Tuesday 20 December 2011

she awoke (she was awake, when she awoke)

Was a cold bright dry lit kinda day, following the cool quiet night pulse of this organism. The one wiki-christened the earth (r.r.o.o. really really old origins) after a long time coming generic, long enough to set to wretching an entire boardroom of advertising executives inbred of just as old old schools perhaps as the earth herself. Ancient is an understatement! The dinosaurs considered them primitive, and would again consider them the same, when dinosaurs were reinvented and resurfaced back from extinction to be novel pets for crazy humans. Miniatures of course. Most critical language in the owners manual: Don't forget to synch them. Otherwise you risked your warranty getting voided. Say it aint so!

And after all that long infinite-like wait (by capitalist standards), the earth took only a year and a half to lose its title. Or add to it, if you want to try and frame it. Well, for big bucks she went down, mother earth. You heard of mothers selling their children? Well, remain seated! Coming to a theatre near you (near enough as time went on, until no longer near, for near became a less compelling footnote in a less compelling institution called Oxford Twice Abridged And Still Underappreciated For Its Secondary Purpose Defined: as submitted to the jury on that day whenever the hell it was, oldentimes, in wherever criminals commit crimes, England, etc. etc. Curmudgeneration. Bloody jack ripper cobblestone way. The same anyplace, motherland, which could previously have been appreciated for its own local boys plugging in and sending diverse, random, rock waves over the rolling waters, past the Queen Marys, all of them, and rolling into the dirty greenbath suds left by herds of dreamy dirty uncared for immigrants reluctantly capping their names off and releasing entire European heritages to sink crestfallen away into the darks of the new york cities infamous harbor of all types sizes races genders, just come and act like you want it, and work yourselves toward the glamorous lives your now american descendants will realize, having gone west and gone gold and gone Hollywood, once the gold was panned, sent, weighed, and sold. Work yourselves to death trying. In between a rock...and another, much larger rock lined with prairies and pines and primed for corn production.

She knew her own personal history well, she did. Her mom hammered it hard into her soft skull, when her skull could still be called soft. She did not mind. What she did mind was waking in the middle of the night out of a dream turned bad! Lately she found herself so. The connection she had not yet made would come to her soon, at a sitting for chocolate carving (like had been done centuries before) the slow primitive way. Slates of government chocolate lined the long tables where the ladies and gentleman met toward good purpose. Wood carving tools made perfect instruments for this kind of pre-civilized affair.

That connection soon yet to be realized, coincided with that base emotion, fear. Fearful of earth advocates protesting the new earth naming campaign they had tried to keep on the hush-hush! Down low. Well, that was back when it was only a facebook 9.0 virtual advocacy hologram. It all seemed so simple back then, like the Wu-Tang appeal.

She became politically-charged and evil-minded. Funny how it happened on the same day. In background enabled synch. Only way to get there, she and her compatriots of the future discussed, would be to come down upon the faction of low down, slow downs, the eco-postmortem-baby-boomer-babys-grandbabies. They had just broke the ties that bound them (for their own good). Encased in clay core cribs until they reached the federally sanctioned exact age at which safety (and therefore survival and preservation of the species) could be odds-favored (though most certainly not bet on). This was the protocol adhered to by the mid-dom.partners and their Unities (the contemporary name for Unions).

Though gaming got  decarbonized long ago, and the shells of formerly active brains overtaken by eighty inch plus non-flat roundscreens were long since collected and disposed of in community college manualarts reinhabitation bins around the country. Though the word gaming was now globablly synonymous with suicidality clauses. Though the xbox creators were now touted in religious circles as certain devils. An old outdated crummy concept, the devil, yet falling back in fashion only through the door of political desperation and mischief.

Evidenced in that resurrection so glorified in theory, yet soaking to the gills in atleast seven of many more now known deadly sins. Certainly couch-potato combat, aka Droning, when men set themselves to the mercy of their unified walls of technology, where men became unmanned and sent themselves hurtling into inner and outer spaces. The conservatives called it, in their coarse text-to-speech-to-masses translations, finding real estate on the navel. These selfsame conservatives who could have prevented the aforementioned health-hazard recreation, yet instead wound up financing the multi-trillion dollar teabagging party's unscientific experiment turned industry: Rebonding of man and mans pastime by yet unknown onyx infused monourethane derivatives. 

This whole resurgence had been recapitalized and reamortized a thousand replicated times, encrypted in an oversized bitlocker scaled with primordial bytes so to cloak. Macrowaved in a home reactor once manufactured for express rotten purpose of narcotic manufacture and consumption.  Uploaded the old fashioned (and therefore unsuspecting) android market way, if you can remember all the way back to that hideous year before El Nina took a chunk out of the environmental minimalist movement which, like the hard copy environment of that time,  never recovered.

The new nomenclature was no thrilling departure, as one might have guessed in the long-winded leading up to nothing way some conservatives and less than 1% ers do, in between their cuban cigars and anchovy kipper zipper stress-relieving practices. Don't hold your breathe now, here is:  Google Earth (sponsorship secured with global permissions circa 2049, an economically entropic time). This was a hearkening back to the name google, which had somehow disappeared at bermuda triangle coordinates after it unmoored from its Sunnyvale tomb and floated like the IPO to giant balloon heights. The same kind the less than 1%ers fired up toward the beginning of the 21st century in their ever so fascinating addictions to ego and stock inflation. Those capitalist and postcapitalist social democratic times were brutal at best. The brain everdeveloping into new labryinths and having always to float a lifeline or boot up Help services. The disability funds were soon to be universalized and re-insured, as they reached astronomical yet uniform standardized atmospheres.

Everything was for sale. Despite all these machinations political, economic, social or otherwise, she grounded herself in her understanding of the world. Everything was still for sale. Sales and consumption drives ran like rivulets down the walls to the stops and the ninety degree shifts, to the locks and the twistcap downs and turns. She could be flexible. Yoga was in her repetoire. Lucille Balle had nothing on her. She was a solid metrotechnohipnocrat of her day. Or that was the word her friend Amber made up for her one day as they dehopscotched along the navipod sidebar that took them tangibly wherever they wanted to go and their favorite: nowhere fast!

Here the yinyang of the  DIY / DDIY (dont do it yourself) netpacing  crawls and lifts and lifts and defragments. Not unlike todays fog masses clearing liquids out of the windows. Moving and angling and growing into the space of the maplewood or whatever wood the less than 2% milkers could line rooms with in and of the single story, suntouched spread she and many others not to be necessary to name called home. The many plants assured them of a jungle to take refuge from a jungle.

Still ritual takes place in its unceremonial ongoing manner, dry as a bone. Fly a streamer from the mobil station, center of town, center left, over a lap of a wave of a  baby hill up to the stiff wooden white painted walls of the American simple standard churchhouse. With standard deluxe whitewashed steeple. They all looked up as they walked there sluggishly or briskly on sundays. Brisk or sluggish, thin or overdrawn, guant or dressed in bleached whites like a swan, they all looked up. The standard steeple Colored the mind at dawn on the lawn before the recently felled trees waiting for the flatbeds long  waiting to be hoisted and slid lengthwise down in that new embarrassing branchless formation which now became clear to the hundreds of year old oaks which steadfast made and still make our country and her shadows, north of tennessee, somewhere around the border of Kentucky there? hard to sense exactly where the oaks begin claiming the climate and the undersoil, turning up pavement with a childs sweep of the palm kinda motion out of the roots come one heavy-handed spring storm, all the thunder and lightning you can take, and all the electricity thats been short-circuiting your heart and making you stumble over words, rollin your eyes around to find it, what you lost and will never have back, something carefree, something nurtured and nursed, something they found most precious and valuable... something you could not abide. why? why?

to not be dys continued

Friday 18 November 2011

Citizen # K (subsection A)

Imagine, walking around all day behind Citizen #K

She got the tempwork off some market app on her smartphone. Yeah. Probably play was where she shopped. Right after coldcuts cooked in a rice cooker with just a bit of olive oil... okay, water will suffice because we have no olive oil no stovetop no facilities and no mind after it all. Call it the redeeming virtue of the conscious woman today. She has a nose for inventory. She will arrive the very day the prime rib and the leftover Alaskan king crab legs are let go. She catches the loaves of bread on MLK. She flaunts her strategic coverage of the most coveted recyclables. Okay she dumpster dives like a champ. Lets repeat it, Jim, and this time notch up or two the amp.

All she had to do was provide electronic signatures on top of her email address and the # of her phone. She could talk however she wanted, with false accents or simply drooling monotone. She figured minimal interaction with the world might stem her heavy feeling of being truly alone. Sure, she might never look her authority in the eyes, or meet coworkers for calzones or talk in escalated excitement of motivational capitalist ideology.

Girls were almost expected at times to jump into falsetto, she remembered, having been a corporate slug for a horrible epoch in her twenties. She saw the stressed out blood green ghost on the sixth and seventh chords strike out from the roots of her beautiful long dishevelled hair.

She found herself, she did. Post some toilet paper diploma bricking up the fast food management scene, headed toward airports and rental limousines. That was when her head fell in love with a bicycle she saw being pedaled by a young woman not unllike herself in age and carriage. Among all the industrious nonsense and heavy sounds of friction between metals and vacuum sucking and air pushing machine breath. Among all the crap that was baseline for any goddamn capitalist monster of a dream. Starfux takes no prisoners. Show up like soldiers, wear your uniform. Shine your teeth for the smile. Do not clock out late or dare stay a while.

She fell out just in the knick of time. Shook off the seduction of quarterly sales dinners and napa valley small batch merlots and pinot noir to polish you off and cast a vineyard cover of night over your dissipating understanding of hell on earth within the context of a six figure salary and hardly time to sleep off the corporate burn off of the true yearning for rat race recidivism rates skyrocketing and She turned over lots of her understanding to the phone. The phone now told her the time. Not the sun. The phone oriented her with its cool hd compass. She no longer learned how to get out of getting lost.

Friday 4 November 2011

holy days, unholy nights

She had just finished supergluing the iron-on patches to her black jeans, shamelessly, when the BBC reported her city and the night before, the scandalous yet predictable situations that played out on the streets when certain dice were cast and rolled and bounced into a combination of numbers which, when added together, spelled trouble.

self-portrait. October. K by K.
the kind of numbers # she could coherently put together for you on a gray cloud with a silver-stained lining, and halloween behind the ears like a cool whip of winter winds on the nape of your neck, a sweet lick. Sick! When someone in any given room in any given west side victorian half-rehabbed three story apartment had mind to meet the fullness of her face the fullness of her hot stare, the depth of her purpose you can believe just like you buy the street talk on the east side in a slurpee swishersweet rhetoric, ghetto to the bone, descended from the self-made men like Douglas, Frederick. 

the facts: the modus operandi of the U.S. Economy gave allowance to money-stuffed lobbyists with their snake oil sad puppet show in the anteroom of the Oval Office and salivating over the possibilities of taking hold of a fat chunk of the peoples purse, aka Walmart style, and fashioning of it something in its own imprint; lets call it a tribute, a remembrance, something made of granite with a marble skin maybe, a monument, something that will last long past us, in time we trust, until entrusted to the 24/7 receiving dock called the ground, mother earth, in truth no matter how you play it, she's waiting to catch ya with her big widespread smile and open arms like you never seen! 
me and gee-gee. by K

Maybe you consider yourself lucky. Blessed. Cause you might have imagined this for yourself. This life beyond todays reality. Guess no fears will paralyze you or divide you from your intention and purpose, macro were talking. Micro sent to the back of the mess hall... in no uncertain terms: Micro? we sent packing. 
hollowscene, ten thirty-one, eleven. K by K.
Yes! finally its your turn toward the bright lights big macro city, let it happen like a jam, slow. You gotta go with it as it hits, dont fight, nah, dont fight the flow. Stay a comfortable distance from the yayo, breathe in the air from the extro to the endo, outside in, eradicate all sin, eradicate piss and vinegar venom so the social occupants see you through into the fresh intelligent bloodclot of baby boomer babies in unity, almost magically! rock steady. 

Standing with honor, standing steadily in the face of riot gear five ohs, suburban cops now face to face with the history of a hard city American, face to face it turns out with the very wave which is inviting the so-called opposition into the spray and healing salt waters of american daughters with their scarves wrapped like a flag, falling then they tag the american sons and daughters, depends on how you orient yourself, gravitating somewhereabouts, regardless of class, race, status, wealth, she determine where she stop to hangout, where she is most welcome, the air, sees to the doubt, vaporized with a snap, trail of water overchlorinated, straight out the city tap.

Saturday 1 October 2011

don't go

Blurs the world
       and then you

Alongside it
           Parallel processes
iswhat theycall


 from one
               from your     self

anywayoulookatit-  its

No matter how hard you pray
 even if
you pray

Befalls you

Each morning
(when you come to)
Slap your face

Drink your coffee
black like his
was yours
before he ever knew
beforeheeven -

you were black
had it black
drank it black
rose black

when snakes
were otherways

Wait! don't go
code it
ours. be

never no no no
mind no


(a dirty word?)

of its qualite

(traces hold on barely!)
in song

 twice as much
Still you lack
still you come back,

comme lit

Cut yourself
 some slack 
time of month
once honored?
twice mocked

breast enhance
in the fall
leaves something less

look at that

smiling eyes
over the canyon
few inches average

milk shake
ack. awk.
heart attack

You better 
sure sure sure
if you feel it
do it soon
sure sure sure

full moon


the moment
needs your all
you got

kinda lead
kinda cheer

sure sure sure but

sure sure sure

the fire !
the flame
falls out
to uncolored
the same

more of

wants you back...
wants you what
you want what
you track what
you back you

you go
let her

sure sure sure
forever stamps

sure sure
those ones they them

show her
get her
let her

to the hills!
to the fields!
to the small patches
unheard of
let her

they will
they will rise
sure for sure
for sure for her for sure!

they will
we will
all will
get her

   more if ands buts

sew and stitch
soul spirit
7 side ways
and able
to table and blood
blood let

Wednesday 14 September 2011

ffreewrite # 444 (cycling and recycling a difficult time)

La Verite was nowhere to be found. Faux F saw to it, the absence. In a tap of the toes FF took over the town. A chill cast over the roads trees dirt homes faces ankles toes toenails. Toenails soft as reflections bent around the way only to be bent back around. Compensation had long ago, long long ago you know, fled the sapling exchange-post. Some kinda store. Little Bit took off as much as she could chew. Such was her purpose so to do. The red book she swore by, see, back was broken and quite mostly paper maiche- in look, not essence, kinda book you actually read, ya kinda book if you could you would read and read all day...Essential, said book.  But no longer readable. Broken down and put out to pasture. Replaced by a goddamn kindle! Oh no! Tragic? you would think so! Until the world turned green, and so many retired books and tapes and godawful 8-trax all suddenty felt the heat of the sunlight again, valued again, all of them! Recyclables! Like even after she got through mashin' the shit out of it, too! Who? Little LilBit. True. Truetrue. She rejected all she knew. All her life. She was about 28. Saturn come round.

Fuck If I Knew met Act like U Know in the street that day. Their four eyes cast solid between them. In a sound, a sound resound, they did meet. The solid cast caste eyes of cold steel gaze. used to cold steel ways and forays. Stone on stone and stone cold, too. They cornered the day's stone cold market. Cornered, quartered, drawn, iced. Then sent to be refabricate and back to 6/10ths of all 7/11s in stamped lottery fare scratched out by bored coin thrown here, thrown there. Too casually placed to attract what everyone never wanted to attract, mostly -- stares. Faux Froid made sure to oil the streets for this very equation, however. The referent to this will not be put out front. Main street will let the side alleypass scuffles continue. You and me will endure it without a choice in the matter. Its not ours to choose. The odds predict neither win, nor lose. Not mathematical but street made occcasion. Upon them. Upon the street. Body. Bodies. Body upon body. Upon bodies. All was stacked and Stacked was not favoring Nobody!

 Nobody had become quite accustomed to the comfort of being very non-celeb in the non-profit world in which she lived. Some suggest profited, too. No matter! Nobody basked in the space made for her wherever she went, she commented often to her friends Somebody, Everybody, G.Money, Jane Smith, and all the spirits in between how one must feel the wonder and appreciate the beauty of the spaces between bodies at this modern age delivered them. Such a primitive and yet prodigious commentary was unheard of. Nobody could efface the English language in any such which way. anywhichwaybutblue! came across the neurons and fired them for the statement preceding. Contradictions must be contradicted. Even if this meant life must go on this way, and endless series of contradictions contradicing and splicing contradictions. Afflicted with afflictions, some were. Nobody always knew. There were often a few kids meanwhile caught like in spiderwebs, tied up in her hemm. Nobodys, thats Who!

 She held the boundary there. Everybody knew it. Somebody said something. G.Money thought to profit, c.r.e.a.m. -siecle. While Jane Smith still was so busy answering wrong numbers on her home line, poor thang never caught up with the times and got berated on talk show generics, for not showing any kinda open mind even to her unfair treatment of her twelve year old daughter. her twelve year old daughters six year old fascination turned cool interest in rap music. The white association in this case was transparent to most if not all, even nobody. Fear of interracial goings on! Loving, sexing, seeding, breeding, Jane called it. She funneled all this goddamn crap (with great fear left behind, where it counts) down the same drains her CEO husband Jon Smith X built expressly to run the drainage of daily thermal nuclear wasteproduct produced by his brilliance: aka side effect style.                    

She did not dare Narc on him though whites knew the siphoning to be as surreptitious as it was dangerous down the river a ways. down where the white community and real estate parted ways. down far enough and away to be handed off shamelessly to areas unincorporated and lesser know than that! who knows and who cares lands! where gathered en masse those negroes who frightened her and hers by their difference alone, color stature, manner of speaking? who knows who cares? everyone and no one, of course we know now, or knew then when we were talking or thinking about it, god forbid even excited by salt whisperings of great sea change.

They, the ones careful on these lands they knew, on whose fields they cared and damn! if the river they inherited was black coal tar fire oil, so it must be! They would make use of it somehow. As they must. As they knew and know still. Just as they always knew clear as day of the unclean business of race in this land so-called united. yet faced state after state more divisive. For free labor is hard to accept and then not. The matter of property defined and labor lost, was to the North American settlers a topic on fire more and more. Hot and then hotter than hot! The dark-skinned among them knew hot when it was Faux Froid. Understood segregation as it was, truly, La Verite so unnatural. Only by habit, by habit -- made natural by habit. And furthermore understood how survivors will first and foremost survive! however violently. however against any internal morality or code of ethics. Eat! Survive! Grasp! then toward peace if they must.

Such was how it was, and became clearer, but not to they who knew and were under it, who could not have stood nearer the heat of the matter. Well they told Miss Jane Smith, in all her swanesque accoutrements! They told her to her face, for her benefit. The colored women told her her husband's cost-cutting measures was a scandalous if not treacherous DL operation, poisoned wells and waterways, fouled the potable essence and life-giving source! No joke!

Miss Smith however laughed, uncomfortably so. She found these confronteurs to be irreverent, highly! lacking etiquette and poise! She tried best she could but could not shut her ears to their noise! Overtook her it did, day by day, and overrun her it would, in no time. Her entire sense of herself to her horror she found flushed down those very network of siphoned PV pipedream become nightmare untold and unheard, hushed hushed by the whole town of major minority. By decision. Not so much with derision or intention to coverup or forget. Rather driven by a great and wide sea of experience in the past century since the trade of men and women and children to slavery down deep south and still fresh as the sun in the sky and dew on the grasses the fields; experience of those who survived the telling to the supremekeepers (in form across the land in those days) by minority mouths of deeds! terrible deeds! done against their own pale kind, by their kind. By their kind, to their kind! One in a kind scandal! ... Those who survived this particular sort of telling  or reporting of yesterday, survived simply in some cases by not telling.

So the rivulets grew from particles from beads to small streams from slipstreams, then converged, nuclear dilution and pollution and Miss Smith herself in some compromised liquidation. All went by so fast! Down a drain, what a rush. Eddys out then called back to the ruined whole of the whole. What a rush to the fuckin' face with a nike swoosh, on forehead (and the lace), demonstrably positioned (poorly placed)! Like authority or ego outgrowing itself -- irrevocably exposed, and so out of place. In error of ways. Not making sense. so all sense falls away...  no capitals no grammar no fuckin' care neither eh ha! whadda do whaddada dada dada da- ah!?! without any closure you they it have found or been given recourse to from above below...the....your their they're hers his very end. In finite. Infinity.

 La Verite? The Truth, formerly of the  aka mia missing? in what country Nobody knew but would not yet tell for the telling. Everybody understood her suddenly, La Verite! Cause all in all what was happening was that obvious moment, that mindful moment no one could ignore, not only due to trauma but adrenaline pumping excitement; not only adrenaline excited moments neither but also mundane moments exactly in between! mathematically come correct! algorhythmically snapped out of the hips! Executed through ninety one eighty three sixty and or more or less kind of flips of the flexible at heart.... for it was they who stood there in no poor shape at the end. The same, they say. Who stood so consciously! So energetically (in collaboration duly noted. What with chills of Faux Froid passed through and delivered)... at the just as sudden start.

The spirits. in the spaces between and apart and far from, are yet to be hemmed in, anyway. The spirits swayed in  unison with and out of synch then. Consonance and dissonance together holding hands. Not necessarily about coming together by choice for some-all. Forces above and beyond human comprehension, of all-some. And more out of synch are the spirits, with the reeds, the grasses, the grains, Ceres. With the some-all. Against the all-some...as pressure to force a synch came upon the fooled. Then, once that was forgotten....the spirits, well, they swayed in the fields. Such was the telling. The telling by the told. As the untelling, by the untold... like tommorrow, as was yesterday is today.

Wednesday 7 September 2011

Heart Holds a Vacancy

the Sea
her depths grow out from green
                       from green to royal blue
all our lies get hot 
              get salty 
into butter 
into residue

of which

Constitutes the laundry list 
of lies 
picked for 
pulled for


By decree of part-sentients
sworn to secrecy

Whose vows have been 

the precise configurement 
  drawn off the slight balance of
   good will 
K by Katya 2011

then left
 here in this courtyard
  where touched 
         touched by the elements
 Produce a serum
     2 men 
     2 the vial

There a discordance 
a shaking of foundations
if the color hits the litmus test
and meets other requirements unknown
you can tell by the sound:
a hollow tone

The amplification 
of which
  throws off
   any and all 
    antagonist untruths

(left brown and dyscolored in the foamy froth) 

the purified potion
 then drained
  hits a shade resembles goth 

The scientists stand 
edge of tide pool...

Taken from the scene
 from the light

  double encrypted 
   left inaccessible
    walled off

Like pores 
touched by witch hazel
 locked behind skin
   sealed from the world
    and her sin

Language is lost
 in the crowd
  of the avowed
K by Katya 2011


Eyes tell of suffering 
naked like ankles 
 bit by geese  

  scraped on thorns
   bleeding until clotted


  retrieved then
    until she may be 

For now
we are left with the same old
             same old
caked makeup  
 meet low-grade rubber
       (wall ball material circa '79) 

smoke trails and
salvage yards
bits of plastic
bits of plaster

just another
man-made disaster

For now

we are left with our scars
  on water 
  steady boiling
   like poached eggs

For now
A double-breasted back-stabbing 
On Front Street by the boardwalk
The perp

vanishes in a fog of 
Chat Room Twitter
by Katya 2011

The forensics team drinks coffee
the coffee 
sure is bitter 

For now
the lies proliferate
canvass our nation:
gas consumption fever! 
TV vacation!

what once was compromise
now has no promise:
each for his own
all or none mentality

Long island teas comped
on a corporate spread 
for the so-called VIPS 
for the pros 

Young runaways
expose thighs
to highball bids 
much too low...

Is this not enough 
and suffering?
to pry open the crypt 
where collective truths 
are kept? 

Until then I will hold
for all the good people
a vacancy
 in my heart

 a love enduring

from me to you

Saturday 20 August 2011

Renewed - gone large label back to navel

Some drama came into the scene. Drama! To excite the stale air. To fuck up anyone's agenda. Anarchy!
Some spent out on long nights and hazy days between command central (some adulator's basement or garage) and the civic center. Planned protest! The sound of it makes most young activists want to switch and become substitute teachers... probably most do. Or join the green party ranks. Or jump off some bridge. Or move to Amsterdam or Vancouver. Or talk on talk radio.  To be located and chicken-wired into a city 4 block radius by choice? Planned Protest? More like planned parenthood for dizzy girls spun dry from wet, half show up to the clinic because everyone's betting they will be -- but they aren't! -- pregnant yet.

All washes away, tears and problems and headaches and trash. But the drama remains. A great decompression hits the air, and electricity unloads upon the city and picks up pavement like legs over jumpropes. Feelings around the block are so diverse and tangential, burning like coals in the eyes and faces of those who live deep in the heart of the American city.  Every American city, from Quebec to Tijuana, Houston to Montreal, Toronto to Rio de Janeiro. Feelings are burning and so alive. Need no lighter fluid because the (sent by the sun) solar flares have arrived.

The fabric of life undervalued and torn. Woven across the city in dust colored thread, corn rows
and baggy clothes. Bare hands. Bare feet and calloused toes. Life in the streets was intense as hell, and when you survived the day and met the night, nothing else could be so sweet. Sewn back together ends of days - and carefully self-placed in the bed. Eye of needle sees the thread and closes ranks. Send in the dreams, the fortified tanks.
by Karen Garman, 2011

I found myself in a jam....reluctance berry preserves -- grown on common kinda ground, and a salve to the disheartened lost souls like myself. I knew. I saw them reaching for the same jars in the same grocery outlets. We had the same eyes and fears and blood pressure.

I found myself in a jam. Halfway through my peanut butter sandwich. But I saw no end to the torment I fought so hard to get over. I struggle and effort and fight and try. And why?  My mood, my status and my affect --my sense of myself in this chair this room this house this hood this town this city this country this world this universe this emptiness. Senseless sometimes. I can feel so foolish, my reputation fallen. My spirit lost and out there somewhere lookin' for me. Callin' and callin'.

I feel the shift always into drama.  Like when the burn through the subway the burn through the atmosphere the burn through my oats and honey and brown sugar. The burn in my belly. The burn of hot chlorinated tap water spraying out the pipes onto my thin skin.

 I might stop. Mid-sentence. Mid-summer. Mid-night. Or any other time I choose. I might.

 If we are speaking then of course I will not stop like that, no way. I cannot afford to stop! Hey! I might pull too quickly away from vacuuming the room to do the dishes. Or vice versa. Then in moments I realize the track switchers switched my tracks without my clear knowledge, and it burns me but its a slow burn like St Louis ribs or a the extremities exposed to high altitudes, low temperatures. I suppose i will taste good when the fuckers eat me the hell up! Haha. Hey! I did not mean to stop. I didn't stop at all, in fact. Prove it! No no no, give me another chance, will ya? I know its your show. I got carried away. Thought I was the main act! You got me excited, though, it was you! So come on man, shit. Give me a break!

Too fuckin' bad i am still without a studio. Thanks to my big mouth shot off again. Interviews so close to complete. Bank account so far from replete. To shut it all out and pay attention to this channel is all I know to do. All i can do, all i am able to. My last trick, come on. Show some compassion? Meet me underwater, where all distractions die and everyone knows the party's relocated to Paris. And Paris is right there, right fucking there! I swear!

I had to drop the many ways I came to greet you. No announcement. Like you.Your arrival unexpected, split second! Kinda brutal. We like it like that here in this little earthen corner of the sky earth water joint. Don't we get along so well? I study you within the four walls, floor and ceiling. But never confined, no, always free you are to float toward or away from me and us and this condition cannot condition the unconditionable -- that is you. You make me crazy, whatever whomever however you are.

 I was green, yes,  but not for long. Maybe only St Patricks, and felt like an imposter even then. Maybe as a kid? But I felt older then, when I was younger I felt much much older. Can you hear the stress in my voice as I raise to the rafters my own? my drama? I demand it, damn it! They get theirs, so im gonna get mine! I will be juvenile like third grade elementary if necessary. This is the kinda sacrifice I will make.

 I opened the door, yeah, but too many times. The door is now a japanese hand fan. Today and maybe tomorrow. The nickel bags of weed turned into quarter ounces rolled in dimes. This all started in the nineties, and took so long to leave behind me. The ones among them true, dropped out my life in pairs. I took the stairs and waved goodbye looking down at you in your descent, over the rail, and over my head you went.

You may have seen them in the hall, did you? Bounced like checks before they fall. You so fortunate, my dear, to see all this in the rear mirror view. Had you lit up the scene with your presence fine I know, the colors would bleed out. What commenced blue might have finished lacking color. Maybe not completely taken out, but still so far from feeling right. Like putting on those fresh dry unpressed cottons and feeling still too hot and yet beneath your skin you feel cold, ya know? Okay, well what is mine is mine! Something unique to me, calming that way, like I am somebody no one else be, like I am a singular moving object in a forest of trees.

Turn on, huh. Oxygenated really...wow what a turn on!   (to be continued)...

Wednesday 3 August 2011

loco - motion

With the passing of trains half of nights through oakland, i often stop what i am doing and catch the fresh wave of memories that extend past this life, back i believe. Dare say. Stop my dreaming and wake to it. Stop my typing and rise to the occasion. Stop my tv, my radio, my dual core thoughts spinnin round and round at a feverish pace like Ratt blowin out the rafters at some warfield or nondescript american music hall somewhere in Jersey, any year any day any time for any reason so long as theres hairspray, tights, a wall of sound and hair   -- bienvenidos baby!

Yes I wake to this rare and clearly audible across the sleeping city streets straight to my heart, my spirit, my affect lit up like a candle and soon after maybe self-drawn down and out with taper of wax rope into a calm silent predawn meditation like never before. Only to come again like a sudden shift of energy like a buckshot to the booty to spike the adrenaline and imbalance my mood. Taken to the heights for some reason, I dont know why. I guess its past life love affairs i cannot and will never have the will to deny.

Yes I catch the deep whistle two am oakland. The antiquated rail travel carry the heavy of lumbering train cars, to where the weight of past life memory coincide.. a brand new light revealed out of thin air. A push of electricity every damn time i swear! True love. I can feel it. A cottoncandy kinda recollection falls with me sweet even into bedsheets. Mothers milk if i ever knew it. Takes out my feet, levels my head. Out of whatever OCD kinda track i was on to some fly switched track back to some old fashioned mix, to some fantastic retrograde recollect callin me like pay phone street sound lonely ringin for the desperate connect back in the old town, east coast.

I gotta talk about the real steel for a second, gotta stop and pay mind to the channel of the divine. he real industrial hydraulic momentum generation of all my past life memory i miss you beautiful trains back then were bold steel and smoke and looking glasses. Leather upholstered genuine rawhide seats. Satin embroidered pillows. Velvet curtains to transition dining cars from smoking cars from sleeping cars. Needlepoint welcome mats as you step aboard. Opaque linens to offer light into redwood carved chamber anterooms falling discreetly off the main oakwood supported halls driving sleek lines from caboose through locomotive machinations to the coalfires stoked by attendants with metal rake and shovels with halfmoon sharpened edges diving into the living maelstrom dripping black charsmoke over the countentance of prebellum Europe, Asia, Soviet Union stretched out in rails pushed into place by hard laboring peasant and cossack farmers with hearts simple aligned with love of country? Ya? I dont know where it comes from but i have had these scenes fresh on my tongue, since i was young.

Piston pull, arms juiced every morning into some woven experiment toward heavy metal, interconnection. Or the hard laboring chain gangs who involuntarily paved the transamerican continental railway...really a poor copy of the sister railways of other great countries, the transsiberian. Even Canada showed her teeth, carving through cold winter granite to expose to the world that she would not be stopped so easily, no not at all. not at all.

Yes...see i dream of working on, traveling in, witnessing from, feeling of the past lives in me who may have bought the ticket to ride. Instead i get the stale substitute of Amtrak, which is like a plane or two dropped out, not so light, not so clean, robbed of pure wood and steel amenities shining, muffled the sound of clack-a-clack, domesticated from what i feel from those days i no longer carry thoughts or memories except in my senses deep, my breathe, my way of moving in and out of space, the wandering of my eyes to rest on USA, gone west of west...

Still i love her! goddamn fuck, i love the motive, makes me loco, stops me still! Like the deadening of panic post the trek up some nondescript citys pill hill.  Drops me down by any other american windowsill. Nondescript all around me, even my own flesh might cut out on some nail cause at those times the heart goes, the mind travels, the spirit flies and the rest playin catch up! My friends had trains pass through their backyard Richmond, and every time i heard that  shit --- hey! check me burstin' with the best moves i can make to dodge and dart out there and hop the broken down fence and then push up like the mosh pit of gen x days full pressin' toward nirvana, nondescript.

Hey all goes ghost! All get out all get out and go! to see her, hear her, anything and all so sensual and reverberating across the gps of my whole soul!

The train she got my heart, man.
Time? Fuck time. I got all the patience in the world for a long enduring train ride, the nondescript people you meet. The meeting i have with my nondescript self, in nondescript towns that harbor trains in strangeways you never been. Beats never been. Kerouac never been. Burroughs never been. Break out the gin nondescript for a nondescript sit for a spell. While others take in the local produce, fruit swill, the local smiles of those thankful to have a job, even so small as to polish someones shoes. The fresh orange juice with pulp stirred automatically by the motion with your nondescript vodka driving screws into a fixed witness of agape landscapes post sunset in middle some country. Hell son, you and me both be stoking the fires of our contemplative nondescript period blues.

 they chose me, crazy loco self thats me, steel and smoke and looking glass-eyed-sigh of self, that wisp of me who crosses you not, yet opacity full and driven west against the jetstream like a waterfall come up against a scream, moulded and melting into the love of haunted hitchcock night trains, soldier story told certainties of death... certainties of rebirth and hell shine up the silver faucet fetch above the rubber fitted catch, caught in a siberian dream of aquamarine fluid stream into river into greater embrace of oceanic magnificence... like the transcanadian transition into endless pine forest greenness. End of all apocryphal bred of searching insecurities kind of self-ignorance...trasmutation back to your youth and anyone who pays attention to the lands flying by in patchwork sky...will see....themselves, their people, their purpose, high steeple, deep well, poor people of the life of the land do tell. Do tell.. Do tell.

Cause right now i know this room, this home among homes, this road among streets, town among cities...this life among lives before and before us also...needs to listen to your simple story again. These television people. These fearful sons daughters parents grandparents through time. Fabric of lives by chaotic design. Do tell, in the fury of midnight passage descent into ravines never heard no other industrial sounds other than, trains whistle blow. dry and pristine.

The slow trains are ghostly, the many cars as they pass over terrain passed over an infinite time, infinite times uncounted. Temporal aberration. Perhaps circular as well, spiral shaped. Not unlike the nondescript fried dough. This year (like the nondescript last) she blew me over like a sweet evening seabreeze. all of her energy blew over me so, she blew me over. i felt blessed and kissed by the sweet touch moist air down there. where i fell. in that nondescript small patch of earthen compression.

Thursday 28 July 2011

old one dreadlocked unfinished

Love. What was this word love and her many repetitions, her various meanings to diverse peoples. Her attachment to some individuals, while others she out right eluded for always. Never could be bought yet always on the auction block in the world. A craigslist listing would offer her for four twenty? A toss-up for maryjane? A friendly exchange of goods for goods, goods for greats, goods for goddesses, cheap plastic sacks of chemical crapwrap - passion plays minutes or hours only long...

 Short the patience required for the real. u like it? u dont? 
 shit, your aura is looking droopy. i see a kinda pale dripping teal. 
 Didya get downsized? from the belly of the whale to an elephant seal         sunning for your comfort all day at the wharf. barkin to keep the oxygen circulating through your scrawny sidesteppin grille....  nah! 

Step to the truth of this kind of sadness...manifest in cities and suburbs and rural surrealities, all across your gentrified former farms and unharnessed lands, no one can remember anymore. Step to the sad truth of this soon forgotten game catch of love within the more controllable context of lust and self-marketing fueled by loneliness and greed, fear and need. Fear and need. Loneliness. Greed -- step out. 

Witness the watchers (who witness too) cold in the eyes unable to blink. Refused to look away from tragedy. Greco-roman perfectionism-ready.
Now they never will and where love resides so also reside the watchers for eternity and possibly past times running downtown, too. Even the thought of such visions in hell took the thinkers of the thoughts to emotional lows rarely recovered. 

In rare cases (usually antisocial or sociopathically labelled) such emotional descent might be succeeded by rising titrated blood tides. For whom love may as well suffer only the hour the sunset tapers... to the moment of cold dawn frozen in the face of a dying star - - -
mad & red
this - - -
         mad red sunrise

Monday 11 July 2011

so sepia-toned

Sometimes i just am doing my thing and im feeling alright, ya know, alright about life and what its all about, ya know, all the drama that continues to come up on us, all the patriarchy and patriotism, all the capital pursued by the capitalisms, all the hate pervaded by the heterosexisms and the racisms... all hat shit that forms the context of our lives, yet not the foundation of our beings. always i come back upon the sugar melody sweet and simple. safe. needing not. like the man who picks guitar on a train, on the spot.
photo/edit by Katya 

sometimes that scum just floats up above and though it fogs my vision of the sky above, at least i can swim in pure waters deep below, the waters of my deep meditative yearnings, far from any fears of homelessness secondary to flat zero no earnings...more like looking at the smooth side of the spoon, gaze up at the fullness of the moon on my empty sorta stomach, god i wish sometimes i had him back, i wish sometimes i did not need to keep those photos i edited made and treasured that show up sometimes on a sky drive slide show or in the mix when im trying simply to raise a beat or catch a flow...

cause my feelings are so fuckin intense they become dangerous. i can get so heated i am losing my voice trying to tell you what i mean cause you dont seem to understand me, and then its like on and on and im trying to convince myself that i know who i am, when the truth is more complicated and flux...the past and the present and future, the darkness getting lighter, like lux.

redux. back to simplicity. back to the beginning, please, or that moment when i really knew or really thought i knew what was up with this world these people the merchants the soldiers, the widows, the yearning earners, the five-- ohhhh! what i must look like to the law? twice arrested, twice confessed it, lost my drivers license the first time for a second, back in florida twelve or so years ago...you dont wanna really know!

but this time, this last time, the second time, jail house named after a Saint? dragging my finger across the chipped paint? Cell walls, remembering by force how it feels to be free of cellular phones and receiving half the time dealers half the time collectors calls. dead air in there. silence at night and pretty gospel voices raising the sunless space, comin out harmless like a song but really truly full of fight....against the brokers of insensitivity and protocols lacking all creativity. the measured drip of impersonal uncaring powers that be? powers that see to it that if you dont know youre nothing, well then now you know.

Of course i fought it too in my own way, facing some heavy feeling depressed cornered suffocated and scared tired yet holding myself up with whatever attention i got left to let the others know im not shy, no -- im forward. 4 ward i was , with the powers and the powerless in there, the binary quite pronounced, so i ducked down when i could, lying on my top bunk white sheet, one pillow, one beat, mystery meat, the girl who got two pillows has skin the color of wheat. shes pretty. some chick on  a bottom bunk not far away is eyeing me. while im eyeing this natural wheat colored chick.  i like her too.

the doors opened for me. they do again and again. they will 4 you.  i got accustomed to what was a pattern but not irreversible not etched into some semipermanence. this luck i had as my birth right, right? Well, no one in the saints house over here cares what rights you might claim by birth, nah, they will stop you so you better shift your weight and realign your height as you bow. Bow to those who never had nothing really, or did and saw it gone in october, and part of them died and fell off like the leaves in the fall...

 doors opening, and i can see in my own knowing that the doors may be closing more and more like they have and must, and i need only open my eyes to the loves of my life and embrace them and have prayer and faith for the coming of the lux the light. in presence of my continued ongoing inexorable fight. in the presence of my continued seeing something thats truly out of sight. i can open the blinds in this moss avenue apartment and look past the compound the medical kaiser is constructing, look past whose right and whose wrong, look past the past and my love unrequited. look forward to more of this freedom i have to be alone or get it together, to go out and earn it or stay home and do my makeup...

a shade darker. a shade heavier. more green. less blue. more brown. getting it. a clue. this is time and time has not hold but yes the form we take, the styles we make, the way we show up --- lets hope its not apocryphal, not a front, not a cardboard cutout. not fake. you remember? when you were so sepia-toned
photo/edit by Katya
like the time when... the time when..... when you did what you did not want to do when the double negatives got ya. that would also be the time B4...the time B4..... B4 lux. b4 light showered upon you and yours, us and ours, theirs and theirs, mine and my world, yours and your world, their world the third world? its all one world and fresh world, new world without order but earth everywhere. sky everywhere. water is rising. so rise up! rise up! in your fortune, your misfortune, and do what needs be done. okay? never let the double negatives double up on you like they did me for so long.

stay true. stay clear. my dear! stay strong.
this is dedicated to Desiree. i love you.

Monday 27 June 2011

she whose temples were rubbed right in time

Anecdote from the cutting room floor, circa 2009 …  cuts fresh falling off her aura, this girl. Locks of her soft layers of dyed hair flashing in the fluorescent light for the last time, in silence, her silence, the silence of her stylist, of her boots up on the old steel footrest.

She was sickly aware of being one of millions in her country. one of billions in the world. Any megalomania of her youth had been drowned or subsided into a pale ascertain of some kinda amegalomaniaminority status in the pantheon of petty class passive-aggressive weaker-than-war fare.

She was sick from feeling cold and sick of being stepped on like every footrest in every goddamn hair salon or rickety down home kitchen in the not so deep south where she hailed from. Snailed from. Slow to wake up out that hot and humid daydream.

She knew she could neither recover the day nor the dream. She knew she would not recover, for she had nothing she wished to hide from herself anymore. What she had uncovered, well, it was all the darkness you could expect to find under an old rock toward the far edge of a garden revisited after years of neglect. 

She was a despondent girl.  Our girl. And still people dared to stare back at her silent icy stare. For they knew her as the daughter of disgust and disgrace. Fuck, she thought, hers was the legend she would carry all her life and to her grave. Hers was the standard by which all could measure, even the lowest of the low, and still be seen as if from below. Her only entitlement for all she was aware, was to be straight up miserable. And to stare.

So she stared. And she could have cared how you reacted, whether you cared or did not care. Or did not care enough not to care or care. Many if not most were subjected (in her presence) to having her eyes upon them. That uncomfortable, unwelcome, malevolent stare.

The silence of falling years of color, could not have felt more free on this day however. She sighed in the chair, having untied her hair. By the weight of her breath, one would not have thought freedom. But feeling was the heaviness set forth in the room, bouncing across mirrors.
Rippling earth through the room. 
Folks shied away, children started crying. For what sensation she lacked, she made one without effort. A natural audience surfaced from magazines.  A natural uneasiness surfaced from her longstanding psychic wounds and kept people away like the bubbling molten rock of an active volcano. It was said that those who ventured too close to her -- well. all anyone might hear was gutteral cries someone lost somewhere in their spleen. No one needed to know anymore.

She had some feelings about feeling. She did. She was not therefore unfeeling. Who was? She also considered them, her feelings, too. Not to feel might be too plastic. Whereas feeling was often way too dramatic. So she strove for some middle path. Which, despite fair effort, often led her to static. Whats wrong with static?

The silence that followed or preceded both her stares and her static. She considered it. This silence was beautiful, she thought, like her glock automatic. This was her gun, not a clock, not a toy. She found it beautiful yet deadly. Two incompatible traits. Incompatible but not impossible? Her gun was something she kept neither to use nor enjoy. She found it in the pond by the old shed, where the shallows found coy. Some spirit had told her she would find it there, and not only that she should or could (because truly she had no desire to!) but that she must go and retrieve and polish and learn the gun. She did so reluctantly. Then sent the spirit away with her stare.

She was not homicidal. her parents were decidedly pacifist in the wake of all their bloodsport they boasted of in the ledgers they left her. Suicide was dystonic to her. She knew this clear as her favorite drink in her hand; one part lemon, one part tonic. She held it up quickly at times when her arm and wrist faltered. Or to prevent its being corrupted, maybe? or any darkening of any light. She was hard to figure.

The rock ice she loved to chew into, or maybe just the sound that sounded of her teeth up against it, like they were gonna shatter painlessly. Somehow. Her teeth. These were the things she had every right to look forward to, her ideas. Who was anyone or herself to take her away to some pragmatic reality? What kinda place to live is there in the heart of what so obviously presents itself to us? No one could answer her.

The rocks in her glass, the ice they came in contact and chattered. Moving rocks of ice, how much an oxymoron. She loved that rocks could chatter. That something frozen cold could move quick and lightly float.

She loved how every single day, under the weight of her great sorrowful stare, another sucker came to pass and misinterpret her, another one who missed the boat. This of all she knew on earth, well, it had to be her undeniable satisfaction. In a world that gave her little solace from her bloodlines. In a town that needed no court for all its judges. On a path that led to no particular welcome outcome.

The silence and her favorite drink, the feelings she did or did not feel, the strange form she took getting bigger herself every day as they tried to make her small by cruelties they inflicted or unkind words they would say, those around her... what influence had they? Maybe some. Maybe alot. But she tried to appreciate the ongoing evolution of her self. In trying she was almost able. And she tried to appreciate her almost as much as she could, and almost she could.

In subsidiary was the account of the days of her youth... through a precipitation of all things heretoformentioned and avowed... through the fallen rain of colored locks of hair... through which all ugly jaundiced countenances saw to the unconditional freeze of her powerful icy stare...in this antiquated world of salons and sociopoolitical theatrics of penelopes and patricks...of bulbs bare and loud enough to make her head ache...

until a dull scream fell out of some poor childs mothers spleen. or so somebody said. Fell out and fell down on the ground with a thud. Like an ice cream cone scoop of dark  heavy chocolate. Insensate.

She would not rub her temples then. Postmortem. She would have.
She could not rub her temples then. She would have if she could have.
She did not rub her temples because someone else. Someone else knew.
Someone else knew what she would not do.

Someone else knew that she could not do but would have if she could have.
Someone else rubbed our friends temples with a fullness. A fullness that cannot come of judgment or jaundice or class action. A full indescribable spontaneous burst of parenthetically deserted straight up true natural overflowing. 
Someone got her back!
Straight up! so strange! how the only one unseen is all whom exists.
Who shakes up her rocks with a twist of her wrist,
recovers her balance despite deep leaning, the list.

True. When all her luck seemed away from her, our loveless child (of generation x-ers marinated in grunge), drew to her temples (like the strike of a match) a guardian to protect her. Dear Stella, her hairdresser who carried all kind of class. 

Ooh how the love came flowing all through her, our girl! and nothing around her so hateful any longer existed! She was the one like her mother, this Stella. Intuitive like her mother.
She cursed and howled with cathartic abandon, as Stella smiled and held her down safe in the chair, caressing the pulse of her dome. Where all calm came to bear. 
This healing, this was practiced. Not random. Nine years married to some bastard who could give a damn about her.
Our dear Stella.
Damn him! our girl cried, seeing the blackened eye of dear Stella through the glass and the flying cuts, all the cuts.
She would not stop there,  no, but went on with more damning. Against any and all who she knew to have maligned beloved Stella. Beloved Stella who brought this kind unlikely sweet ending, this wave of great invigorate feeling to our young girl, leaving youth.

Once the damning found expiration through itself, the loving welled up in our young lady something wonderful and self-propelled. Our young girl now young lady, now saw for herself, herself now deserving and becoming as well.
The ground swelled.
Becoming she became a very source of her love. And this set off Stella, who most intuitively picked up on it and cried out...Damn!
Damn, girrl! Bring it!
Now Aint that-the-truth?!