Journal Entry 1
I have not much to write today
a time in life where all's ok
I'm going to die and that's alright
I don't even care to try or fight
I've lost before the battle's done
and every victor in the sun
will forget to stop and search my corpse
to judge if I am worth remorse
because I stopped trying and took orders instead
Today's a day where I'm better off dead

"I'm mom and daddy's victory"--
like the song said when I was a teenager.
"Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am?"

Well, I'm a coward in my twenties, trapped in the psychiatric apparatus.
But at least I can admit it.

What now?

I could quote my own thoughts:
"The easiest way to escape a bad situation is allow yourself to be a part of it."

Try to know cool bands:
"tripping on the thunder of a paradigm
choking on the thread of a nursery rhyme"

Or imagine having an influence wide enough to drive a few clicks to a link somewhere.

But in actuality, why rhyme.

It's a cruel mechanism to drive information into the collective memory of humans
when they want to forget your song as soon as they hear it.

The birds sing like it is Spring, but it’s just March.
Are they confused, or is it me?
I hold my hand out on my porch and breathe in--
believing, if they land on me, Seasons will change.
They snicker at this, the birds, knowing for them
the change was long ago decided.
I want to join them
almost as much as I want to smoke a cigarette
and pretend to be 17 again
or lose my virginity while remaining friends
and travel to Germany without searching for that kiss.
I want to sit in a tree and sing
imagining that March is Spring.

I was drunk by a glass of water today
when I realized it was the substance forming me.
I felt it fill a network of veins--
like a sweet, sugary soda, fizzing within and decaying.
It burned down what seemed inside of me
culminating with evaporation.
I watched it rise through skin
carried by the breath which had been taken
and escape my pores once more.
I felt the water pull a soul from me today
knowing there was no place inside for it to stay.

Only the imagined faces of spurned women let me ***.
So, talk to me,
let me feel you out.
With my eyes, I'm trying to tell
who's being rejected.

Wo es war... ____

Eyeing one sticky handprint;
left behind--
another's form, whisked away before
I got there, just in time
with an issue

"Field" Nobember of 2012,
even though they don't print them in that month.

I had empty paper, a notebook. A story
at a ***** table.
I would write on top of all this,
thoughts of avoiding the mess
left, there, unwanted by others.

I have been wrong
in as many ways as I have been right
I have been wrong.

It's true, what Freud said:
                                           Wo ES war! [Where IT was!]
Wo war es? [Where was it?]
                                            Wo ich jetzt bin! [Where I now am!]
ES IST ICH [IT IS ME]
ICH BIN ES [I AM IT]
                                      I am here.
IT
    is Omaha,
                      and
in so many ways,
                              it wasn't. ______

There’s nothing I remember, so I shall invent a life.
It all starts with a dichotomy. Speech, lack of speech.
Logos, preceded by the lack thereof.
A heartbeat, maybe, echoing to form a vowel.
And then a sigh, with inexplicably twisted tongue.
“I”…
I…
I’ll tell you. Raising a finger from my desk.
I’ll tell you how it began. I was in the dark, and decided I had had enough of it.
I flipped on a lamp at my side and began to write.
There weren’t any words yet, but there were symbols for sounds, and that was close enough for now.
I pressed enter, and the message flew to a compatriot.
Or an enemy. This flush dichotomy of forms abounds!
I hold my breath and wait.
Waiting, for a response.
Waiting, to imagine words I’ll never hear.
And the light hums.
I…
What is it, inside that filament
which speaks?
What is every minute morsel of matter telling me about my beginning?
I’m not sure I want to read it, when my phone shakes.
But that’s what that behavior dictates.
A laugh, a cold analysis, a response.
This could go on indefinitely.
I don’t even know where you are in the world.
I’ll never see you.
I think of a more advanced dichotomy, I read about.
It was attributed to Freud.
A baby masters the objective universe through two utterances
in a ball game.
Fort… gone.
Da… there.
For now, these words are silent, but if I were in a crib
You would be the breast I long to devour,
The meaning I would choose to fill my mouth with
Muffled exclamations:
DADADADADADADA!
And I cry. But I don’t know what this all means to you.
Because I haven’t told you with electronic signs.
I’m not sure the word “to cry” carries any meaning.
It just stands in for fear.
Fear of being alone in the world, with the dark,
And no logos.
But I could go on for days reading walls of text on webpages developed by people
who have long since died.
I can summon the likeness of every celebrity onto a screen
rubbing my ***** while I look at them.
I can hear the music—
I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC—
Of all the world, vibrating. Rhythms contracting, like vulvas after birth.
And the silky, black discharge is this emotion in my brain after I think of you.
I created you with my words.
I illuminated my world with the thought of you.
And now I have nothing to say to the creature I created.
I am in horror before you.
Fort, fort, fort, away!
You have left me, without ever being present.
You were here, you were gone, I had no control.
And when I weep, the fear drowns the sun’s luminescence
The clouds hide the sky
The air sculpts my lungs
With emptiness
after words have come out.