eyelids fallen like my guard (renewed -ii)

 Part II... of  renewed (completed 2/6/2012)

Guess i spoke up finally... and got startled by the sound of myself speaking. Why did I have to not be completely real? Well, I did not live under any dictate of authenticity. No dictate, no reprobate. Only self-sacrifice leading to pitiful sacrilege of self-hate. No one told me not to be real. But there is this pressure here, see? Pressure of loveless woebegotten punk ass you know fuckin who: punk ass competition.

I felt suffocated. Well, on this day in particular. Yes. You could call it an anomaly..the course of a few months of mainly predominant silence erupting from the chambers of my vox. I was not but felt pushed in from all around. Prod my vox box, for sound. I was surprised constantly by these affairs, surprised by irrational expectation. My childhood was magical, or so i remember.

Surrounded but not by caring faces of my old neighborhood, if that ever existed. Long distance memory or else I made it up. Hard to tell anymore. No one could doublecheck the facts with me. I am not some fucking twin, okay. And even if i were... even if i were.

Yeah. Magical that was. Magical this was not. When I let my vox up to the notch at the top of my throat, just basically facing and ready to approach the greater light that was both tangible real and warm. Sure I expected to see them again, the helpful compassionate animated faces. But no, not really. They did not so much appear, and I was not so much paranoid though possibly a little bit so. I wish I could honestly tell ya it was paranoia. Internal.

I found myself, not side by side holding hands with others, no, but walking in single zerofile formation, alone half the time in my filament of a head.  Thoughts racing...or pulled into some magnet. Then all became less material, more of a virtual feed. Got fed so quick, I could hardly catch up! Surround sound positioned to push me in then out, out, out to you.

Whatever i missed, well,  i never saw at all. Okay? Cannot report upon the specters down the hall. I won't guarantee nothing. Anyway, its unnecessary to care. All this happenstance was long on incredulous, short of meaning, in the end.

 Less static in the attic but no way to control the controls. Detangler unavailable for the tangles tangled up in the armchairs in the waiting room waiting. Come back tomorrow and reschedule. No reason to mention why. They want automatic? Tangled up in a knotty wish-u-were-a-weave! and refused to leave.

K.Drama by K

So i did what i was told, to be precise. No room to throw nobody off.
I fuckin' faded my style. Turned easy lush wall to wall (carpeting), into stained mandala glass tiles.
Not only to diss the blockade. But also to no longer agitate the tiles. Each mandala in its own expressive way,  expressed just exactly how being sidelined for a while felt like a fucking eternity! I got some abuse. I took it, yeah. This was the event subsequently referred to as the mandala holla.

Cut to the floor, my whole style was... all my asides and sudden escalator slides...cascades... escalades away in spinning fours....no longer suspended at all, except within the greater whole of cadillac so naturally resonant suspension. I thought I lost them off the the production line? Not one at a time but in multiples of 3,4,5 rolling off, like capital rolling off the edges of some horrific Madoff scamtable turning fraudulent yellow every minute a little more, then criminally bleached out into some white collar wine cellar parabolic! Underneath American through and through, dead yellow like ole yeller.

I knew i lost them there into the new restrained freedom of a greater yet still fully-contained world. Like a pen into a pen. Freedom for thought, he thought, until senses slapped him around and broke thought into a  bunch of wild ideas and presuppositions. Judgments waiting at the terminal. Waiting, posing in all sort of sophisticated statuesque Rodin type manners. Hastily wrapped up nice & given away in new annual leatherbound planners.

Well, the damndest of things. The restless of matters. My head, you see, i thought i lost you, too. There within my dome, between my dual ears, yes ma'am and yes sir, i did. I thought i lost you, too. Fuck how i am sorry.
But somehow you hung in there with your heart up against my beat, i noticed. I always had you for a witness. So you sewed together my image, backed by labels. The edge fell off my albums, but you sharpened those dull moments.
 I thought i fell off yesterday, wow. But thank you, you, 
You held out  -- to me --  tomorrow...

But thats really some kinda happy neverending. Back to my reality... they caught me, took their measurements, stretched me out thin, to my last track. They took what they could, to the end of my limits bled and scraped me dry. Sign a contract thats your life. They had me out on nothing nice. Thin ice.

 Lost my wide stare knowing. They had me. Glossy and matte, ego swollen and showing. Fooled by the promise. The suggestion they gave to trust them. Or was this conjured up? Had I let up on my controls? Momentary carelessness. Or was it yearning to not despair of trust? All the questions, all the answers. More stuff really, to deal with. Wrote it down, then lost my notebook.

When tired, you taught me, take an vodka tonic to your chair.
 Drink. Sit there. Until time become transparent like the liquor.
To relief. To feel religious. Climbing high above what standard what ever sliding standard slip.
Then take one step firm, then another. Into cool, oxygenated air.
 Filling the eyelids fallen like my guard.

Now they kick into my sides to burning! Ohh! They take me up and over drive. I believe they believe in me, I'm so very fucking alive! I let go of all misunderstandings; make trivial of true. Anything i might argue, gets fast intimidation in my head. I trip on me, my burdensome insecurities in outrage. Their currency is my gold standard. Decision. I let them get a lock on me...Derision.

 I suffer headaches. Tension too thick to mention. You know. I know We all know. I know we all know  what is about to happen: their sentiments left touching in thin air... that original, firm, comforting handshake they had? trails into some second hand see ya later lead into some cold, late, lonely night pin cushion never to return.
                   
you, too, would have left it that way.... like i had to ... let it go...like i
     did
you would have had me leave it like that,
up & walk away, wouldn't you?

before you
found and held
and loved the fuckin
hell out of me
mercilessly

to the expense
 of my breath
of my lungs

pressing me
pressing me out all whole again
in the end

goddamn i miss you 
goddamn

Running into you...

I was a runner of a kid
before i was
anything

 was known
by the kids
in the streets

Beat all my friends
and enemies
from lowell road
up cypress hill
up over hedges
down the old pine grove

Makes sense to me
now

Running away from something
was
a tribute to fear
a learned behavior
a way to never know
the unbearable
truths

'broken' by Katya

Running from you...
rarely now
Cause fear aint nothin
to live by

i used to like
Running through the hills
past the llama farms
the black sheep
of unincorporated
california

i used to get high off the fear
took the flight
over fight

i used to think gettin away
was gettin away

No longer running
no more
cant get away with it
no more
my body she
don't need no more help
feelin pain

If i could stop my
spirit?
like my runnin body
stop her in her tracks?

i would

Cause she hurt
too
runnin all my energy
hot and so much friction
so long now



'so long now' by Katya

No i dont need
no help
in hurtin

Laughing
become harder
become longer
become greater

laughing
become my wish

In a world
full of
howlin hurt
of pain
burnin eyes
of perpetual
rain

Oh yeah
holy shit yes!
ya

its been religious
all this running
it always made a clearing
in the darkness
of a day

You and me?
dont worry
we gonna do
all right
runnin into
one
another
like we do


'framed' by Katya

Maybe not fine i suppose
maybe terrifying
possibly traumatic
unlikely to be forgotten

woven round the swab
of our heads
like cotton

Running into arms...
like we done
Again
and again and again
hurtin with regret
tryin so hard to forget.

Fightin like bitches


'Exposee' by Katya

who hardly never fucked
talkin over
gettin high
hardly never sleepin
sharing words
holdin back

sharing what we wrote
guessing and assumptions
wailin and moanin
consuming the consumption

self-demolished
exhausted
pissed
sad



'twice-removed' by Katya

far ahead of the pack
we run half-blinded
A reckless, impossible pace!
they all say
every one so
tired of our shit

they done us already
like deja vu
they know by heart
the play-by-play




Still
they may never see
nor feel

Runnin into you
runnin into me

Her gen-x self-formulaic (aka: gotta start somewhere, part III)

Alot had grown stale, circa 1973. Hamlet's aside kept repeating, in the cultural semi-consciousness; to be? or not to be? To be? or not to be? The needle got stuck in the groove, so it seemed. Kids like her would be oversaturated with a Shakesperean baseline. All rhythms and words measured against iambic averages, pentameter mean. Then when all seemed safely so, they were informed: we don't know who Shakespeare was, umm, or if he wrote those works and words we shoved down your throats, little chickadees. Sorry if its unsettling, shakespeares still the bees knees.

The nourishment had a limit, circa 1973. Gas lines for cars extended far as eyes could see. The avocados and Sonoma wines were the only locally grown taste, one could argue. California native. Freshness. Quality of product and price. She started to rebel against the grammatical elements, dangling her participles and positioning E before i. It got her out of self. She took E before me.Walking away from the farmers market into the unsettling processed food joints perched around the circumference, was an experience she found herself repeating. The objects became subjects, and got lost in the actions. Parenthetical fast food with its weak energetics, could well be complemented by halved avocado, she found. She was used. So she learned to use everything in some fashion. Using was more than just a passion. It was an embedded way of life. She stopped trying to break it, she took hold of it, embraced it.


No matter what she did, she realized, some people would never like her. Which was cool, once she understood, because this gave her allowance not to like or please everyone. She met the eyes of judgment with matching eyes of fire. Zinfandel could so easily wash away the pain of being judged, douse the fire. Back to the enduring legacy of generation x girls like her. To know them you need the backdrop. Where they came from, what they came from, and what they had to endure. In summary this was the process of finding seminourishment within the culture. She first found her capacity to nourish herself. Then looking outward she saw the offal of culture as it was. Hardened eyes and attitude maybe came from what had been processed, packaged, flavored, microwaved, heatlamped post its voyage to the bottom of the deepfryer. The grease could be mistaken for steam soaked into the paper scaffolding holding what never really came together, together. Think about the influences. Like diversity in people can be associated with diversity in climate, the weather.

All in all this amounted to a temporary something. Call it relief. Call it semireplenishment. Call it whatever you want. She could make it from noon to seven pm. A large enough window of time and energetics, to generate momentum to evolve herself slowly. Turtle evolution was cool and well known. (The story of the hare and the tortoise, locates the seed that was sown). One year stood out, astrologically so. She was about to touch the premier full moon of the new year. And with it came some potency, some amplified feeling in her. The feeling turned her on and turned on her social circle. Which then lit up like some 20 watt transparency with fangs of light sautered on the walls through the filter of the lampshade. Then her whole tribe sunk into the juicy metallic taste of a ripe half-century old american standard wall outlet for those old general electric turntables with matching postbellum deux de monde hair curlers become subservient t her tribe and their purpose to generate noise out of nothing. Scrap sound system picked apart and wired together haphazardly but with purpose. Definite imperfection in a very real way. Not all neatly up in a row like bombs awaiting their drop from a generic saab diesel! This momentum took its drive from possibilities without end. Like where Alphabet city meets Numeric Avenue which squares off with dead presidents on downtown streets. Madison intersected with B Street then got triangulated by Third Avenue. One two three, as it goes, hits a B side or floats up for a birds eye view. You can choose destruction over creation? she exclaimed one day to her posse, Who knew? Who fucking knew?

Well that did it! It was on! For her, the synapses all could be fucked with, managed, rearranged. So can we, exclaimed her transmittors in their neuro-variations. So can we! was the cry on the intracellular precision bands. Spirals upon spirals had her spinning in infinity. Like Paul Simon said, by way of translating some divinity. She resonated with it all, the music, the literature. The sex and the drugs. The intoxicating feeling of deprivation in the mountains. Air got thin. Air got cold. Afterwards the heat of the lodge felt so deliciously bold. Her world hit her hard, thats just the way it was! Concussion force hit the X generation like Vietnam veterans coming home from a very real nightmare. What was real could be sacred, she learned through and through. She would be real and anti-fakeness. Dress down the pretty faces. No hype, she conveyed to her circle, now a spiral to be exact, no adware spyware, dont nobody care for us in the marketing industry! They selling stepford white pussy now, lets get busy! She got control over image, by changing her ways. She jetted from the maniacal spinning out in her cadillac days. One dui was all she took, and she got so lucky, she knew. Drunk driving used to be a pasttime for her. She got control of her adrenaline junkie.

About fact-based theory. no second guessing. time to take a seat for some soakup session. Really, will you sponge now? Or are you not so resilient, not so forgiving, not so flex, not so cushioning, just an excuse for a really hard landing? If so, coerce the confession. Such a situation is damaging, diverted, divided and ready to be conquered. Starting with the humble confession, only then might it all come together and coalesce. The damage could undergo analysis. The unbroken fall from an unknown height measured in unknown stories of a nondescript apartment building two doors down from the austerity of the projects in the way of her common capacity to overcome deep deep depressive thinking leading to impulsive untold otherworldly actions orchestrations movements, in the key of desperation flat, followed by some prototypical chord progression the grunge movement adopted in between sets of screaming truth of tragic course of life, present time bookended vaguely as the life of generation x kids on x hitting skids from rowhouse repitition to moshpit meditative new releases. All of it naturally damaged the psyche,  creating chinks in the links of the spine, the C's one two three and four. Will certainly need to be fused, some doctor remarked in the ER, seeing the body and tissue so badly bruised. Generation X case study. Tragedy. Bag it and tag it. Cold case the file. Basement cold stored. Still down there, sure, but the quality always has a life about it, if its truly a gen-x case. A surprise in every box! There was, sure enough, hope in her wheat american midwest type hair with some ends acoustically radiant, could not be sized down, zipped, boxed, filed, cold cocked, nah! None could tame that wild in her. She had unfaded hair braided, evolution occuring. Then there became thought! Underneath the pain of the feeling, which was validated by thought, which at first silent, then became spoken, then on the mic, announced, then screamed, sung to the bottom of the lung kinda release only generation x types wearing fleece could make out of damaged bruised, otherwise written off parts of self in society. Others responded well. How could they not? She arose like a phoenix, no embellishment. They could not and would not diminish her primal scream. They allowed her to become their waking dream, the kinda trust the grunge movement established almost on the spot. Generation X. In love. In pain! In lust. The kids they all acrobat like scissors, dearly departing in mechanical syrup... the venue was mad fresh! Could just as easily been Seattle by the sight of it, the diversity, the alien energetics! Could have been Bangladesh! She went from the gutter to her fame by way of the express. She would settle for more, when all that was ever offered her and her peoples, demanded she settle for less.

Her distance from it (the less for which she was to settle, and the restlessness in her symptomatic of the gravitational force pulling her down from her dreams for more) grew out of the horizon, created a concerted effort towards liason, community involvement, converse all-stars tied into the music scene, the very scene, the one and only shot youth spot! She was wise to the window. She jumped out before it closed. Out into the scene. Out into the cold freshness so hypnotic. Her fears evaporating as she fell to rigid earth. Static plane. Her courageous act was considerably insane. Which made her ex-communicated from all things pragmatic, outdated, boring, sane. This made her magnetic like she would be now, and forever. Metal sharpened line planted flat in deep earth, all the C's breaking apart naturally, painfully to necessarily reform like her entire being. A chaotic script never written, simply followed. Done. Made in the shade! The age old experience: to come apart in order to come together. Coalesce in a genuine self-formulaic. The swords now rest inside the soul, crossing over one another the way cold steel embraces. The search for generous farmland indiana home words was over, for they could now be homegrown self-generated. They would. With them, the words, she was able to pick up her C's, exit intensive care, get together and cultivate the city intensive! Like through the mouth, through the belly! Dirt became a high yield commodity, like pagers dirt got its moment in time. Like her, too. Another gen-x signature series. Well done. Applauded. Used until useless. Loved until worn and torn and inside out. Delivered to your auditory kinda story no holds barred front right from the gate, she was! You never would have known the real deal before she made it. No matter. Acknowledge her, became the rule not the exception, or else be outdated. Shes an exceptional woman, divinely inspired! self-created!

Gotta start somewhere out of nowhere, like a flash flood of snake venom out of pink heart painted giftwrap, part II

Part I


Gotta-start-somewhere-out-of-nowhere... Part I




Part II
I've gotta start somewhere...she thought,  so why not right here? these the very words unspoken which opened up a reverb-dampening highway from her head to her heart. A long distance, if you're ever fortunate enough to start. And all that doubt (that was the reverb) always amounted to a whole lot of wasted energy down a dead end road, all that doubt which she could never trace back to source but which flattened her; that doubt suddenly ceased to be! All that verysame rushing flow of insecurity! That drainage, that trash which took dance out of step and reason from season into a sudden freeze... all that bullshit? She would have condemned it for sure, would have hung it from the rafters! Then strangled the corpse of it for hours even after. So sick it made her, for so long and weary a time. She would have exposed it to noon sun, unclothed and debunked it! She would have cut it clear through down the flank and leeched it of toxins! Then hunted the toxins down, heated them up in canola oil popping up from iron pan. Then sucked the remaining fumes of the matter, watching the dead thing past death as charred grizzle dripped down from cuts in the platter.

photo/edit by K.

I shoulda and may as well have planted all that bullshit in six feet or more of soil a hella long time ago! she told herself with some admonishment, pressing the spatula hard into the remaining griddle of old hopes long lost. To the sewers down deep would they drain, the pale tasteless no longer discernable former hopes, down deep to stay!  Underground to knock around aimlessly like hammers on iron pipes in sub-basement level areas. All that rattling silenced and out of earshot could no longer make her feel old and unable....cause all that runoff demoralization she made for damn sure got dissipated. Dissssipated. Dissipated! For damn sure! For goddamn certain. Hella gone to dirt and dissipated, forever fucking freeze dried, fucked, fried, fired to damn near charred immolation! When the fuel she used for sublimation settled, she dripped the oil into the basin and watched the water separate and bead. The goosebumps which popped up on her skin as the last of it fell down the drain, took quite awhile to recede. She felt like a sociopath who cuts back life without mercy, a killer who might not hesitate to take equal care of its own corrupt seed.

This was all so dramatic for her,  the process so cathartic. She spared no embellishment or extremity of passion, having lived her recent life flat as busts of heroin chic anorectic models of high fashion. She could no longer trash them. She was as culture-shocked and starved of self-esteem. Her Self-loathing had found her to evolve into someone or something not just alien;  utterly impossible for anyone to digest. For herself to digest. She consumed cigarrettes and alcohol and pharmaceuticals, as a constant diversion. She held herself out of reach on a ten foot pole! Consider a day walking the Mojave desert without water....hardly possible? She was that same day traded in for a night drinking diuretics in a sauna,  followed by a breakfast of dehydrated apples in a bowl of astronaut ice cream. Impossible!

That was then. The carpet she rolled out now, for her new celebrity skin, was Hollywood red. New money red. Blood-squeezed box office red. She needed to be so bold! To quiet the doubt, muffle the reverb, the self-conscious talk so creeping vine diabolical... the carpet was long like a bridal train gone transamerica. Old school in its beauty of carved redwood and exotic red crystal chandeliers. Old school the way she remembered once feeling herself. Vintage her and a good year, she recalled. The rains softened soil for an exquisite sweet crop. Her powers of creation endured well beyond the season, nonstop. Her smile and expressions made her both local yet accessible in a farmer's market-like way then, when she was young....her maidenhood caught the men's imaginations at prices reflecting highest class and quality. Equal to if not exceeding low supply market import levels.

photo by  K.

Fresh and local, in a world-embracing kinda fashion, she again found herself so enticing like that. But this time she herself got turned on. Not to be confused with vanity, she found she appealed as much to herself. Before her love stretched outward but had no real tension. Lost her form and her every careful nurtured dimension. Before long she no longer made impression. But skip all the recollections! She no longer collected. The hobbyist turned devoted to self and self-healing, and her impressions they vaulted straight to the ceiling. Still heavy on the wallet the budget the home economy, yet nothing could hold back her self-confidence... her momentum toward her vision, you see. She went from catatonic and outdated to catapulted via capitulation into a locus well beyond the atmosphere to the stars, self-refurbished and recreated.

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

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.

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.