The first time I saw her I was sitting in my Tercel eating Quizno's. The peppercorn ranch was all over my face because the blonde bitch who packed it didn't give me napkins.

At first I only saw intermittent spots of light. It flickered like a beacon from behind the bars of the jungle gym. I watched with intrigue until I realized it was a child, playing amongst the toys in the playground. The little girl's wisps of fine auburn hair had escaped the barrette above her tiny ears, and shown like golden thread when she danced through the sunlight. It was extremely cold that day, but it was a bright and clear sky, the frost covered grass was lit like it were fairy dust. I playfully pretended she were the fairy.

She wore acid washed jeans, a cute, red puffy plaid jacket with a furry, brown collared hood. Her cheeks were round and glowing of childish provocation and content. It was simultaneously adorably attracting, and disgusting; like the revealing models on the magazine covers at the grocery store check-out. I pretentiously rehashed a common question of human woe in my mind, wondering why we bequeath our soul to the trampling feet of society. I concluded that the obviously absent parent was likely serving their soul at that very instant, perhaps chatting absently on her Motorola Razor in the shallow confines of her stardust-green 98 Volkswagen Beetle, forgetting about this beautiful angel laying backside on the merry-go-round, staring into the endless blue sky; so vulnerable and naive.

I walked across the grassy field, and sat down on an icy bench under a leafless oak tree. She got up from the merry-go-round, and skipped past towards the slide to my left, and climbed the metal stairs to the top. I told her to be careful, and she responded with a smile. Her eyes were a silvery blue. She took the plunge, and slid slowly to the base, her furry boots stopping short of the end. I asked her how old she was.

"Eight!" she says proudly, standing up with a jump. She held eight tiny gloved fingers to her rosy cheeks; she giggled as a gust of wind blew her hair across her face.

I am sitting in the darkest corner of the room. The light reaches the grey skin of my cheeks and stops like I denied its truth, and my acquisition squirms as though waking up from a bad dream and remembering it were real. I focus on her sweet androgynous body. Her skin has grown shiny with filth and grime, her hair matted and pulled back behind her ears. Track-marking tears have left revealing streaks down her face and neck, cutting through the dirt. They dodge her collarbones and unite on her nape, dancing amongst the filth like she did in the park. I consider to treat the scrapes and bruises along her chest and legs, but I can't bring myself to touch it anymore.

The tiny wrists have grown swollen and red, and despite her efforts to free herself from the bindings, she'd not made any progress. I get up from the darkness, and she begins to scream, but no one can hear us.


tearing apart radios

bloody headache stemming from my fused and broken night of sipping down alcohol
bloody lyrics that i don't know how to sing but can apply to every instance of my being
and I am so ridden with angst
and there is so much to put into closing, to get started on, and to consider.
bloody graduation in two months with friends i often feel like I barely know but love, and bloody family that I won't know how to handle or say goodbye to .
bollocks to all of this.
none of it fits my schedule. Nothing can fit here beside me or inside of me when there is dirt under my nails again, freshly lifted spring dust that has traveled from the ground to his coat to my skin, aching torn muscles that tell stories of previous adventures, and agitated eyes that get stuck in a permanent squint.
and I feel impenetrable until I,you,or this season, finds my fault line. That place where all I am is great loops of gravel and vodka and soft hands and giggle fits that occur down dirtroads under empty night skies that gleam off of the flowers in my hair.
It's the same place where I hold the most beautiful people in the world inside of me.

it's too bad I can't share this. It's too bad this is virtually impossible to be interpreted for someone else to read and fully understand
I miss my beautiful friend. I don't even know who that applies to anymore. I miss so many people even though they're not gone. I love that quote from "Catcher in the Rye"

"Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everyone."

yeah, that's me too.


Take Pills


the last one may change your entire view of cats

In Metal

I decided the best way to get even with you would be to roll your car off the pier one night. I got the car just fine, you never lock it or even bother to take the keys out of the ignition. I rolled it down the block in neutral just to be safe then started it up and drove it out towards the pier. When I unrolled the driver-side window to get some air circulating everything came flooding back with the dull roar of wind on the sides of the car. I remembered sitting in that seat and staring out the window as we drove past the farms and harbours and mills that make up our sky-line. I remembered how you asked me to suck you off when we were driving to Michigan but instead you settled for a hand-job in a truck-stop restroom. I remembered how you'd kissed me and your tongue tasted like cigarettes and gin and you told me, "I love you more when I'm drunk." And I punched you in the jaw and chipped one of your teeth. I remember how good it felt to feel my knuckles crack against your bone and I smiled, gritted my teeth and pressed the accelerator all the way to the mat. The roar got louder the closer I got to the ocean, the rush of air and the din of waves crashing against the sea-wall creating a chaotic harmony; a soundtrack for my vindictive little heart's collapse. I felt the sea make the air salty and I remembered how you'd pull on my face when we were making love, how I'd grab your body and pull you into me. I remembered the hungry monster I was with you and I laughed. I laughed at the way that your soft stomach had shook when you walked before it ended. I laughed at the way mine had suctioned in, pressing my ribs to the surface like swimmers surfacing from the water. I laughed at the way you'd acted so surprised when I told you that I had it and I laughed at the way you'd pretended that you didn't know how I'd gotten it. I laughed at the way your nose had bled so much after I threw your high school trophy at you. I laughed at the lesions which ruined the symmetry of your body and distracted from the scars covering mine. I laughed at the way the nurse had looked at me as I signed the DNR order and finally, as me and your car arced through the air into the Pacific Ocean I laughed because you'd gone before me, because my death was so much cooler than yours.




Theo Jansen: Kinetic Sculptures

I have 9 rolls of film to develop. Thats $96.00 worth. I have $33.00 left in my bank account until the first of May, at which time the entirety of my paycheck goes to rent. But the week after that I will be able to develop and perhaps finally post stuff. We will see. Check this out>>

Theo Jansen, a dutch engineer and artist talks about what he calls his "kinetic sculptures" that are powered by the wind only.


God's Secret Family in Michigan

In the Garden of Eden, Adam found himself sick.

Between his chest and stomach he felt a great rend, a gaping maw which siphoned blood from his heart and stomach, producing a sensation of total emptiness.

He had come to know this sensation as that of poison.

It had been poisoned which he'd felt when he decided that there was no God.

Poisoned which he felt when he realized that if there was a God it had bastardized him at birth;
leaving him in favor of more obedient children, God's secret family in Michigan.

In the past he'd developed systems of coping with poison, but none of his tried methods worked on this new toxin.

He tried to forget it as he'd done with a great many things, busying himself in the sculpting of new caves in the hopes of creating a mansion more stately, a figure more comely.

He sought solace in the words others had left behind in books and on tablets, but he only found familiar wounds opened by their profundity and new ones formed by their artistry.

He crawled inside the great centrifugal womb of alcohol, but all the spinning brought was disconnection, new bruises in the morning and unrequited admittances.

In the end, Poison Control wasn't found at the other end of a telephone receiver or computer screen.

Adam ventured into the great barren metropolises of the Westworld and buried deep beneath warnings of violence and condemnations of hellfire, he found salvation.

He found great masses huddled round the sky's night-fires, hundreds of God's bastard children talking and gloaming and trying to sweat their own poisons out.

One of them approached him, took him by the hand and lead him to the fireside.

He could feel the warm flush growing in his cheeks, provoked by the fire's glow and the sudden rush of symbiosis found in just this slight gesture.

Adam let the fire watcher teach him the order of things.

He taught his lips the gentle abruptness of consonance and the elegant way the tongue must move to produce fairer sounds and the proper tone.

He taught his voice the proper pitch and volume changes necessary to convey emotion and he learned the startling beauty to be found in cacophony.

The final lesson Adam needed to learn was taught under the pall of silence when all the fires had burned down.

The one who had taught Adam to hoard the clues of language came to Adam as a shadow does to all things at first-light and tenderly in the growing din of morning they created connection.

They spoke at first bluntly, exchanging only the most bestial moans and grunts but with time they begun to speak at first of the basest feelings and gradually of the reasons they'd come to the place they'd found themselves.

Bound by this connection, no secret was harbored between Adam and his companion and the true nature of communication became clear.

"What is communication if not the exchanging of poisons between two people?"
To which Adam's companion replied, "Go to hell you 'self-important' fuck-wit." and promptly bludgeoned Adam to death with his own heavy handed metaphor and allusions.


Sad Feet in Angry Shoes

The sidewalk around her feet was turned upside down and taken away, mud left in it's place. Her white shoes hated the new developments. However hard she worked to avoid the mud, the mud tried twice as hard to find her white shoes and stain them. She could never keep anything clean, or the way it was supposed to be.
She hated the way new houses were built. The rest of the house protrudes forward, while you're eye has to search for the door. They are not inviting places to her, they are menacing and scream of suburban prisons.
Her feet shuffled against the ground and turned inward slightly as she walked. All her weight shifted to the outer edges of her feet, and her shoes hated her for ruining their shape. She sighed and continued on. Nothing is ever the way we want it to be.
Later that day she stood in a circle of her friends, with her feet bare. Her shoes hated her for being abandoned. She stood with her feet straight (aligned by a friend) and legs straight. Somehow her knees felt as though they were going to buckle in on her. All her life she hadn't even been standing right, and her feet grew purple and ached with pain at this new found "natural" position. She wanted to return to the habitual, even if it was wrong.


Everyone should go check out Mary Preston's Zine at http://www.flickr.com/photos/sanpedrogluestick/456294797.


NYK: Beating A Dead Horse

This is my legitimate attempt at performing the assignment given to me. Sorry to continue posting NYK paraphernalia.

" I’m beginning to realize that pattern recognition is a thing that doesn’t stop being useful after sixth-grade math. I’m also realizing that it’s a skill I still haven’t mastered. Maybe if I had a proper concept of pattern recognition I wouldn’t be laying face-down in my best friend Jordan’s bed. I could be making toast and watching the New Year’s parade, but thanks to my failings in mathematics I find myself struggling to get comfortable in the groove her body’s left in the mattress. Maybe it could have been someone other than her husband Nathan on the other side of the bed, maybe it even could have been my bed that I woke up in Today. Really, my mind boggles at how differently my life could have turned out if school had taught me pattern recognition, rather than how to covertly kiss boys and steal cigarettes from the teacher’s lounge.
It isn’t like this situation snuck up on me. I was fully aware that if me and Nathan were alone, drunk on New Years champagne, I wouldn’t end up back at my apartment that night. I was aware of it from the moment he called me up, the alcohol already making his voice heavy as he painstakingly labored over every word, making each as unthreatening as possible until the moment when he was whispering, “Jordan won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon and you’re getting flour all over your shirt.” After that it had only been a stones-throw between champagne kisses in the pantry, our sweaty, drunk grinding on the living-room couch and finally the exhausted collapse into his bed. Nathan insisted that we couldn’t have sex under the stare of his wedding photo; the reason for our use of the living room couch, but he didn’t want to move it incase we forgot to put it back. That probably should have been a good sign that I was making a mistake, but as I said, my pattern recognition has failed me before. No matter wether it was preventable or not, on New Years Day I woke up in my best friend’s bed with no pants, a half-removed bra and crossed fingers.
I can only vaguely remember the promise I’d made the night before that resulted in this morning’s crossed-fingers. It had been after we’d collapsed into the bed, only a few minutes before we’d both fallen asleep. Nathan had crawled up close to me and whispered, “Who do you think Joe will kill first when she finds out?” The vodka we’d drank after we finished the champagne was still hanging on his breath and I’m sure it was still on mine when I replied, “Me, but she’s not going to find out.” He put on this dopey smile after I said it and we both giggled in the way that people too drunk to be self-conscious do. “We’re like fucking spies.” Nathan began as a whisper but as the words came out they got louder and hoarser until we were both laughing too hard and too loud to control ourselves. We settled down after a good minute and a half of laughter and Nathan suddenly gave me a severe look and stated plainly, “We have to promise not to tell her, okay?” I nodded in agreement and I felt my own face shifting into something more stern. “Shake on it, and cross your fingers.” He said with a tone of severity I’d never heard used to command someone to perform an act normally reserved for play-ground wishes. In a drunken blur we’d apparently forgotten that crossed-fingers are meant to nullify promises. "


speech rustles its child's moan
from a trapped place below my weight
saying something sensitive,
young impulsive incoherent

something close to me fumbles into those water sounds
during sleep-starved nights,
i am low resounding.

a page like political landscape
all over me traces of invasion and misnomer
someone is threatening me from a cache of cold rhetoric in arms...

it's not too late and there aren't too many words here.

theories i can't communicate through simple terms
in bedrooms with more than myself
my lips are my own location, unread, undefined

keep forming, in formation
in secluded spaces, torn-off pieces
of articulated knowledge of self as it pertains
to what keeps the pages turning





Pictures in the News

I’m the one who has to strip the bandages off your hands.
I don’t understand how they can still from a fist
when they have been split for so long.

Another temporary layer of skin peels off them,
a new one will grow in it's place,
every sharp white scar still intact.

The bandages won't stick
but they never do, do they?
When I pull them off,
strands of glue come with them
and I’m startled by their stalwart adherence.

Every useless strip of glue is a new crime,
New wars starts in the places where old ones ended.
You tell me you find the symmetry exciting
but that doesn’t stop it from staining the sink.

The wrapping always leaves tight red lines on your palms,
and you will always use them as a guide in the future;
when your fingernails have grown out
and your hair is back to it's natural color,
and the pretty boy wearing the skinny tie doesn't notice you.

The lines point accusingly towards the world around you
like pictures in the news.
They draw an arrow from your fingers to my lips;
a love connection,
and barely breathing, I whisper:

"The next time you do this,
if it doesn't kill you, it will kill me."



Ok, so it's cam here. Um Trav invited me here awhile ago, and I was like COOL, and then I got shy and didn't ever post anything, but like I also don't really have that much to post, because I mostly just write songs...But every now and then I write something that doesn't require music going in the background, and I figure, WTH? So here is something from more than a year ago (where does the time go? Like for real?) that I wrote when I was, yes, drunk;

Welcome, then, to the drunker side of buzzed. Crack!-and heres to the next step of a short journey...
Once again, the only reason I am writing is because I am sad, and yes-the only reason I am sad is because of a boy, who, in the long run is not worth the absentee tears I seem to be made of.
Oh-fucking-well. Because here I am on friday night doing what I do best, and why shouldn't I?
Oh God, and it's just a matter of time that I will be quote unquote "drunk enough" to utter to him the truth, splay it all out in a slurred, beer-breathed sort of way, so completely empty of grace or even cohesive thought that I will no doubt be met with some ugly hate-filled confusion that will warrant nothing less then suicide that my toes and soul will cringe-yes I should be THANKFUL
that tonight was merely (and what is it now?) step two in a short journey.
But I'm not.
I'm not.
He is pretty and I have been deconstructing that ideal, perhaps because what is pretty? I mean he is no one only as much as he is everyone, and if he only knew that level of anguish I go though just existing in the same universe (let lone-LET ALONE! the same town) as him then maybe his honor would grant me something else? But what is it I'm after again?
He is fodder, and the fodder is fickle because he uses my name like he was born with it in his mouth and I have been deliberating over his for weeks? Months? Yes, months. I have everything to loose because I have next to nothing, which I hold very dear to me and the worst case scenario is more then I can bare to even dwell on for more then moments-which (of course) relatively speaking is not that bad. I don't care.
And flash forward to a time when the bed is made for two, what art will I have then? I should be thankful.
But I'm not.
Feb 24 2006

Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'll never leave high school, which is kind of weird considering I never went. Or maybe that makes complete sense...Any way, thar she blows. I hope you enjoyed or whatever, and just in case you're wanting to hear the sound of my voice, somewhere around 2:30, when what's her face forgets the words...

Till next time...


So there.

I've lost interest in all things.

my updates are lame.

stop harassing me, because the update won't be a good one anyway.

and it lies, I did entirely mean to break your heart with that statement.


Nobody in particular. I am a lot of nobody, and I get a little more nobody with each and every conglomerate that I acquire, lose, and love. This is not a fault of mine,it's not the downfall of my personality, nor is it a weakness of my character. This is just what I do every minute of every day. A profession.This has become a career.And don't get me wrong, I handed in my resume, and I applied for this. I'd rather be nobody than everyone.

The interview was in a crawlspace. I sat facing a mirror that was placed on an easel. They asked me if I knew how to use a projector. I replied "I've never done it before, but I'll give it a try." So they plugged the projector into the wall, dusted off the lens, studied where my clumsy fingers went as I fumbled to place the acetate in its correct position, and they examined my ability to translate detail. I lost a bit of the image while tracing out the features of the projection, but they hired me anyway. So now I live in the crawlspace, and I smile a lot.
I set up my desk, pinned myself next to the lifeless naked board (after ripping everything off of it), pulled out my ochre and beetle's blood, blotted out my wide blue eyes with grey and brown stripes, and blackened the background. All of this accomplished with only a few brush strokes.
They were proud. Hell, I was proud!
First I basked in my glory, my manipulated countenance that was formed by dots that bled into figures and lines that faded into dark skies.
I've yet to paint any eyes back onto the image, but I guess that's just because I'm still a lot of nobody.
Yesterday they crawled down here, every single one of them. They told me that they only hired me as a key,they wanted the key to the world of illusion that replaces fact with fiction, and apparently since they couldn't find anybody to be this key they hired nobody. They thought nothing would be the answer to everything. I was confused, but I smiled anyway. Afterall, I was nobody.
So today nobody is sitting in the crawlspace, and they haven't removed the mirror that is propped awkwardly against the easel. Nobody is just sitting and waiting.


You Didn't Write, You Didn't Call.

I find myself drifting to it at the oddest of times:
When I'm sitting, coaxing the cold from my chest.
The cold of having eaten too much of the night
The cold which sates the appetite for sleep
but leaves you hungry for a thicker oblivion.
I can knead my cold skin with these eager fingers,
hoping friction can return some sense of feeling,
But all my efforts bring me are familiar palpitations
and colder fingers.