Houseplant,
why are you depressed?
Most people- er, plants-
don't get Seasonal Affective Disorder
in Spring.
Houseplant,
I've watched your tumultuous stretch
and subsequent shrink
but I don't think
you truly want to decay.
I've watched teardrops roll
from your heavy leaves,
depositing life to the tile floor
in the part of the kitchen
best suited for afternoon light.
I'm begging you,
Houseplant,
there aren't many religions that
give an afterlife to plants.
This is your best shot, houseplant.
I promise I won't let the cat
push you off the counter again,
not like last time when the soil
spread out on the floor,
a puddle of
rock right there,
with earthworms that chewed through it all
and seeds that rooted in the
somewhat blobbish flower tiles
my ex-boyfriend insisted on.
Really, houseplant,
I'm the one with the pink slip,
and I can't survive on
light, you know,
not like you,
and I need more than rain
to stay rooted.
You don't need a roof over you,
Houseplant,
in fact,
you just need the earth,
I need a lot more than you,
Houseplant,
but if you can't keep it together,

how can I?

It is later than late,
the simmered down darkness
of the jukebox hour.

The hour of drunkenness
and cigarettes.
The fools hour.

In my dreams,
I still smoke, cigarette after cigarette.
It's okay, I'm dreaming.
In dreams, smoking can't **** me.

It's warm outside.
I have every window open.
There's no such thing as danger,
only the dangerous face of beauty.

I am hanging at my window
like a houseplant.
I am smoking a cigarette.
I am having a drink.

The pale, blue moon is shining.
The savage stars appear.
Every fool that passes by
smiles up at me.

I drip ashes on them.

There is music playing from somewhere.
A thready, salt-sweet tune I don't know
any of the words to.
There's a gentle breeze making
hopscotch with my hair.

This is the wet blanket air of midnight.
This is the incremental hour.
This is the plastic placemat of time
between reality and make-believe.
This is tabletop dream time.

when I walked in my stomach was screaming nerves,
my heart felt fluttery from my first of many iced black coffees.
I fixed my eyes fixed on the black hightops I stared at everyday during first period,
the peeling rubber toes pointing straight at me.

I looked up, meeting eyes with the spitting image of Kurt Cobain
who smirked at me curiously, then lifted a finger, and turned into the kitchen.
I busied myself untying my boots, even though they had zippers,
promising myself I wouldn’t loose my balance.

The high tops returned, followed by weathered leather moccasins,
who murmured through his teeth “hmmm, designing with materials girl” .
I grinned through my eyes, attempting not to make myself intimate with the floor so soon,
expertly faking breathy laugh to cover up how utterly freaked the unfamiliar title made me.

High tops grabbed my waist and twirled me into the kitchen,
offering a cigarette before disappearing through the screen door and leaving me
in a room filled with music that ran through my head like a brush
combing out the tangles from driving with my sunroof down.

I was surrounded by people with purple hair and overflowing hearts
who floated around the room singing and talking and dancing
while I wondered how I should fill the shoes of my new title
and what kind of shoes I should even be filling.

out of the corner of my eye, I saw high tops march back ;
he didn’t seem to float but parade, his ponytail not quite matching his muscle shirt arms.
He waltzed right up to moccasins and kissed him proper on the mouth
hands holding his jaw, eyes closed, and balanced on his toes.

Satisfied, he stormed back out through the screen
pulling a pack of blacks and a white lighter from his back pocket
(he would soon tell me he didn’t believe in luck,
even though it was in his pocket when he was arrested over a houseplant).

Moccasins just smiled, eyes rolling up into his brown hair
and with his hands out palms ceilingward in a silent offer, he locked his eyes on mine
Before I had a chance to overanalyze,
he decided for me.

Maintaing eye contact, we danced to the 22 year old boys screaming through the boom box
while I tried to integrate myself into the scene,
tried to float so effortlessly too,
like the cigarette smoke oozing in from the patio

he pulled me into a hug that resented gravity
effortlessly lifting all six feet of me off the ground,
pressing my cheek against the cutoff edge of his tie dye tank top,
my blonde hair tugging between his chest and mine

So with fuzzy lemonade on my lips
and bass players hands on my hips
I figured out I didn't need shoes
if i never touched the ground.

You sit it in a corner of your room
You water it, you feed it.
You change it’s soil after it ***** the nutrients from under the previous filth.
You are never bored of your houseplant.
You get bored of everything else but the plant is always constant, always routine.

Then one day you spot another houseplant
Sitting in the corner of the botanical garden
Or perhaps you find it online and meet to see it in person
On a window or shelf. Regardless of place it is always exhibiting itself to you.
The novelty strikes one like it isn’t a plant at all, but something much bigger.
You throw away the old and sit the new one in the same corner of your room.
You water it, you feed it.
You change it’s soil after it ***** the nutrients out of your own filth.

When Mr. Brown forgets
leaves his puppy unfed and tied
before rushing off to work
the animal mewls confused
abandoned and lonely all day
watching Dog TV.

The parched houseplant
screams from its porcelain prison
for silent water
wishing only to be made wet
fecund on attention once again.

Everything sits silent
in the close confines
our life's domestic drama
just waiting for us to realize
we are born to notice
the cries of who lies closest.

Yet no one is to blame
for ignorance;
it is the Dog's karma to be abused,
the foliage to dry and go discarded
for no apparent fault of their own.

It is Mr. Brown's karma
for his dog to die
with a broken unfed heart
to toss his plants in the trash
to find his home unadorned and silent once again
and wonder over and over
why is life so barren?

you're a houseplant
you're an object
it doesn't matter what you say
no one is listening anyway

I used to have a plant that I loved.
The ones before neglected and left it
alone in the dark. At the base, there are still scars
yet I stared in awe whenever I saw it.
It had pink flowers mixed with bits of blue,
with a slim, tall, and strong frame.
The *** was white with a round bottom,
with red spots exposed by the chipped paint.
I loved it so hard because I wanted it to thrive,
but maybe I did too much. Every plant is different.
There was already yellow at the ends;
I didn’t notice the overwatering.
It hurt to see the plant go even though
I gave it love, and I thought it was enough.

I always get the jokes honey
When you wave them around in my face long enough
Genius
So that's what I did to you. Well not the genius inborn or created from the needs. That part that was well-hidden just like the rest. It's your way. But
(I'm aghast for real about the damage it is much worse than I could have thought)
And I get it
Well not your end. I know how it felt for me and I wouldn't wish that on anyone
But anyway now I can see  what you laid out
Or didn't
Last night

I usually get there
about 12-24 hours too late
Ohhh.. Sound! Music!
Bright shiny things!
Magicians! Cotton candy clouds!
Zombies! Flaky puffs! Hot stuff!
800 thousand other metaphors
Love!? And other things
Except one. Right. I feared as much.
Gulp. Awful.

And hey now look it's March!
Spriiiing is coming
Thawing
Ground will be fertile again
Someday
Good thing because my houseplant is on life support

I have to stop now before I get...
Never Mind

It's grist for the cotton gin
It's a bit like that time
I broke my ankle
And my mom cared enough to only wait a week
Before sending me for an X-ray. True story
But the damage was already done and
So what. I had a mom who loved me and I still do
In her odd detached way
So I still hobble on
A broken ankle
But I hobble
Try to engage myself
Hobble not run
Because that's all I can do
But not to you
Go ahead, you can laugh at my limp but that doesn't keep me from walking through the rest of my shattered life
Picking up pieces
[Because the thing about me that you cannot fathom is
That I don't lie about anything]
All I want to fabricate is pathways and/or walls where they are called for
I just don't tell the entire truth
And if you want it I'll probably tell you
The whole truth
Which is "better" which is "worse"? Fabrication/grinding or creating/welding?
Who cares anymore?
I do.
Because it all hurts so much
But out it comes, out from all of us
So ok
Let it flow

Look around
Ouchies
And beauty too

I do see it all everywhere, whereas you see...who knows. I think you see more but just though a different lense. Wickedly bright and sharp and yes, strong. You should get a patent! But you are not all right or all wrong and neither am I. Just different and wonderful in our own rights.

So look away look here look there do what you do do what you want you're free as a bird and you always were. I broke a wing but you're flying stronger than ever. What an accomplishment. Proud of you and I'm grateful it was survivable.

Just incredible

it's 2:56am, and I'm lying next to a stranger.
when the sun rises, I'll already be gone.
I'll have already climbed out of his bed,
found my clothes, tiptoed
to the front door, and vanished.
the house will be left exactly as it was.
his car will still be parked in the driveway.
the curtains will still be drawn.
the withering houseplant in his kitchen
will remain unwatered.
everything will be left untouched.
when I leave, it will appear
as if I had never been there at all.
but I was.

two weeks from now,
he won't remember my name.
he won't remember anything
besides the feeling of skin on skin,
of a warm body pressed up against his.
in his mind, I will have been
nothing more than another body.

I always imagined that going home
with a complete stranger would feel wrong,
would be terrifying, that not knowing
who is next to me when I am falling asleep
would be scary.

a few months ago, it was 2:56am
and I was lying next to a stranger.
this time, he wasn't a complete stranger.
this was not my first night with him,
far from it. I knew him. he knew me.
I wasn't gone when the sun rose
in the morning. the house was left
exactly as it was the night before.
the only difference was that this time,
I was still there.

two weeks after that night,
he would remember my name.
he would remember my laugh,
my freckles, my eyes
my voice when I was tired,
how I talked too fast
whenever I was excited,
the way that I looked at him
when I was in love.
and I would remember all
of those little things about him,
the same way he would remember
all of those little things about me.

I always imagined that sleeping next
to someone who I loved would feel safe,
would be comforting, that knowing the
person next to me when I am falling asleep
would be wonderful.

for the most part, my imagination
wasn't incorrect. I was right when I pictured
how incredible sleeping next to
someone who I loved would feel.
I was right when I pictured how frightening
sleeping next to someone
who I didn't know would feel.
I was right about most of it.

but I was wrong about one thing.
while lying in a bed at 2:56am,
I realized that the memory
of sleeping with a complete stranger
hurt far less than the memory
of sleeping with someone
who I once thought I knew.

my dear F,

i'm sorry things turned out this way.

as much as i want to believe that we are the ones who make our own fate, some things just became too heavy for me to carry and i wasn't ready. and believe me, i tried. i tried so hard but it's hard to brawl against something i couldn't even see like destiny, or whatever other word people have for it.

see, i haven't been doing too well. when i look at myself in the mirror i see a houseplant that is about to die. the guilt consumes me more than anything. other days i just feel like a lit candle dying a slow death and this, i accept. i'm sorry i hurt you while i was hurting. i have been a dreadful person.

and i'm sorry this is all i can give you -- another futile attempt to gather my thoughts and then turn them into something not even mildly coherent. but this is all i've got... for now, at least.

i don't know what to say anymore; i just don't want to cry on christmas eve again. i'm sorry i can't go back in time and fix us.

maybe in our next lives, if i'm lucky, you'll find me again.
or i'll find you. either way, i will be waiting.

but i understand if you hate me.

love always,
N

okay, this is what I made.
this is what I'm -- made of ?
I can't specify
reality anymore.
there is no difference to me
between the edges
in life and the edges in dreaming
sometimes.
do you ever wake up
when you're already awake?
more like my consciousness
will occasionally splash me in the face with mortality
and a deep sense of presence
and unease.
anyway
this dreaming thing's got me thinking
feeling a little bit maybe
like i haven't woken up in weeks
and I wonder every day.
you know, when I was younger, I had a dream
that I smoked a cigarette.
the sensation was so real,
that although I'd never actually had one
I woke up believing that I was addicted to cigarettes.
the sensation was so real
so like the real thing.
when I was even younger, I had a
reoccurring dream about a house.
I was so young that I couldn't comprehend.
I was fearful and I could not move.
the earth was shaking and
I felt gravel in my skin and
something
was blocking my way to safety.
to safety, to the house.
I would wake with a start and run to
my mother's arms for comfort.
I recently stumbled across a photo
of a house.
a bombed out shelter somewhere in palestine
a very similar house.
and of course now I can't find it
but it haunts me...
--do you ever hear the music?
the music the earth makes when
everything is silent?
it's a kind of humming
so soft and complex that nothing
quite compares.
this is the music that I dance to.
so when I say I don't dance
I only mean that I don't dance for you.
I end up longing for moments
that I've failed to find here.
a sort of nostalgia
for things that never happened
or perhaps for the future.
for a painting I never made
a person I never met.
I forget sometimes that longing
is only that.
but nevermind.
whatever I was
I am no longer.
and that's fine.
I find that I don't recognize
my reflection, my expressions
anymore.
I'm drawing conclusions about who I am
from an outdated sense of self
a person I let go
when being her wasn't an option anymore.
and I lost a few things
in the move, so to speak.
a little patience here and there
some of those calloused morals that kept me quiet
and a handful of doubts that had been lurking
in the corners of my mind.
I'm almost at a loss.
If you were to ask me who I am
I would tell you to ask anyone else
or maybe that I'm a decorative houseplant

Pity the wolf that hungers after unattainable flesh
and the man who hem-haws excuses
to a boss, a wife, or a critic with a tapping foot
and a walrus mustache beneath a gin-blossomed schnozz
and above a smoke-coffee breath
just waiting to jump in with a negative judgment
and superior attitude

Pity the lamb that encounters the wolf
with a last hoof-dance of submission before dying
in choked and bleeding silence
to be wolfed down -
or the haughty judge or the humble sojourner
one on the high bench
and the other on the low flame
remaining in the tepid zone
never hot enough to burn away the betrayals of "friends"
who giggle and smirk
the minute he leaves a room
because of jealous burrs beneath
their burdensome self-imposed saddles

Evict the aching heart of "might be love"
but also beware of the heart of "just for now"
in spite of a flirt at the punch bowl
or a punch at the Super Bowl -
(they are the same thing in a way)
so
if you enter the competition
remember
the trophy doesn't have a palpitating heart
but the loser does
and so does the winner in anticipation of the judgments;
bad, good, or best in show
or even the gray-skinned badge of
"also-ran"

                                    ~~~

Envy the poor without schedule or purse
and no merciless fear of competition
nor door key to hunt-up under the dusty mat
in the dark, alone
nor houseplant to **** with the over-kindness of drowning
nor hinge to mend with duct tape and false hope
but he who flits away to nothing important
whenever
having no one to object

Envy the friendless who can storm off from a spat
without compunction or a "maybe I should have"
trailing like toilet paper
stuck on the heel
of a shoe

Envy the humiliated caterpillar
who finds himself to be a moth
instead of the monarch butterfly
he thought he would be
when he emerges from his cocoon
thinking it was a chrysalis
because the responsibilities end
when the burden of beauty is lost
and the new moth will soon forget
what might have been
in the constant effort of plain existence

Evict the housefly posing as a harmless spot
and throw away his home
that rotting plumb
because the fruit of deceit is worse
than the deceit of fruit gone bad
on the hidden side
to feed the filthy insect in secret

Does a raven learn to speak on his own?
 Never
Does a raven learn to steal on his own?
 Always

Where there is darkness, there is learning
where there is light, there is teaching
and always resentment or boasting
so learn to keep your mouth shut in the dark
until you learn a secret or two
then you can chat like a hairdresser
until you trip up a braggart trying to outdo everyone
because an unmasked lie is like water cast on a single flame
stifling a forest fire before its first real heartbeat
    
Envy the tiny grains of sand on the shores
for they hold back the mighty seas
with their tiny hands
and are flattered by the lapping waves
like slaves with ostrich-plume-fans
worshipping in genuflections and kowtows
endlessly
and all in the most genuine humility
that sand can muster in a crowd

                                   ~~~

Envy the coils of the brain
for they are there to provide more surface
and those folds have no scintillating hue like blood
for the elephant is gray and the ladybug is red
one can think and **** with a step
but the other can fly but must soon perish
the brain can reason
but blood turns black and dies
when it comes into light and air

Evict the vivid for it will give up the ghost
and
envy the drab for it will inherit the girth

                                  ~~~

Pity your own resolve
for you administer promises to your pillow each night
and swear oaths to the mirror each morning
like a child in detention
or an old soul in self-deception
each with good intention
but neither with gray-matter retention

Envy the broken heart
for reality has breakage and sorrow
but healing always follows
and the truth
when faced
can never be truly denied
and the mended bone is stronger than at first

                                  ~~~

Eviction is that final stance
at the cliff's edge
having come to the sea of eternity
with all the summoned bravery possible
holding the rubble of broken imaginings
and self-deceptions
wrapped in the ****** garb of new determination
after the battle
to be thrown into the deep
weighted with the stones of promise

Therefore
do the right thing

Cast your lies
into the draught

EVICT
and begin new-faced in the world

Capitalize these lonely times,
A true monstera at heart.

Green eyed, hungry herbivore
Swipe and stack by the cart and rack

Double they will pay
To satiate my ways

Flip or flop
Desire feeds desire.

i.
i carve the sadness out of my ribs like well-soaked marrows;
they fall off like a drunken secret —
a poem within a poem within a night-long quietude

that i disturb
like a child's stomping feet among the prairie dusk.

ii.
i carve a poem,
whole and out of my tightened throat
like a reverse magic trick,
but my hands break in casual irony.
i carve a word out of my tongue
but all it does is bleed.

iii.
i carve a feeling out of a callus but
my paper-skin is left too long under a lavender storm
to still write letters like these.

iv.
the sky cries to a drunken oblivion
as i unwrite this poem in indifference.
i let myself go, like that

dead houseplant drooping in corner of my room

and cheerless, quiescent sheets
watch to pass time.

The houseplant you gave me
sits next to the kitchen sink.
Which is nice cause
usually I forget to water it,
so at least it catches some peripheral spray.

It's pretty confident, that plant.
Stands tall and earnest,
reaching and growing for something more.
Just like you.

The succulents I took from your sister's wedding
sit on the dining table.
Every day I eat dinner with my parents
and study the curves and corners of each leaf
and remember the times I've spent
memorizing yours.

And sometimes I can't sleep at night
or lose my place in dinnertime chatter
because I'm worried about those plants
and if they're getting enough water
or sunlight
or fresh air
or if because one leaf is weird does that mean they're all dying???

Because, I figure,
if only I can keep those plants alive,
then I can keep you too.

My houseplant committed suicide.
It came out of the blue - or at least - I didn’t catch the signs.

I’d put it on my window ledge so it could catch some sun
- it appeared to be having a good time.

I brushed it with my elbow - the wispy kiss of a butterfly
and it leapt to its shattering end - I never will know why.

The girl it barely missed, looked up - in accusatory alarm.
“What if that had been a BABY!” I yelled, to keep her calm.

We had a terra-cotta funeral - my roommates seemed really sad -
and a reception where no plant-life was consumed.

Lisa, acted quickly - she’s a fashionable 911
and at the funeral she buried the corpse, in a new ***, in her room.

I fell through what felt like a void as the worst four years of my life passed

months felt like minutes and the clock made a game of going quicker to spite me

and all the while I withered like a houseplant locked in a closet

I cut myself off from everyone, even family. I wanted to hurt

hell had finally caught me
and I was being
                              dragged
                                            down

now that I have crawled out, I look back at the person that I was as I was falling

and I don't like what I see

Pity the wolf that hungers after unattainable flesh
and the man who hem-haws excuses
to a boss, a wife, or a critic with a tapping foot
and a walrus mustache beneath a gin-blossomed schnozz
and above a smoke-coffee breath
just waiting to jump in with a negative judgment
and superior attitude

Pity the lamb that encounters the wolf
with a last hoof-dance of submission before dying
in choked and bleeding silence
to be wolfed down -
or the haughty judge or the humble sojourner
one on the high bench
and the other on the low flame
remaining in the tepid zone
never hot enough to burn away the betrayals of "friends"
who giggle and smirk
the minute he leaves a room
because of jealous burrs beneath
their burdensome self-imposed saddles

Evict the aching heart of "might be love"
but also beware of the heart of "just for now"
in spite of a flirt at the punch bowl
or a punch at the Super Bowl -
(they are the same thing in a way)
so
if you enter the competition
remember
the trophy doesn't have a palpitating heart
but the loser does
and so does the winner in anticipation of the judgments;
bad, good, or best in show
or even the gray-skinned badge of
"also-ran"

                                    ~~~

Envy the poor without schedule or purse
and no merciless fear of competition
nor door key to hunt-up under the dusty mat
in the dark, alone
nor houseplant to **** with the over-kindness of drowning
nor hinge to mend with duct tape and false hope
but he who flits away to nothing important
whenever
having no one to object

Envy the friendless who can storm off from a spat
without compunction or a "maybe I should have"
trailing like toilet paper
stuck on the heel
of a shoe

Envy the humiliated caterpillar
who finds himself to be a moth
instead of the monarch butterfly
he thought he would be
when he emerges from his cocoon
thinking it was a chrysalis
because the responsibilities end
when the burden of beauty is lost
and the new moth will soon forget
what might have been
in the constant effort of plain existence

Evict the housefly posing as a harmless spot
and throw away his home
that rotting plumb
because the fruit of deceit is worse
than the deceit of fruit gone bad
on the hidden side
to feed the filthy insect in secret

Does a raven learn to speak on his own?
 Never
Does a raven learn to steal on his own?
 Always

Where there is darkness, there is learning
where there is light, there is teaching
and always resentment or boasting
so learn to keep your mouth shut in the dark
until you learn a secret or two
then you can chat like a hairdresser
until you trip up a braggart trying to outdo everyone
because an unmasked lie is like water cast on a single flame
stifling a forest fire before its first real heartbeat
    
Envy the tiny grains of sand on the shores
for they hold back the mighty seas
with their tiny hands
and are flattered by the lapping waves
like slaves with ostrich-plume-fans
worshipping in genuflections and kowtows
endlessly
and all in the most genuine humility
that sand can muster in a crowd

                                   ~~~

Envy the coils of the brain
for they are there to provide more surface
and those folds have no scintillating hue like blood
for the elephant is gray and the ladybug is red
one can think and **** with a step
but the other can fly but must soon perish
the brain can reason
but blood turns black and dies
when it comes into light and air

Evict the vivid for it will give up the ghost
and
envy the drab for it will inherit the girth

                                  ~~~

Pity your own resolve
for you administer promises to your pillow each night
and swear oaths to the mirror each morning
like a child in detention
or an old soul in self-deception
each with good intention
but neither with gray-matter retention

Envy the broken heart
for reality has breakage and sorrow
but healing always follows
and the truth
when faced
can never be truly denied
and the mended bone is stronger than at first

                                  ~~~

Eviction is that final stance
at the cliff's edge
having come to the sea of eternity
with all the summoned bravery possible
holding the rubble of broken imaginings
and self-deceptions
wrapped in the ****** garb of new determination
after the battle
to be thrown into the deep
weighted with the stones of broken promises

Therefore
do the right thing

Cast your lies
into the draught

EVICT
and begin new-faced in the world

I’m just a witch.
In a suburb I dwell.
My home is my altar.
My life is a spell.

I brew my potions
Of tea on my stove,
Work green magic
In my backyard grove.

A ritual cleanse
With an herbal flair,
Lavender and sage
Shampoo in my hair.

My little familiar
Sits by my side,
Ineffable feline
Of wisdom and pride.

I arrange my belongings,
With patience and care
Objects of power
Both common and rare

A houseplant for hope
A guitar for joy
A pillow for comfort,
A childhood toy.

I welcome the night.
I wish the day well.
My home is my altar.
My life is a spell.

The dusty windowpanes, the water-pecked window and the silent fridge - humming in the background.

What do houses do when nobody's home?

The silence must be awkward.
With the windows shut and the doors closed, do the houses mourn the silence or take it in peace?

What I wouldn't give to be a houseplant, just to get a taste of the silence.

Oh I really do wonder!

What do houses do when nobody's home?

a houseplant is starting to grow a new leaf,
so i know an old leaf is about to die.
little triangle corners from packets torn open,
all over my kitchen counter.
bookmarks in books
i haven't read in ages.
tiny scars on my hands
from playing the ukulele.
alarms i had set for things,
that don't make sense anymore.
the yellowing old paper
of my birth certificate.
amazon wish-list
of things i don't really need.
the artist and the writer
who got married,
not
for the idea of romance
but
for all the right reasons.
the birthdays
i am forever forgetting.
a friend's coffee mug
from Archies,
that reminds me of a
childhood memory
i thought i had lost.
the smell of inspiration
is of bonfire
and bakeries.
watching Ps I Love You
only to cry.
walking;
stopping at the teashop
on the way home.
struggling to be honest.
writing a list
of little thoughts,
memories and details
from a life.

The way you smile
at me, almost six feet
above the floor, you
there, plus six inches
more (how clever
walking on your
hind legs and
all)

And I do, I do
I like to look up
at you

And when gravity
overtakes me?

Well you do, you do
you like to look down
at me

At your service dear
just feed and water me
trusty houseplant, a vine
of a thing

And you my trusty
tree of a man
feet like roots
I like to stand on
when we dance

(We have never
danced)

the green-ness
of a grasshopper,
sleep-turns of a
hibiscus at dawn,
soft humming
of the wind outside
a closed glass window
— went unnoticed today.
quietly, as the day
settled upon a
simmering turmoil,
the soap washed off
a ceramic cup
just perfectly.
cold feet
were warmed
inside a madness
of bedsheets,
blankets and duvets.
a favourite song
was made.
hair dried
flawlessly.
two people
fell asleep after
a long, long night.
a baby cow
took its first
baby breath.
the sparkle
of orange,
blue fish
underneath
clear water
in the
afternoon sun,
big shadow at
the damp roots
of a broad tree,
an old lady's
sweet laughter
at the television
— went unnoticed today.
slowly, as the day
bubbled into a hot
and cold mess,
hungry people
had their food.
a new leaf
bloomed on
a houseplant.
a notebook
was completely filled.
i wrote a small poem.

I'm but a remix of those who opened doors.
I keep searching knowing there's something more,
cause I got sick and tired of always staring at the floor.

The "flaw" of attraction is only thinking it - our heart is our leader, the brain just assembles data from the time line to self-confirm whatever bias we hold.

Abracadabra = as I say, so it is created. ❤

crystalized self is finding those you see the most often, and pouring epic amounts of love into them so they don't basically, continually reinfect you with sad stories... it sounds weird, but we're a houseplant with more complicated emotions and a machine learning ai with a lot of faulty, burdensome code that needs to get a little cleaned up. Lol.

You're going to all be so much more amazing when you are allowed to see with new eyes.

Whatever feels good is meant for us - turn towards the light so shadows may fall behind - fear keeps us little, but children, they learn so much faster 'cause we assume they're dumb, and we teach them what we want, we ask them to behave the way we need them to to respect our boundaries.

❤ Brave new opportunities for us to see past the fire is love, opportunity, and we can always walk around the BBQ pit instead of right in it if we stop staring at the flicker.

alternating in thinking: this would be an underlying motif of my life on Kauai, this domesticated fuel of feuds... and it's seeping into my digestion like it's a cognition: i have, started, to think about thinking as byproduct of digestion... maybe i just like how i don't bother to rhyme sentences... for the purpose of cute soundbites... maybe it's time to rhyme concepts: thinking and digesting... maybe they are very much aligned... hmm?

sonic hangover meets a moral hangover:
or rather: what's leftover from the sonic
and the visual hangover of doing
7... that's 7 of the 8: 0.875
5/6 = 0.833...
   3/4 = 0.75:

funny how fractions oscillate around
0
and become the ****** numbers...
fractions assume a whole: a one...
while decimals dismiss one
and begin with 0
a fraction is 3/4 of 1
while that's also true of 0.75...

   just saying... just saying...
today is the 23rd of August
but the 22nd of August was spectacular:
i ate the fruit...
i was the body-fermenting
a digestion of thought
and i did spend the entire day lying
in bed
and divulging in psychology lectures
worrying about my spine
stinking of rot and **** and not that
i was ****** or rotting
but i might as well have been:

i ate the fruit and i didn't feel sin:
i just felt: shame...
i was naked and trying to incubate
my genitals by folding my legs
and almost pushing my genitals
into my bellybutton:
let that image sink in:
it's an imitation of the serpent eating itself
for the... purpose...
no... longevity... yes: the temporal plane...
spatially: well:
i experience this strange assemblence
(assemble: assembling ambiance of
semblance - assemblance...
the quality of something not yet
designated to be imitated or understood)
of gravity without vectors of Newtonian
explanations...
like a second advent of Copernicus...
vertigo while lying in bed:
quiet an experience...

the nightguard is a gimmick:
i'm not that much into boxing matches:
parlor of the shakes in Muhammad Parkinson's Ali...
sorry: but i'll wait my turn for what's
to come....

is Kauai supposed to be my St Helena?
is Kauai supposed to be that?
it sure as **** and hell above it feels like that:
now comes the thinking about it...

Taylor didn't have to sing about it:
but, being the Grand Witch... she did conjure up:
she did invite the serpent:
of the eras tour i did like
the dark sexuality of Taylor the ***** witch Taylor
and subliminal or not:
she did ask for the serpent to come...
little did she know:
the serpent the tongue of the dragon:
but the dragon wants to become a bear
and disregard the monkey...
money monkey money monkey...
all just dangling in the open
in the air: concentrated into an arena!
ah... i was just aghast with so much
air and... this meteor leftover where
a cult could be born...

the theonyms... the study of YHWH
has brought be beyond any measure of how
language is to be proper processed:
i can't see the potential in Allah...
i just can't:
there's the Latin assemble of YHWH
graphemes... diphthong: Æ
       YÆHWÆH

                       just saying: Adam of Yah
and the Eve of Weh...
you can't even say the name because you
have to write the name and think
about atoms and letters and vowels are +
while consonants are -
since...
vowels can exist by themselves
while consonants need to be supported
by vowels:
a be cee dee e ef gee H i jay kay
el em en zee queer

where is that video i was watching about
queer theory:
it was fascinating:
traumatizing children...
queer is the antithesis of what homosexuality
looks like when normalized by society
i think i'm queer in that William Burroughs' sense
of...
homosexuality at a Taylor Swift concert...
well: working with Muslim men:
some virgins...
and them slobbering all about Jannah...
funny how no bomb exploded
how i was able to tame the frustrations
of being a male ****** Muslim...
so i had to do what...
any bear in the vicinity of:

my mind is a fishbowl and my ego
a goldfish...
my mind is a fishbowl and my ego
a goldfish...

but she did invoke the serpent
in that segment where she was all BAD BLOOD
like: no no, it wasn't a subtle concern for
getting sexually poisoned...
weird: how can people be so
irresponsible concerning ***...
******* on toilet seats
for others to late imagine
parasites in ***** crawling up one's
buttocks to later make
maggot acne indentations on the face
like the moon is protector of the earth
and moon is man and woman is earth:

forget Venus and Mars:
men are from the moon and women are:
here... men are from the moon
and women are of the earth...

so i'm eating this apple and i'm thinking:
maybe i can get some ******* idiot
to pretend to be a young Socrates
and speed up the process
and design a metaphor...
wine... bread...          applause! applause!
and i know that it will be my turn
to be born and die...
eh... once should suit me just fine:
i'm a productive know-it-all
so i'll get busy regardless of the sane,
mortal, allowance: by a woman:
to architecture a child... into...
something workable...
all my deviant vices some call evil will
come to the fore...
they will be a playground for voyeurism...
i don't mind:
if i can turn SIN into SHAME...
i will have a workaround...

now...            to turn SIN into SHAME...

of course i wanted to explore the victimhood mentality:
ha ha... funny... no -ism escapism,
red riding -hood like the sound of tuning an Oud:
oh wood ah woo! hehe...
   so i took the shift on... Monday...
like i was gang *****:
but i wasn't:
the night guard lover knows i talk and walk
in my sleep: i am a sleepwalker...
but those chips on my teeth?
oh... i didn't do these when sleeping...
i chipped off my teeth when i was wild
and awake...
you missed the bottom ones:
this was my wedding gift to death:
she wanted bone so i was like:
haven't broken a bone in my body
you want bone into your cauldron?
**** me... em em... right...
well, you want a bit of my chew?
so i clenched my jaw so hard
that i saw no sclera and no iris in my eyes
just that darkening whirlpool of pupil...
like a shark...
and the abyss just yawned saying:
you've reached the bottomless envy...
you can forgive yourself
as long as you eat of the fruit of shame
and tame sin...
so i did... i think: by the way: i don't think...
i just experience the afterthought
of what the semblance of man to animal
has become... via science...
because religion wouldn't allow
that mirror to stand...

too much ******* schematic obstructions:
or punctuation... name it what the hell you want...
new mysticism will try to actually
condense science...
there's no name for it
since the original mysticism was
something to do with congesting literacy
and the knowledge, proficiency of a language:
now that language is known
and deviating into... something...
abstract is a quote?

               Taylor did summon a serpent...
good girl still doing good but at the bottom
so open about being of a certain age:
millennial:
not *** and the City not
                     Bridget Jones... but still a red riding
hood: witch...
        who is...         is who?
as what?        how is that?
                                 writing songs, drinking wine,
can't you just leave those cats alone?!
cat?                   hey!      fern!
nice kitty... nice houseplant... stay stay...
go go!
                     i don't even know why
i have cats in my house...
my life would be so much simpler if i didn't
have them...
outlandish: they're not even utilized for anything:
i made sure there were no mice in
the house
and even if there were these creatures
are like horses left to pasture
without me having to ride them into battle...
can't exactly turn a cat into an armchair
or use it to cut vegetables...

so in  bed all day... contemplating SHAME...
why? well i had a great day of scribble-productivity
and... yeah...
my mother caught me on the off-load of
drinking and smoking wobbling in the kitchen
and it must be such a shame
to have a mother
and a father
it must be shameful to have such people...
oh but i known Baron Envy
and how children are raised these days
with at least one missing...
              but that was worse than:
i don't drink during the day... sparingly...
if i have a great idea and want to concentrate on writing
then yeah: i will drink...
otherwise i'm just vanilla sensible...
and it was unlike sleeping with someone
who tells you upon waking:
oh... your grind your teeth... you talk in your sleep:
well! i'm not a painter!
i need an unconscious outlet for the art
i conjure when conscious: writing should make you
talk in your sleep and not dream... right?!
but mother, dearest, caught me while i was
semi-sleepwalking...
why did she want to see me in my most vulnerable
creative self:
my most creative self is also when i'm
the most self-destructive...
i have reached the nihilistic zenith of drinking
and writing as a form of escapism... which is not:
hasn't been properly tested...
as far as i known there's no impediment of
third-party associations...
         that's why the internet exists and that's why
it has become so unnerving for my paranoia of
others: **** 'em...
         that i can... just...
justify my ambition of how networking crux...
it's not hacking...
but a close association to it...
             if i were desperate to make any money
from my verbiage...
if i were... ha ha...                 oh if i were...
i wouldn't write this...
with so much sadistic pleasure - and i write this:
with as much sadistic pleasure as
is necessary.

p.s. i wasn't sexually harassed...
but you put yourself in a scenario with so many
young females...
a lunatic asylum, makeshift...
the only equivalence of confiding in sexuality
is only going to be a male...
not that that is a symptom of ******
frustration: but a ****** dominance...
no... prominence...
i allowed Jason to eat my ear...
it almost felt poetic: even my friend Alexander,
the painter... dropped a bomb
when i was off duty drinking at a pub
and this guy with a long-board: not a skateboard:
a long board... crossbows longbows etc.
YOU'RE THE THING, AREN'T YOU?

am i the poet-bouncer?
**** me... i've heard of the sage-warrior...
maybe this is equivalent...
truly: if i was in power? yeah?
i would ban the consumption of alcohol
at football matches...
if it is, supposedly: such a beautiful game...
why spike it with alcohol?
if football is the equivalent to ballet:
don't ******* drink when watching it!
get to appreciate the intricacies of the sport...
otherwise it's not helping you
if you require the sport to drink
and vent off personalized detailing of
unsolvable drama in your life!
otherwise just ban the sport...
          clearly there's a very different clientele
when it comes to appreciating
rugby or cricket...

jeez... a Roman Catholic living in England
is like a death-wish...
the ******* were so adamant
about being the inheritors of Rome that
unlike any other Europeans:
they didn't allow the insurgence of diacritical
markers onto the original letters...

e.g. SHarpen šARPEN... the Turks were closer
to the point of excavating
a borrowing of identity: the identity of posterity...
right now there is no identity for the sake
of posterity...
                                     like year 0
()                              all over again...
and i know )i( (know)
                                   i'm not an imitable crux...
so i'll just let words be words
and the rest will resolve itself,
queer gay or straight; whatever.