyone bikes the streets taking pictures.

There is the homeless man, the one everyone knows.

He is out early, you see him in the morning.

You would say hello to him but suppose it would be too much.

You wonder where he slept during the storm,

if he slept at all, and

you wonder if you already said too many words just by thinking them.

You try to sort them but they just accumulate like leaves

rushing up against a gutter,

mashing together,

evening out into little river currents with sideways glances

that run along. Wildly attracted,

you open your mouth and let some out and

close your mouth once you’ve let too many out and judgment

clings to you like polyester polka dots.

You wonder if you have to cut it

like your great grandmother did one day in the nursing home

when she was ninety two and could not remember how to unzip her dress.

You tell yourself you will not tell anyone else

anything else anymore ever again.

You realize you really like it without the lights on,

no television or reception,

with the trees blown down and the dark streets,

with houses dark,

the power out,

to walk alone in a city in

your dirty jean shorts and shitty t-shirt,

wet your sandals and get yourself wet

in the wet grass, as wet as you want it wet,

your skin free from the sticky heat

of all the things one could be

open about.

It feels like the day after the end of the world,

maybe just the morning after,

stormed land breathing its whole body

arches and collapses, you touch the world’s chest,

and you press its belly to your knees.

rokuro taniuchi

2011-08-28T19:02:00.000-07:00

.

Oh. It's such a perfect day.

.

el paisaje

2011-08-18T14:23:00.001-07:00

.

gilda

.

.

2011-08-18T09:49:00.000-07:00

Harold loves Maude

and Maude loves Harold.

with the stench of the love on our fingers

our inner tongues of petal flowers

all say the same except some have even

lost some petals.

In the nude in the night of statues

marble skin cadavers

hoot and creak and sing

like whales in the arctic

whose sonar powers emit rays that stun their prey

like unicorn bats in the ocean.

Love stunned, love stuns,

Love is a stunning collection of glass figurines,

a glass menagerie of glass unicorns with broken legs

and horns that are actually teeth in the market of my dream all of my teeth

kept falling out like papers and we couldn’t decide which way to go,

drifting in the tides for two hundred years,

I clenched in my fists

the paper flower teeth

until they wilted

and we lay down

like Madeinusa,

and scattered them around us

like bits of shattered rainbow

like salt

or potatoes

to keep us from being violated

by the rough hands of others.

At the checkout counter she asked me for my number

I said Oh no, it’s not Oceania, my name is Lauren

these are my flowers, these are my teeth,

this is my dream where the semi-truck below me goes careening

Up the wrong side of the highway and I’m on the hood.

At the last minute just before the apocalypse after which is only the apocalypse

then I am fifteen again

on the back of Jacob

who was the first boy I ever loved

who is carrying me into the nighttime

and it is summertime

and it is nighttime

and it is summertime

and it is nighttime

and it is summertime

for billions of years.

2011-08-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

daily text from S.

2011-08-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

.

"is it possible to be in love when your 13...i know it would childish love. But still."

it only takes a minute to have a change of heart
.

2011-08-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

.

.

timfite.com

Never Lay Down

For Closure

From the Sky to the Ground

.
.

rodrigo reads faye dunaway's tits.

2011-08-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

Faye Dunaway’s Tits

“In my mouth though I will hold you

Even though they all have forgotten

The sweetness of peaches”

-Dorthea Lasky

Faye Dunaway’s tits break above the bottom edge of the projector screen

Roman Polanski put them there and it seems Jack Nicholson puts his hands on them

Faye Dunaway’s tits on Jack Nicholson.

Faye Dunaway’s tits are sour tits

Faye Dunaway’s sour tits are unripe tits

she wants no one to kiss or pick

her unripe tits are

her unripe tits.

In the orange grove the orange orb

is the same orb as the peach orb in the orange grove

and these tits are the same tits

as Grapes of Wrath tits

on the cheeks of peach pits

or the way Roman Polanski puts it

Faye Dunaway’s tits on Jack Nicholson

Be held by one,

behold her brow,

it is a Grecian brow,

it is a priestess brow,

it is French fairy brow,

it is like my mother’s brow,

Faye Dunaway’s peach orb tits are divine

Faye Dunaway’s tits are mine,

like a mother, like a daughter,

like a sister, like a lover,

Faye Dunaway is a martyr

All done up in one

sharp suit

in a bitchin’ dress suit

she is one bitch in a suit

and her sweet tits leak peach juice

on our tits and chins.

And they will rape us all and they will shoot out our eyes

And they will suck our peach tits dry,

Faye Dunaway’s sweet tits are mine.

In bed as any regular woman’s would

Faye Dunaway’s shoulders curve.

I am a bear and you are a bear

And we are a bear hunting in a bed,

Faye Dunaway is a deer or a gazelle

or an antelope in a scene

of the chiseled fortress of her brow

crumbling

as the unkempt petals of a flower,

like a lilac, that is coming on your shoe.

Faye Dunaway’s hands cover up her tits

it is obvious

Just how uncomfortably raw and swollen and ripe

and bursting sweet peach juice on our chins

she is.

Faye Dunaway’s sweetness all her own

or is a sweetness that is mine,

and what's mine is yours, bear,

my sweet peach,

my sweet peach honey where

here below me

it is so good,

isn't it comfortable there?

how my peach leaks Faye Dunaway’s sweet tits are mine,

and our sweet tits leak peach juice on our tits and chins.

"like a lilac i am coming on your shoe"

2011-08-03T11:55:00.000-07:00

.

.

hot paper snow

2011-07-31T13:34:00.000-07:00

Yoru no Sei

2011-07-23T16:52:00.001-07:00

Girl in Bed

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

-Charles Bukowski

a collaboration a communication

2011-07-18T21:16:00.000-07:00

Print of Judith with the head of Holofernes, Florence

& St. Sebastian 6 arrows dead radiating

haughty uncle-affect ennui in his neck cocked & black curly

tufts suffused with recent shampoo perhaps Pantene

Pro V Botticelli? Next page

we go crooking

slashing

reeds from reed bed but

with dainty hand a head a quill a cock’too

much a symbol crashes together in its own potentials, the trunc

ated head the pen becomes a blank paper. We view the viewer surmise she

holds in her right the blade less daintily lovingly more

so such is grip. A brocading at her own collar neither the neck nor

head visible nor nethers wow, she amputated too but just right

end of the entire body. We presume she dons a black robe

though mourning being a mysterious movement, leaves us

blank, or ergo

beheaded, on the horizon upsloping tender

hills not mountains, light, & before them

war on near horses, lines of pikes upraised, the

afoot like satyrs, the saddled sore as centaurs, a quick-

silver morph into one body, one war body, many complete

creatures, a flag

slanting at the same angle as...the reed

dispossessing Holofernes’

romance appearance.

-jared harvey

-Fronz von Stuck, Judith

.

ii.

Le culte de la violence.

I ate a spirit molecule with my lungs.
almost,
it ripped apart a body
gills to the air

fingering the red prickly blade of flame
touched it tried to breath
violated by eros.

“Eros is an issue of boundaries.
He exists because certain boundaries do.
In the interval between reach and grasp, between glance and counterglance, between, ‘I love you’ and ‘I
love you too,’ the absent presence of desire comes alive.
But the boundaries of time and glance and I love you are only aftershocks of the main,
inevitable boundary that creates Eros; the boundary of flesh and self between you and me.
And it is only, suddenly, at the moment when I would dissolve that boundary,
I realize I never can.”

weird are what things we do when we desire.
One desire desiring out
onto another desire desiring out onto
another desire desiring some other desire entirely
triangulated
in the metro in paris
everyone sees
everyone's desirous

a gaze
image becoming of the very seeing
gaze that gazes you, approaches you,
approximates and creates you, itself, at once
and then gazes away

we had just been watching
Canadian film about the absence of borders where
a little girl and her mad father
who wouldn’t buy her glasses leaves her to find a wild tiger in the forest
snorting her,
the bodies heaped in the snow still as she laydown next to them
being with other beings being like them
because he had left her for sometime alone
trying to try being next to beings not being both of them,
trying to try to find
the frontier
in the theater
for how you pulled out your hair
I will always want to move and be moved away from.
The contraction of selves infuriates me.

the spirit molecule offered
no place to go but constellations
to see myself over
I licked my finger tasted of salt of
heat I wandered wanting
my wound
to push into heat
as an infant plunges
it's hand into honey.

.

time

2011-07-15T12:31:00.001-07:00

I will not stop sailing

.

To love somebody

2011-07-08T12:56:00.001-07:00

2011-07-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

No use crying.

2011-07-01T08:13:00.000-07:00

el temblor in the morning

2011-06-29T13:38:00.001-07:00

the dream was at the brink of becoming a nightmare;
I was desperate,
running up to say something to her that she wouldn’t or couldn’t understand exactly
in the way that I did because I thought
if she did she would change her mind and tell me something like
you are my love and you have good thoughts and you are beautiful
her face pushing out from the background and my trying to grasp
there was something, an argument, about who had been responsible,
she accused me of having hurt the child when I was a child, but
I should avoid falling into autobiographical anecdote
as it doesn't even make sense to me.
under the window covered in bamboo string drawn shades
my hand on a white painted wall
I wake to shuddering
in the softness of my bed
from a threatening pressure
that feels, I suppose, like the physical manifestation of a thought
from the earth, unconscious, dreaming,
unknowingly disturbing
as it tosses in sleep
because no one sleeps alone.

2011-06-24T14:29:00.001-07:00

there is so much going on in this image that i never noticed before. the huge open eyes of the little woman, the anger in the face of the little cat by her side, the darkness of the little dog, his opaqueness, the lines, the fence that separates them, the connection of their gazes, the curiosity, the spontaneity, the fragility, the starkness of the tree, the dirt of the cement wall, the scratches, the desperate strokes of a fading paintbrush that puts the blurry and bruised but indelible words onto the ground below them, of letters that begin thick, that unravel and ease off, the pressure of their painting loosening,
the intensity of their meaning escapes them

.

What wondrous love is this, oh my soul, oh my soul,

2011-06-14T10:27:00.000-07:00

2011-06-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

2011-06-09T09:44:00.000-07:00

"A Klee drawing named “Angelus Novus” shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe that keeps piling ruin upon ruin and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. The storm irresistibly propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. This storm is what we call progress."

— Walter Benjamin,

Ninth Thesis on the Philosophy of History

you fly around no one sees

2011-05-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

There is a saying that goes along with the celebration of lights, Diwali: as the wick of an oil lamp must remain half in oil and half out in order to give off light, so is life. In order not to be drowned by the materialism of the world, one must be in the world while simultaneously remaining untouched by it: by being in the world but not drowning in the worldly aspect of it is to be the light of joy and knowledge. Heidegger once said that being-in-the-world is a mood that assails us. It comes, the mood, neither from the outside nor from the inside. One may turn away from a mood, but in doing so always turns towards another. Only through the mood are we able to encounter the world. THE WORLD. And upon unworlding? “Other times I get tired and lose all appetite for trifling asides about the future of worlds” (YES).

The liberation of Desire.

An otherness barely touched upon and that already moves away.

I had a dream that was about a bird. The bird was blue but its feathers were falling off. I tried to catch the bird, I held it in my hands and then I put it in a box. I opened the box and it fit the box perfectly and then it became smaller and smaller. I opened the box again and the bird came out but it looked like a very small baby bird with no feathers on it, it was pink and ugly and its legs were soft. I tried to feed it before it became so small and so weak and died. It ate some meeat that I had. It became a green insect, with wings, and it flew away. I watched it fly away.

Bird= part of myself . fly, and the jump, are fragile and delicate but free
Feathers falling out- part of myself- messy, hard to collect, scattering
Tried to catch the bird, put it in a box= part of myself- trying to control something free, scattered, falling apart
Ugly bird= part of myself= walking, moving, changing, process, fetus,
Feed the bird=part of myself= nourishing, wanting nourishment
Green insect flying away = part of myself – flying, growing, buzzing, going away, small but free.

Key Sparrow

No quiero hablar con humanos

2011-05-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

.

Cecilia Pavón dice:

No quiero hablar con humanos
quizás la poesía sea la salvación
o quizás simplemente
quiero mantener ordenada mi casa
colgar la ropa
lavar las tazas de café
regar las plantas,
sin hablar con humanos.
La poesía es hablar con un gas,
aunque la hayan escrito
humanos,
aunque la escribió Elizabeth Bishop
cuando hablaba con un volcán.
(En una entrevista de una revista de arte
Vicky Colmegna dice que le gustaría
hablar con los animales.)
A veces como madre me siento como un animal
quiero proteger a mi hijo
aunque nunca sé bien cómo hacerlo
nunca comprendí el instinto maternal
más allá del embelesamiento
con una criatura pura
que crece y se le estiran las piernas
Cuando hago el amor con Claudio
a veces,
cuando estamos bien, cuando no peleamos
siento que soy parte de una fuerza sin nombre
que me arrastra
y que me hace entender la belleza de las flores
No sé si es entender la palabra
supongo que el amor es algo de la gracia
supongo que los animales también deben
sentir esa gracia cuando se aparean
y aman el sol.

Pero no lo sé.
Ahora, voy a pasar otra tarde
pensando en que la poesía es un gas
o una piedra
otra tarde pensando que me gustaría
dormir sobre una piedra
grande y lisa,
otra tarde en la que me gustaría sonreír
cuando siento que la poesía es un gas
que envuelve el mundo
un gas que envuelve el mundo
y yo sólo estoy en mi casa
triste,
sad
colgando la ropa
y lavando la tazas del café.

.

in an expression of the inexpressible.

2011-05-26T18:05:00.000-07:00

.

I've made up my mind and changed my mind I've made up my mind and changed it

run down.

.

Otra emoción equivocada,

2011-05-25T20:03:00.000-07:00

Belen Iannuzzi escribe:

No, no te estoy diciendo que nos casemos, P,
sólo que me llames
no bien estés saliendo de mi casa
llamame desde el ascensor
desde el garage
desde la cocina cuando vas a buscar agua
llamame desde el baño cuando estoy en el cuarto
invitame a irnos de vacaciones juntos
la segunda vez que nos veamos
en la tercera cita
hablemos de los nombres de nuestros hijos.

No, no te estoy diciendo que tengamos hijos, P,
te digo que los imaginemos
hablemos de la casa de Montevideo
de la casa en la playa
aunque después no exista
nunca exista
ya no exista
yo no exista
ni vos
hablemos de los viajes en combi hasta Venezuela, P,
hablemos de las flores.

No, P,
no me digas hablemos en la semana
no me digas quedate tranquila
no me digas tranquila
¿dónde vamos a festejar tu cumpleaños?
¿y nuestro aniversario?

Yo ya sufrí, P,
y aprendí un montón de cosas
lloré hasta la deshidratación
te lo digo bien,
te lo digo bien,
no tengo tiempo
de que seas
otra emoción equivocada.

The Monstrosity of the Princess

2011-05-15T13:23:00.000-07:00

Your heart is a prism.

2011-05-04T08:08:00.000-07:00

somewhere over the rainbow.

2011-04-28T16:55:00.000-07:00

"“I can’t say anything,” she closes (176). That phrase means she can’t do anything to change anything. From here she regresses to yelping and tries to dig a hole in the ground, to become the size she feels, and also to become, in a sense, an embodiment of the last thing she loved. After that, Dorothy goes crazy, lives in a fantasy world of her own, wandering homeless and free, especially, of the capacity to reflect on loss in the modalities of realism, tragedy, or melodrama. To protect her last iota of optimism, she goes crazy."

Lauren Berlant
Cruel Optimism

into the forest

2011-04-24T12:49:00.000-07:00

2011-03-12T19:10:00.000-08:00

Tu me tues.
Tu me fais du bien.
Tu me tues.

Help to Japan Earthquake Tsunami Victims

.

“Why do we ask so many questions?....

2011-03-09T14:11:00.000-08:00

....Two people shouldn’t know each other too well if they want to fall in love.”

L’eclisse (1962)

.

understand

2010-12-04T09:36:00.000-08:00

How to Be Alone

2010-10-25T06:31:00.000-07:00

via Adriana Lisboa

el teatro teatra como un arbol arbolea

2010-10-11T18:55:00.000-07:00

thereareamillionthingsthatiforgottodoiwassupposedtogotothe2000summerolympicsandwinagoldmedalswimmingbreaststrokeiwassupposedtopracticeeverydaystartinginjulyof1996summerolympicswhenitoldmyselfiwouldiforgottolearntoplaytheelectricguitariwassupposedtobeafamousmusicianwheniwasverylittleiusedtodanceinasliponthetableandsingatthetopofmylungsbeforeiwenttosleepbecauseiwasgoingtobeafamoussingerandihatedmymotherandihatedmyfatherbecausetheywouldntbuymeafuckingtelecasteriwassupposedtobeanartistandbeanillustratorandpainteverycolorleakingaboutinthebottomofmybodymindheartbutthenistartedtoreadpoetryandliteratureandneededwordstosaywhatiwantedtosayandididntwanttobemediocreandiwantedtogotospainsoiwenttospainbutiforgotsomewherealongthewaywhatiwassupposedtodoinspainandnowispeaksomespanishandistilldontknowwhattosaywheniwasyoungihadabeautifulsparklingmindnowiamtiredandalliwannadoissleepitoffitsfunnyhowtomorrowalreadyfeelslikeyesterdayandhowigetnostalgicforthesmellofsomeshampooihadalongtimeagoitsmelledlikelavandereverytimeitookashowerandiwasoncereallycoldinrussiaanddrankwhitecoffeeicrashedmycartwiceandigotitstuckinourbackyardandtheyhadtouseahugecraintogetitonthestreethecameandjumpeditandtwitchedandwantedtokissmebutitoldhimnoandhetoldmehelovedme.

2010-10-05T19:10:00.000-07:00

2010-10-01T07:02:00.001-07:00

.

"Bem sei que é assustador sair de si mesmo, mas tudo o que é novo assusta"

-Clarice Lispector

.

saudades

2010-09-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

Canto De Iemanja X Smokey and Miho

the shoreline is the space between water and land, neither ocean nor earth but a liminal intersection that also posits a transition.

From the threshold,

it is the ritual,

the repetition,

that fills us with the momentum that pushes us to break through

or

do we stay, lapping like waves,

in the same place

forever

?

2010-09-26T13:35:00.000-07:00

渡辺勝と松倉如子

.

3:28 a.m.

2010-09-22T01:26:00.000-07:00

.

deliverance

I cry too.

puisque

.

2010-09-16T06:03:00.001-07:00

2010-09-12T10:16:00.000-07:00

Help me in my weakness
'Cos I'm falling out of grace

.

like her head's on fire

2010-09-12T07:50:00.000-07:00

.

and so we watch the sun come up
from the edge of the deep green sea
and she listens like her head's on fire

.

"There is a side of me that lives and does things with rapacity and I was a violent and spoilt little girl, but my heart broke when I was seven years old and since then I have never been the same."

.

.

constantly attempting to carve away all of the mountains in its path.

2010-09-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

.

tributaries, gullies, streams.

2 streams meet at a confluence: curves, known as meanders.

A river does not just flow, it changes the surface of the Earth.

.

Wild Eyes

2010-09-03T03:55:00.000-07:00

This morning at 4:00 a.m. I woke up to the blaring porch light shinning at me through my window from across the parking lot behind my room.

I was thinking about the river, the mucky green color of the water and the bare light bulbs above the plastic screen doors, covered in flies, mosquitos, nats at night like a moth to a flame and then I was thinking about the back deck of the lake house, moss on the black metal, the sound the insects make in the night.

I used to spend so many hours in those waters. I thought about my swimsuits, the two pieces the one pieces, my lungs sometimes aching from so much swimming, my reflection in the sliding glass door, my friend telling me I had a pretty body:

becoming conscious of my body,

the leaking pools of youth.

I felt my heart racing and I knew I was a child.

Today I felt my eyes racing and I thought I was a child for a second there and then I felt this separation in my head, separated by the time and the distance and the everything in between now and then, I felt like a child in another person’s body: becoming conscious of my body.

When I was a child I always used to imagine that one day I could wake up as someone else, with the same mind but in a different body. I remember that I figured that it must be so close and so easy to just switch like that because all that was separating us was skin and I felt like the power of my soul was enough to jump out and go anywhere.

I suppose that in a way we choose what we remember and I don’t know why I choose to remember what I do. In the moment of the separation my life was flashing before my eyes: the plastic trays of cafeterias, the white tea and the woman from the green café who picked lilacs from my front yard and told me how to boil the water to steep the leaves without burning them, the summer heat, the intensity, the girl who threw that rock at my car.

I was thinking about my father and about my mother and how I am the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.

I was the child of the river and the waves of the great lakes.

Dali og Gala

2010-09-03T03:05:00.000-07:00

"Tornado" by Dorothea Lasky

2010-09-03T02:40:00.000-07:00

Like a carrot I will be everything God can’t see

Oh, what do I mean

God can see everything

I mean the angels, I mean the half-gods

I mean the flowers, don’t ever let them see me live forever

Don’t you ever let them see

That I am all root here in the ground

2010-08-31T18:24:00.000-07:00

.

there is a mouse in my house.

.

good eyes

2010-08-30T23:19:00.000-07:00

via katinkalinklove

2010-08-29T21:47:00.000-07:00

.

you found myself racing

.

The Universe

2010-08-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

Stephen Eichhorn

Tiger's Ear

.

it feels like fall today

2010-08-25T08:55:00.000-07:00

via Cahier de Travail Manuel de Louise Despont

.

Spilling Over

.

2010-08-22T21:51:00.000-07:00

Estados Unidos debe ser un país lindo porque todas las canciones de amor que escucho en el taxi cuando voy a lugares están en inglés, y vienen de Estados Unidos.

Canciones de amor increíbles como de un planeta insondable.

todas las canciones de amor me gustan

todas las canciones de amor me gustan

-Cecilia Pavon

2010-08-18T00:21:00.000-07:00

.

But it passes like the summer
I'm a wild seed again
Let the wind carry me.

.

2010-08-17T13:51:00.000-07:00

.

The world had been created to comprehend itself

as matter: table, the torn
veils of spiders ... Even consciousness—
missing my love—

was matter, the metal box of a furnace.
As the obligated flame, so burned my life ...

What is the meaning of this suffering I asked
and the voice—not Christ but between us—
said you are the meaning.

No no, I replied, That
is the shape, what is the meaning.
You are the meaning, it said—

.

Isn’t it always like this?
Something uncontrollable becomes the hero,
Taking off its dress, the ice plants
Sunburn from the center out
So we can see that their deaths

Of splendid rust and yellow are not ours,
We are allowed again the glare
Of the sand, the druid hills,
The grasses brushing the legs, though
Just to have felt it once would have been enough.

.

2010-08-16T09:59:00.000-07:00

My love, won't you talk to me?
Won't you lay with me?

.

2010-08-15T18:22:00.001-07:00

2010-08-15T01:14:00.001-07:00

2010-08-13T23:48:00.000-07:00

.

"It happens very often that a man has it in him, that a man does something, that he does it very often that he does many things, when he is a young man when he is an old man, when he is an older man. One of such of these kind of them had a little boy and this one, the little son wanted to make a collection of butterflies and beetles and it was all exciting to him and it was all arranged then and then the father said to the son you are certain this is not a cruel thing that you are wanting to be doing, killing things to make collections of them, and the son was very disturbed then and they talked about it together the two of them and more and more they talked about it then and then at last the boy was convinced it was a cruel thing and he said he would not do it and his father said the little boy was a noble boy to give up pleasure when it was a cruel one. The boy went to bed then and then the father when he got up in the early morning saw a wonderfully beautiful moth in the room and he caught him and he killed him and he pinned him and he woke up his son then and showed it to him and he said to him see what a good father I am to have caught and killed this one, the boy was all mixed up inside him and then he said he would go on with his collecting and that was all there was then of discussing and this is a little description of something that happened once and it is very interesting."

.

2010-08-10T06:45:00.000-07:00

.

Pina Bausch - Die Klage Der Kaiserin

.

2010-08-05T08:59:00.001-07:00

.

'Silently thou fliest upward in the morning.'

.

2010-08-04T19:43:00.000-07:00

.

touch my mouth with your hands.

wht's she talking about?

eros/thanatos, yin/yang, anima/animus, libido/destrudo,

the secret of the golden flower

the light side of the mountain is opposite to the light side of the river.

sun/moon

venus saturn and mars circling around each other's heads. look at the northern sky.

.
.

tonight = treehouse excavation/un earth l ing i don't know where to begin it kind of hurts a little

2010-07-30T19:41:00.000-07:00

books, turkey dinner, typewriter, wave, face! eat me.

.

But I say that people all over the world are good.

People all over the world ain't bad.

But if they keep on chickenin' out,

They'll never get what they wish they had,

And that's affection.

it's, like, the same:

*was the world a dream or a dream the world?
.

.

2010-07-24T15:52:00.000-07:00

lima de carey

abro y cierro el cierre de mi bolsito manicure
y vuelve a llamar ella
reclamándome la lima de mango de carey.
jamás se la voy a dar
no por la lima
sino por la historia sentimental
por tantas lágrimas que hicieron
barro con el polvillo de mis uñas
apretando el carey, para evitar otra lágrima
y mirar fijamente la uña limada, para
no demostrarle que estoy llorando.
ella sabe.
por eso llama
y  la reclama.
ella quiere esa lima.
ella quiere mi lima.
ella quiere que yo deje de mirar su mango
de carey
ella quiere que la mire a ella
pero no la voy a mirar.

I copped a feel off the wall

2010-07-24T14:42:00.000-07:00

Graffiti/Signs/Art found in Brooklyn, Queens, Pulaski bridge.

Story about a Brooklyn neighborhood I wandered into.

I am a child
and I'm not ready.

.

ahora que estás pelona

2010-07-22T22:22:00.000-07:00

NYC: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FREE AND NECESSARY ACTS

2010-07-22T00:01:00.000-07:00

then let's keep dancing

2010-07-19T09:13:00.001-07:00

.

I came to this world in order to do something and I haven't done anything and the whole world is gonna end.

-E. Decorsey down by the river.

.

My knees became water and when he told me not to cry because they would think that he was trying to hurt me I felt the ocean in my abdomen spill out from between my legs and both of us were drowned.

.

'I'd like to have a pastry. We can have it on the go. Sure. Just let me get my wallet. I have zero dollars so we are even."

.

Crossing the pink bridge under a blue sky the boy in the black and white said, "I'm going to be in a major motion picture."

.

almost espasmo, the heat made it palpitate.

.

"he had a thing for asphyxiation. he wanted to push my head under the snow but i wouldn't let him."

.

I don't believe in the power of love. I don't believe in the wisdom of stone. I don't believe in a god or the mind.

and I'm not alone.

.

"

There

where i put my hand.

There

where I close the door behind me.

There

where I unpack my bag.

There

where place incites me, chides me, invites me.

I breathe, smother, burst away."

-Nathalie Stephens in

Absence Where As

.

felt like the girl in the river who wades from one bank to the other with a minnow in the hand slowly opening.

.

Treehouse song
Just an impression of you next to me
And the terrible sound of the clapping of leaves
.

Minou

Is this a sandwich?

feathers and wax mythical ambition to conquer the skies

Violet belly song baby.

ひらりひらり 花びら舞い 止め処ない時のひとひらごと

I was in the morning.

ALL I NEED NOW IS THE STARS, SHINING STARS DISTANT SUNS AND MOONS AFAR WONDER, WONDER WHERE YOU ARE

dancing in my head.

Dream Train Runaway

the beauty of things must be that they end.

el paisaje

.

daily text from S.

rodrigo reads faye dunaway's tits.

"like a lilac i am coming on your shoe"

hot paper snow

Yoru no Sei

An Almost Made Up Poem

-Charles Bukowski

a collaboration a communication

time

To love somebody

el temblor in the morning

What wondrous love is this, oh my soul, oh my soul,

you fly around no one sees

No quiero hablar con humanos

in an expression of the inexpressible.

Otra emoción equivocada,

The Monstrosity of the Princess

Your heart is a prism.

somewhere over the rainbow.

into the forest

“Why do we ask so many questions?....

understand

How to Be Alone

el teatro teatra como un arbol arbolea

saudades

3:28 a.m.

like her head's on fire

constantly attempting to carve away all of the mountains in its path.

Wild Eyes

Dali og Gala

"Tornado" by Dorothea Lasky

good eyes

The Universe

it feels like fall today

tonight = treehouse excavation/un earth l ing i don't know where to begin it kind of hurts a little

lima de carey

I copped a feel off the wall

ahora que estás pelona

NYC: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN FREE AND NECESSARY ACTS

then let's keep dancing

ひらりひらり　花びら舞い　止め処ない時のひとひらごと