Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.

And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.

But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.

Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.

Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.

Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.

I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
      I screamed
      I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone

and you did.
You left me
all alone.

Why would you leave me?

I can convince myself of many things
Like how my hair looks better with a little blonde than it does with none.
I can convince myself that no one loves me.
And sometimes it works.
And the mind is a devastatingly beautiful thing.
But mine never seems to do things right.
Like remembering things.
Or studying.
But my mind can sure do a lot of damage.
To a point where I'm sick with my own fears.
Turning like a sifter
Letting the good pass on
And leaving the lumps of bad.

Is it possible God...
That we are like flour being sifted?

Has this flour of ours
been sitting upon the sifter of time
just sifting the clumps
that accumulated from keeping
the flour of ours
unmoving for a long time?

Must, we, be in a constant movement?

Could it be...
That each of us is a particle of that flour,
separating evenly, removing the lumps,
So that we all, together, could be baked
into a perfect loaf of bread?

Or could it be...
that each of us is like a package of flour
that must be sifted?

February 26, 2015

forever coded diaries since I found trust lost on her and him. I hate that the only people willing to listen to me are getting paid for it or beside me in purgatory. don't assume I'm being over-dramatic; I'm not saying my wounds hurt the most, but understand me: deal with half the **** I have & then walk a straight line again.

I am the one who dies a little every time I wake up & realize I'm exactly where I laid myself down. I am the one who breathes corrosion, feeds distortion, bathes in corruption. I straddle fences & hem and haw, biting nails & wraps arms around legs to hold self together. I am the one who cares so much I cannot care. I am the one that uses each breath to fuel my obsession with asphyxiation. I am the borders of the spectrum I see the symmetry in opposites, I pause on polarities. the Yes! Sure. Why Not? I am the moment & I wish that I wouldn't have to live in it. I am the lifter, the sorter & sifter of things my parents over looked or over turned.

Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
           
 

Driving the congregants
            in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
            hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
            than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.

Parrotic tongues set out
            commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
            misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
            creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
            permeates the entireness
           of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.

Command darkness to produce
            light.
But you turned moonlight into
            tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
            steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
            false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle

Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.

Righteousness afar from the
          apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
          tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
          into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
           to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.

Pastoral advertisers of chattels
           in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
            sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
             the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.

Disentangle faithfuls from the
          webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
          shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
           isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
           separate out afflictions from
           feebleminded faithfuls.

Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?

the man drops the package off at 6 a.m.,
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
                   i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
                             all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
                    the only thing to understand
   is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
   how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
   so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
                    and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
                back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
                        the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
              the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
                               the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
                world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
                                           either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
                       call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
             avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
   but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
                             no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
                  epitaphs and their respective soloists -
     it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
                              and it will be thus -
              Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
       back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
   the transformation of the caduceus into
    ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
                   the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
                         the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
    and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
   skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.

not all **** videos are equal

one searches the index,
hopeful a screenshot
pinpricks the eye and the peculiar

peculiar need of the moment

like most things good and appreciated,
sifting through the chaff is a learned skill,
required but not intuitively sired,
not every new word in the dictionary
delights, insights, triggering a welcome!warning

the sifter’s handle fits the hand uncomfortably,
requiring egregious prodigious turnings,
till the flour is silky and manipulative, ready,
pleasure is work, luster need maintenance

you passover, skippering,
a search for the next and the next,
treasured island is constantly on the move,
it’s coordinates require GPS updating

rerouting rerouting rerouting

what does this reveal about you?

there are no simple single path pleasures,
the first bite delight is ultimately worn down,
recalled but not equally fully restored,
so we need, insistent for new thrill pathways
to get to the same old pleasured places

the body acts, the body’s acts, the body’s reacts

familiarity is a  museum collection,
everything human requires updating,
especially essentially by
the imagination’s perpetual swiping

start comprehending what Paul,
arrogant, if Pythagorus be so called.
The apostle, witnessed in the spirit to the
prophets, who warned, they'll
re-tie you to some rules
yule never keep

once you believe you have seen the earth
from the moon, immutable morphs into a
bigger deal where little matters less

than what one of us lets be true.

If self be logos and capital letters, Turkey mean squat,
hexagons mean stop
sometimes they do some times they dont
like spells for finding witches

long ago, the legends say bold Constant C,
dictates all reality
in terms

of timespacetimespacetimespace
By consuming these words you self
evidently know to chew
your blue berries,
everyone's thrill, cheap trick.

selahlahlah meandering in Shaubergian curls,
Fibbonacci swirls to back around rocks too big
to roll, rilling li'l' vortices to under mine
the flow through
that which does least good? whoa.
wasted
time. right. we exist in words. This may be ever.

I went through a phase,
some time
back, when I gave the whole dear reader possibility fog
the power of may,
I said may is your word now and you said we may
as well see where this leads.
Here.

--- is that a line? line upon line line?
precept or per
except

you see cept re grabbing and gripping taking or

accepting, with whole being connection restoring
power, absolutely,
to unthink unbelievables idly uttered with
phluckingoddamthing

weir-ish fish traps served the forest, power dams don't/
but electricity,

she is a child of all the gods, come to serve us all,
for as long as we can keep the only evident inter galactic life pod we have, balanced
along the spiral
of life.
May be or Amen, all the people sayit and that' is not always
the way it goes.

Current speed, each, 1/1300th C. Thrilling, can you breathe?

Swift sifter of info splinters
After thoughts in cosmic winter
Mind the mind, tis on the briars time
Master me, freak of the week
Your on deck, brother
Do not bother with folly protest.

That's how it is lately.
Not getting any time off.
Grabbing each elusive line.
Searching out the exact word.
Images swamping my head,
so many and so fast that
soon I'll need an image sifter.
Barely time to eat.
Sleep at a premium.
Exercise neglected.
Shack becoming a sty.
Cat neglected and angry.
Never get outside anymore.
I love it, but
can I outsource any of this?
  ~mce

control complex
strung tight around the bed posts with nothing around your neck
trapped by the manner of seeing with little review
years it will take to explain to you.
gripped by a man, her thoughts are course with no sifter
to shift her thoughts
to switch their bough's of anxiety
by definition an inner conspiring
of loneliness and obsession.
a generational connection where a father pesters his daughter about why she is the way she is and instead of hearing his desperate curiosity she feels like a first rate atrocity who deserves
to feel nothing.

blackbird alighted on a branch,
frosted branch,
     deepest winter,
setting free the accumulated snow,
which fell,
     slow,
     like flour through a sifter,
and in one descending
flake,
     we are,
a universe apart,
reflecting briefly in the dark.

I caught a ride to the edge of town
I took a breath and said goodbye home town, hello world.

I was getting out to get out. I was getting lost to get lost so that I could find myself, I was sick of being sick in the same place, the same town, the same faces and people, so I caught a ride to the edge of town, took a breath and said goodbye.

Feeling used for too long, feeling tired of the it all, so I vanish to the road to make a point, that life is more than what we see in front of us every day, and it's easy to forget.

I packed my bags and hit the road, losing myself so I can discover who I am and where I belong, maybe I don't belong anywhere- but at least I know where I stand.

Standing on two firm feet is better than wading through the muck and not seeing what you stand on or being so caught in a haze you can't see where you are.

When they find out I'm gone they'll see a knife stuck a wall with a note expressing my feelings and thoughts, it'll be misunderstood but by then I'll be long gone and off the grid in another city finding myself in a new job, finding out whatever I didn't know before.

Not a drifter or a sifter, not a drunk or a ***, not a hippy or running from my problems, just doing what I need to- to find out who I am.

By the time they notice I'm gone I'll be back with a new lease on life, we don't belong anywhere. We exist wherever we are, existing however we can.

Hoping tomorrow will be better.

yo shrink me chat with u
put away that shrink wrap
cause my clear water sifter
will help us win dat weekly
rock paper scissors pick 3 lottery

yes i walked under a *******
though i think i fell twice on a std
after applying for a partime cloudy  

yep before ye sent me we called lock smith
to open then shutout dat lockless  monster

no i only used store brand wet paper trips
to wrap about trained charging elephants
locked in ran out of standing room only

I am a sand sifter
A mountain top metal detector with quiet shoes
A fly caster
Comet thrower
And spitter of flames in deoxygenated rooms

I am time once sighted
Tree tops withering in the slow sun growth
And a mere stone’s throw away from diving into the waters called home

I am the feeling of being betwixt despair and hope
As if all true sand sifting shifters know
We just go, and by nights’ allure continually comb

And a comber kicks nothing without a rake

Have you not a seat and a plate, what did you just experience
Usurped all went to get half and chose the only answer we know
Deconstruct denial we claim, of someone's fault for strafing, to stop

Through ear not disease for its' handwritten of the news one goes in and one goes out

Leaving a pit in being so stupid as much that innocence thinks "it"
The stop wasn't harmful traverse the potential self guard not marriage but sifter of golden plates holding holy water.. says "Better be there tomorrow!"

But past you, pass every thrill **** of whistles attempt oh early death show what drinks the peon has for sphinx biscuit weren't it of good ambitions in your language

Common events stupid kings business must adhere to stay rare the smile across your cheek as a reptile house must you wear

From theater to rays of the innovations casting gloom from never afoot munificence as dumb as de' acteur destroying peoples faith in scandals recites it ****** you off ,we did just now with this!

What happened to tournament of hellos calibrated by Hermes while money lands trying to gun at gus the *** on bus ruffing graffiti

Mechanical roses have piqued the fleck from obvious empathy to models of semi European ***** student apologies when we've wept right now

Draining the water from the tank the city does use to develop and seek
After the work chocolate basically in first badgered how are we and there and syndromes did contract, quartered but not foul only blind as a duck or patient rosemary awaiting a tincture in prohibitions government flux

Now lets have the trivial continuance somewhere begotten all paused and the marionette did swoon and painted the picture "we market and think"

The soul was the sell out when they sold out of going in on anything other than the nothing that went out the window with the rest of the nuances to one era ousted the doing in out cast while anti 'd the cry for dials ***** when turned the souls alive for the next round of dimwitted truncated yet out from the cold and in lambast, no doubt

I should have equally punished the waters of separation from concession princesses as above yet pain does divide
Inevitably thank you when the defended help that now watches the slanderous puffing tonnage lip smack  slams as of legends into
what more than "simply can anyone paint a wartime cabbage"

Oh wait that's what we actually do!