baking in the mojave
no rivers here like in the tangles back east
crows—and perhaps other animals can on occasion
be heard in a tussle
squeamish feelings settle in the crater of a
stomach half-empty
Last night I woke up aware
of the snakes that bite and scorpions that pinch
but not how truly they exist
I’ve never felt the sun sear my skin so
I hope to fry and lock in all my juices
like my brother’s rich cooking
oh how I dream of a brother by my side
and the more dreary and sweaty I become
the more I begin to see one
a dark, hulking man, as sullen as I
sulking as I do; beneath a new sun

Stuff To Talk About

Either I’ve a lot to say, or I convey
The selfsame things in lots of ways.
If the latter –
Ten degrees above ch-chatter,
It’s my nature.
As a watcher and a searcher,
It’s a feature picture:
Fixture of that nature
In a structure something that I’ve got to…

Here is what I’ve got to say:
In the long run books are syllables in print.
Remember the Old Testament:
Apples, snakes, man, woman, knowledge.
In the short run, they’re terrific – [books]
[an] aid and shorter route through college.

That said, it’s projection all the way,
A basic you which never brooks stupidity,
Though fixed, and fix a thing,
But give it meaning:
Means and leanings leading to, letting you…
A simple but-not-easy-principle
Where there is circumstance and fate,
Chance, cause, luck and upshot.
Notice I don’t mention choice.
We choose and voice, but inside lies
Our nature – always you who’s you.

Is character your nature?
Is nature you identity?
The answer’s tricky
And you definitely have to try…
You have to definitely try.

Stuff To Talk About 9.22.2014 Definitely Didactic; Arlene Corwin

An albino moth wanders into my apartment
And I wonder how's it's stayed alive so far
And if it will fly low enough
for my dog to ****** out of the sky
And end a dynasty

I could have been dead!
Would that I, be dead in my head?
No, I be dead in thine bed.
Would not that you care that I am dead?

Poppycock and dead!
I am never dead, I am only my head.
Not dead so to say, that you take it away.
I am dead without thine head.

Dead! Better dead than red.
Red, dead in your bed covered in red.
I said I was dead, so leave me in bed.
Dead in your eyes, dead in my bed.

Dead, like dregs.
Dead in a dreg.
Covered head to toe in clay.
Making my way, in heaven to stay.
For you my babe, I am dead.

My white privilege is being proud to be black
I am white so I can be over the top and outspoken about being black
I can say whatever I want about whiteness
and
or blackness
It is self criticism
nothing to do with anyone else's assumptions
black lives matter more than white lives
is the mantra I use to self medicate
pick yourself up by the bootsraps
making black children excited
instead of scared
from the trauma of a racially imbalanced
world of whiteness
in a world that legally denies its traumatic process upon its victims
a society structured on the denial
that whiteness is a mental illness

Within fluttered winks and falling tears
shaking hands grasp on
porcelain for forgiveness

            He or Her
whichever one prefers

Draws towards a shattered mirror.
A Face, Flush and Pale
Sanity, long set for sail
Into the storm. A storm ment to flush not rinse.

A swirl taking with it skin, ***** and blood
They begged to get rid of it
But refused to look back and fix it.

As the narrator said, shaking hands grasp porcelain for forgiveness. Tis be true.

With knuckles black and blue
and complexion changing hue
The sickness of self, hovers above the zenith of reality but stagnant in a hole of the One who has dibs on OBSCURITY.

Repeating to self
"This is the sickest form of past aggressive grieving"

With a thousand mile stare into the shattered mirror, one notices a hundred forms of self. All are gushing from the eyes and spewing from the mouth.
Nostrils nothing more than mangled cartilage. Bashed by the perceptual reflection of a late night monstrosity. Hundred times over, knees begin to buckle. but those shaking hands. Those shaking hands grasp to the porcelain for forgiveness.

Veins exposed
Running nose
Breaking news for the commonwealth..
or shall we say, the "Common Health"


Nobody to help this poor soul
Caged in catatonic infamy, not unlike the wrapping of wrists where fists are broken from being kissed. Kissed by Love and Doom. All cheer for the bride and groom, falling hatred seeping into spilt Will and separated spirit. Shhhhh only evil will hear it.

Psychotic laughter humming within like rising vibration. Chaotic Clutching to consciousness like a tormented soul. Reality based filling... Mouths grimacing at the foul stench left in the sink. A darker side hides, saying Drink Drink...Drink!

but lets make things clear, SHALL WE

There is no mirror!
There is fear in the dumbest (unaware) form,
The Form of Deformity,

a sweet link to robotic  conformity. But after that Death Dance let us all raise a glass! and TOAST, to the brightest buyer in technological advancements! thundering applause to follow, carving the dimwitted completely hollow. The clever and bleak shall wear their skin and do a dance in the creek.  splashing and slashing for the crowd to play hide and seek.


LETS MAKE THINGS CLEAR!!!

Existence is "I"
There are no games
No metaphors
No explanation
No frustration
No trust
No sympathy
No society
No justice
No absolution
No bias
No sacrament
No parliament
No DILITED SPIRIT
No REASONS TO FEAR IT
NO SUBSTANCE OR AFFLICTION
NO VICTIMS OR ADDITIONS
NO PEACE, WAR, OR VENOM


....ah hem....

Allow me to make things clear...

"There Will Be Blood"

I was blind
but now I see

I was broken
But now I breathe

I was hurt
But now I feel

I was absent
But now I'm real...