fermented fruit

i can't see how i look
and i don't care
this fermentet fruit has made me me
me
please see my beauty

In the newer of times
I will start back at the curl of my spiral
Where I began to stumble
And I will work backwards to diminish myself;
it is the most empowering result to disappear slowly
To control, once again, the body's desires
fighting natural order
forgetting hunger, releasing endorphins
Powerful flow of functional beauty
So linear, it misses the chaos and wonder of disorderly imperfect sublime
I promise to melt away, like ice in an empty glass
to leave behind a pool of clarity,
a foggy dew
capillaries and droplets.

--

These useless vitamins do nothing:
Multiple, B, all in complex
zinc headaches; splinters, detatchment from the spine
self-prescribed bullshit
Please don't force this down my throat and into my lonely gut.
Because I can do it for myself.
Measurements and obsessive amountings to nothings
My image:
imagined as something else
both better and worse
a tightness
a curling spinal column
an imperfection on the skin
a thickness from my bones
it expands and erases
multiplying and deleting
The vision:
a blurring dizziness, pathways, in dim lighting stretch with vacant shelves full of the need to be filled with something other than this.

concave

give the moment a minute
feel the repition
give in to the body's desire,
the wish for a lungful of words and smoke
-- all in a sigh
a chemical hope
a fabric cacoon
milkweed soft
comfortable chill on bare skin
a piano's authority
-- beautiful cacophony
slurring lyrical movement
frozen fingertips
touching warm solid flesh
delicate firmness
a concave love

Toronto Transit

Reworked from October 2002:

It was cold, waiting on the platform. I could see his breath. He sat down next to me, shivering, wearing only a thin sweater. "In Jamaica," he said smiling, "I could wear my cotton pants every day, cut just below the knee. Here, my lips chap and my eyes tear." Waiting for the train in the frozen winter, he remembered his past. He shared it with me, a complete stranger, rocking back and forth, cupping his hands together, trying to find warmth in this "sinful cold country."

three scenes

Would it be acceptable?
To travel to his center, to be caved in and covered
by his dark skin.
It would be OK to cry there, for him.
Safe; even though it is he who has so much more to cry about.
Or can I crawl towards those other closed eyes.
Absorbing myself into another.
Crossed elbows, covering his chest.
He too would probably accept my tears
even though he doesn't speak my name.
===========================================
the scent of un-ground coffee beans. Shade grown 'Afrika.' Lazy days, they haven't been here for a while, in the minds of us, the serious. Maybe too deep, that lovely sound of crisp tipped pencils in old thin papered notebooks, the layered flick of pages turning. Music in the foreground, guitar, piano, his voice, he's 'fucking high' and we're all so beautiful, humming. To leave this place we all imagined hurts. In my heart, like that aching needle she gently stuck into my arm to take what is mine and give nothing. Taking but no giving. Leaving my muscles weak.
--------------------------------------------

saw

I feel like a saw with no edge.
Misinterpreted in my actions.
Do you think I’m petty?
I’m not, bitches,
So why do you cut my dullness?
It hurts like nothing else.
Blunt.
I have nothing; no solid to go back to in you.
Do I?
A ranting emotion.
Over-such,
And dizzy exhausted circular,
Sweat.
Disappointment has never felt so sore.
Associating memories with silly conversations,
And my own double-fucking-standard,
Bullshit:
You know me better than that.
I don’t know why I’m not trusted to act as I would.
Does distance really do this to people?
A physical bridge that makes me doubt,
Who we are.
I don’t expect explanations,
Or god damn platitudes.
My gestures aren’t tokens:
Ride on the subway,
Toronto transit here I come,
Suitcase,
Packing up life,
Transport me back to what it was,
What I wish it remained.
Butting out a finished smoking waning want,
Filtering the past away,
The final one: I wish it weren’t and it isn’t.

(post 42)

clouds fast forwarding


tree branches frozen in positioning


and a skittering across a black cat's path

comment

"do you ever feel like you're living in a beat poet's nightmare
i can french kiss in your despair
suffocating in the open air
if i was on the road jack i would burn that car to the ground
straight to the ground" - euphony, matt good band

morbid yawn
tarot cards
pick one up
toss it down
sip of water
flick
bite nail
twisted ankle
bend shrapnel
cover eyes
twitch
amputate these thoughts

------------------------

its like when you get stuck
listening to the same track over and over and over
night after night
the record isn't skipping
you put it on repeat
and the words are the same
"cheap and see-through"

-------------------------
japanese pear
a yellow orb
imperfectly smooth
in the palm
------------------------
FEEDBACK LOOP:
hello you.
if anyone is reading this, i'd like to know what you think.
no one makes notes anymore.
i'm just curious.......

this is not a poem

My poetry has been really horrible lately. I don't know what it is... but re-reading it makes me cringe. Its embarrassing. I think I need to take a step back. When I read yesterday's entry I feel uncomfortable with it (and I want to delete it but I won't because I need it to remind me of what not to do). When I look at some of the early poems I feel this same way. It goes in stages. It always has.

I need to take more photographs. Its really my favourite thing (and dancing too). Other than writing, when it turns out well. Not this garbage, lately. I only write well when I'm being completely self-centered these days. I used to observe everything, everyone, the most minute details; almost invisible motions and senses. My best stuff was from 3 years ago. Its not great but should dig some of it up. I will during the holidays. Rework it. Its at home, in my "writer's craft" journal: High School. I've digressed. Maybe its just harder now because I feel like everything I write is somehow stolen from something else I've just read. Too much inter-textual insertion indirectly unanticipated influence.

I miss the days of small classes and being too afraid to speak; too scared to share my words with the circle. That feeling is still the feeling I get every time I have to put up my hand and give my opinion. I have one but its mine and I'm terrible at voicing it. I can write it out it in words for you, though, on a sheet of flimsy paper, and read it aloud from the page. But from my mind it too chaotic, un-linear, disorganized. And I know I won't say what I mean.

I've always had that problem. And my memory is terrible. Good focus, bad memory, horrible thought patterns. Its a dementia of sorts. And that terrifies me. Early onset. My Grandma had Altzheimer's... skips a generation and more common in women. I need to develop my mind more. And drink a lot more Green Tea. It tastes good any ways. It will be a New Year's Resolution. For a new day. More.

Because 5 minutes after I watch a movie I forget it. I forget the main character's name.

At least my grammar isn't terrible. And I can spell (but not this late at night). And I'm always thinking. About everything I see... I repeat the image in my head through words. So visual. But then I forget the sentence I create before I can write it down. But no one would read it so its just for myself.

Self.
Selfish.
Self-- I don't act selfishly outwardly. Only inwardly because I never fully share myself with anyone anymore. Not even 1,13,1,12,4,1. (I miss her)

Not sharing.
And that just hurts ME.


my window is open and its cold outside.



i want to write a poem. but i'm not going to let this turn into another mess.