Ghost Tropic

visual

2009-08-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

I woke up today and realized I was more than my body.

I woke up today and saw through the eye lids of another woman.

Defending all that is holy

I lift my head to the world and stare into the eyes of all the muses which

have shredded my heart to pieces over the past few years

And with lady like affection, I pound my fists into the womb of my mother earth

Ridding my bones of selfish pride, fear and a Modern Philosophy

The purring of southern traffic shakes me to tears and I remember believing

that I could someday change everything.

Art used to be a safe house I could fall asleep in at night

And even if it was hard, I somehow felt okay with the risk of dying within a painting, like how I felt when I first read Bataille. Parts of my heart were not the same

and accepting it believe it or not provided me with the endurance to love and be loved.

I woke up today and did not find bitter breathing or wishful thinking

I woke up today and did not want to eat from the tree, but rather be the tree that feeds all that is around me

Resist the ideals of being more than a single entity

Even when we die, although the compositions add up and recycle within a pool of hell bound ghosts, we must remember that with or without any God we will always

be the only thing we've got

I woke up today and did not look for an answer

I woke up today and realized I was more than my body

Words, breathing, heart, pain, blood running the energy box which moves my feet, silent laughing, internal mind fucking, selling it short, over talking, deleting, meditation, exiting, pleasure coma, mind meets body, body meets dirt, conscious folklore, history is dead and will always be.

2009-08-02T10:15:00.001-07:00

tonight i saw something id never seen before

death to dead language

death to the invisible common ground which shows no sign of life

surrender is a second coming and if we close our eyes now we can devour the

ultraviolet hell.

like tiny mice in a bed of flowers

we lay silently and listen to the beat of the moons heart.

with our feet curled like soft ribbon, we hold our souls close

and bath in a symphony of conscious dreaming.

our bodies stay warm as the night flies above the sheets

candy

2009-08-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

To further emphasize on my not-so-typical lifestyle: Although sometimes I feel that I am but thousands of years beyond my generation, I have found a peaceful medium in dirty jeans and late night board games – waiting for “that” day (but who isn’t? [dying]) I have no recollection of the womb, or the first time I thought about sex and what it meant (although it is lot different for kids these days [thank you late night television (the Spanish channel and Spice)] and Charter Communications of course.) I’ve got an empty house half the time, a mini refrigerator in my garage (where I frequently store my social soda), too much self criticism and a jar of sea glass (where most of the memories of my father come from; The Footbridge Motel, raspberry ice cream, old fashion cars, the infamous farmers tan] I miss you terribly, who ever you were). But back to my self (doubt), more human than a human, half correct, a quarter wrong, and always asking, and asking and asking. “When?” “And for whom?” I am the epitome of a mountain girl, driven by scratched up Bikini Kill records, stuck on the smell of diesel fuel and 90s flannel button ups. I learned how to forget the bible and toast to the dead and Mom wasn't proud of that [ still isn't ] but fuck her. I’ve been evicted from a clear conscience and every day its a race to the tip of my tongue.

2009-08-02T10:08:00.000-07:00

Moving like mechanical figures

We played four square in grey-scale shadows

Tongue tied, touching teeth as we speak

Talking in death

I feel, in a vague sort of way that

Your sentimental battle with your world and your agenda

Is perspiring so, that I can’t even remember the last time I passed you

Without sulking into my blazer and laughing

I still remember the white powder that cut across a glass top table

(And who you became post Enlightenment)

Pottery pieces clung to whicker from your fits about taxes and the free market

I found a piece of mind on the bloody sidewalk outside your complex

I was lusting there in your synchronized walking patters, your vertical contours,

And a choreography of the love that I felt in my feet

Oh the way you won my heart in a lottery for Fools.

Of course you’d die for the game and sit on your hands

2009-07-20T14:02:00.000-07:00

DEAD LANGUAGE

sigh

2009-05-03T14:15:00.001-07:00

666: God help me if I take one more step in THAT direction. I'm riding a hell-bound horse to a cold area of new england and I wish I could say I felt my back breaking but nothing touches my nerve endings and I all of a sudden go numb. Sing in my ear; I'll tare each note into pieces and pretend like I didn't hear a thing. I can't help it: You haven't a clue the hell that resides in my mind. My account is negative. I lost my heart in a fit of rage at the hospital the day I collapsed to the floor, I felt my heart stop. I felt my brain explode and my feelings fly out the window into traffic, underneath the bed of an eighteen wheeler, smeared on the pavement, saw it all in front of me - blending in with the dirt. Till death do us part: i feel my living body, my hands, my feet, my lungs getting bigger and smaller with each breath, I feel alive and dead all at the same time. Sometimes I cant believe I survived the winter; the majority of the days I spent in the corner of my bed vigorously reading Artuad, finding answers/feelings/anything. Time is inescapable - true, but where does it go? I literally can't find sleep in my days; and I can't believe I believed.

I can't believe I believe anything.

rest in peace.

Malevolence

2009-04-13T23:19:00.000-07:00

Dear ghosts and landlords:

I am sorry but I have lost parts of myself in

Computer technology and drunken friends.

Spain 1802

2009-04-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

Somewhere is Barcelona
Somewhere is in the night club strippers boots
Inside pig bones, calcium pricks
Poking fingers punching keys
Like freckles plucked out, open holes
Spilling octopus gizzards on my guarder straps
Somewhere is wind
Somewhere is the barter and the traveler in the

absence of a cotton-mouth field
In textile mills, somewhere is there
Tornado tides, salty drunk
We made eye contact in the reflection of the metro window,

salty drunk
Somewhere is sympathy
Somewhere is in the authenticity of a blind mans smile
Solemnly sleeping on a street corner with a bucket for change

Somewhere is nowhere, when everything tangible on this earth has a replica

Somehow
Somewhere.

dark matter

2009-04-13T22:58:00.000-07:00

I don’t know enough words to tell you exactly how I feel
I am a young child, living in a village
I own nothing of value
I eat one meal a day off a dirty plate
I lost my parents in the woods this time about five years ago
I have secrets I wish to share, but to deaf ears I will not shout
I am lying in the dirt now
The first night of November
The only thing I have left to do is sleep
In the dark I see figures moving, crawling
I am lying in the dirt now
Only I am not alone
I am the center of a hodgepodge of spooky eyes
Who watch me as I breathe in, and out, and in, and out
I am lying in the dirt now
There is no room for fear
The pastel sunrise means everything to me
I suck the blood from my blistering lips
I am lying in the dirt now
I howl to the beat of the morning drums
I lift my bones off the earth floor
I harmonize my thoughts and feelings with those who surround me
And still my secrets I keep to myself
To deaf ears I will not shout.

- 200

2009-04-05T22:49:00.000-07:00

I waved in foolish giggles in spite and spit specks
of painted pills; impressed?
You gave me the option of opening orders –
I wept quiet spells! And you, so finicky!
The neighborhood night watched me sneak you away, prudence;
I was dreaming.
only of you and me, a black and white TV,
and a box of your favorite Russian chocolate

“Careful cracking cabinet!” The TV screamed.

“Your yellow tavern smile, smitten salad bowl holder” It was me, it was all me!

You snuck like a snake under the garden’s gates
Well let me tell you something you may not want to hear

You ain’t got nothin on Noah’s arc!
You aint got nothin on the nihilists nark!

So go on boozy bee keeper
Passion pats your prickly peasantry back like a
well deserved king

I’ll sleep with the birds only dreaming of here:
deaf man park bench fighter !
Labyrinthine citizens!
the widows!
and the farmers!
and the colorless TV’s!

Well you were better at barking, always bellowing out
“The Ocean isn’t really deep, it’s dead!”
So I took that phrase, and buried it beneath my head,

never to be fished out and gutted again

no past no present no future:

2009-03-30T22:57:00.000-07:00

She sat on the outskirts of an Old Italian graveyard with a cup of coffee and a pack of Marlborough Smoothes. She found herself feeling more at home here than anywhere else, in silence and in the presence of the dead. As the sun kissed her freckled face, her lifeless hands felt sparks of energy, and so she lifted herself from the frozen ground and walked towards her suburban home. Her mother yelled for her to come inside but she knew what she had to do. Repeating the words of Antonin Artaud she yelled back “I am in need not so much of nourishment as of a kind of elementary consciousness.” And then she left. She knew it was time to leave this place and talk with the trees. She knew that these graveyard-blues were no real way to live her youthful life.

On her back was a bag full of literature. Beneath her was a ten speed mango-colored bicycle with a broken basket on the front. With one push she felt the Central Massachusetts breeze in her hair as she road down Route 110 towards the Wachuessette Reservoir. The reservoir was a familiar and powerful place. She had been ready to take this trip for the past three months but never knew it would suddenly be the time.

She pedaled as fast as she could, anticipating her arrival. She passed by old farm houses and a corner store, and beyond that was nothing but fresh air and massive pine trees. She left her bike on the side of a dirt trail and despite her ripped up sneakers, she ran towards the water. She sat down comfortably in a cranberry bog. A man walking his dog passed by, saluting her as she lay covered in cranberry juices with bumble bees buzzing around her head. She had a way of finding peace despite the stinging of the bees or the bitterness of the cranberries.

The pine opposite the shore of which she was sitting began to look more like people than trees. - Inhale, exhale, inhale, and exhale – She saw a memory within the dancing pine. A memory she never thought she would see again. She watched the trees like a symphony orchestra, swaying back and forth in rhythm, some branches gracing the water only slightly. She never thought she’d see this again, and did not doubt that this was exactly the reason she came to the reservoir. She saw a happier self in these trees, a time which appeared to make more sense and was inadvertently better than the life she lived now. She questioned her state of mind: transfixed on the pain she felt between her and the opposite shore. The shore was too far away to swim to, and she knew that if she tried, she would never reach it. She watched herself within the pine, a laughing and innocent being, carrying herself with poise and candor. She watched the boy whom she was with, a happy soul with bright blue eyes, loving her in ways no living being has ever loved before. She watched herself kiss him goodbye, and watched the life lift from his chest like the smoke of dry ice. She watched his skin turn from golden beige to ghostly white. She gazed at his body being carried away from the church and into the frozen ground. She blinked a few times and suddenly what she had been seen became pine once again.

She stood and stomped her feat and begged for more, but there was no response, just the rustling of leaves and the wind in her hair. She waited and waited for something to happen. Biting her tongue until the fresh ruby red blood dripped down her chin, she screamed to the trees: “ Well in twenty years if I’m still alive I will still love you trees. You who feed me life! And you, animals! You who have not wronged me or my world! This spontaneity is infectious to those who eat from the giving tree! Do you hear me! DO YOU HEAR ME!” And the pine yelled back “Those who remain youthful never feel old, Angela, but those who are old never lived life, so wake up!” She knew then and there it was time to leave and time to live. She knew then and there that life was no longer about what was before or what is beyond.

She packed her things and got on her bike. She returned home and sat on the cement floor of her parent’s garage. Her mother asked her if she felt okay, and in the words of Antonin Artuad, she responded “I had a vision this afternoon – I saw those who are going to follow me and those who are still not completely embodied. There are some who eat too much and others like me who can no longer eat without spitting.”

Edible Astronomy

2009-03-30T16:49:00.000-07:00

And so the land caved in
A massacre of the stars
An earth, full of slaughtered violinist
And the open ocean, a pool of liquid cement
One was no longer one, but all a filthy mess

Dust of burnt crosses blackens the trees
The orange horizon drips into the open mouths of phantoms
Birds chirp from their coffins below
Shadows still move in the night
Two was no longer two, but lost in the black.

?

2009-03-29T21:56:00.000-07:00

Hey you! Listen to the sounds you make when you walk. Maybe someday you'll hear something that you never thought you could hear. Maybe someday you will live differently. Freely. Inspired by the way the sun hits the earth. Maybe someday modern living wont consume you. Maybe someday college will be about learning and not about money or what fraternity party you are attending on the weekend. Maybe someday you will read books instead of watching reality TV. Maybe someday you will give a shit about third world countries or the majority of society who don't have a pot to piss in. Maybe someday when you see a church burning to the ground you will think it is beautiful. Maybe someday the sun will consume this earth and you will laugh because you will know that the greatest day of your life has come.

2009-03-29T11:33:00.001-07:00

I write this to the accidents that have yet to happen/ and the life which I may never understand. All is well that ends, oh well. I will run with this back-pack full of black ice as life fucks me from behind. And I mean ever word I say – Run as fast as you can (because you will never know the answer to anything. “WHY” is infinitely longer than a run on sentence and/or an invisible number. God is the “indestructible” cause of everything WHY and the twenty-five-dollar donation you make once a week goes to a Truth Box that sits underneath the priests bed as he master bates to the sounds of your kids running by his open window) Remind yourself what it means to be young – those who are youthful never feel old and those who are old never lived life.

In twenty years if I’m still alive I will still love the trees that feed me life and the animals that have not wronged me or my world. Spontaneity is infectious to those who eat from the giving tree – Philosophy only lights my brain stem on fire with sparks that shoot through my fingers and into the hollow shell of my skeletal father’s past-life.

.

2009-03-29T00:29:00.000-07:00

Stitch work, stocky stewardess
She was canonized in Canterbury
Pushpin: Soap, she washed her feet in passion fruit
Cohabited with the clamor of a clairvoyant anarchist
Amiable (series of skimming silky stocky stewardess)
She cackled silly coughs counting corpses: corpses dancing
Dangling (dizzy) doing, drinking
Sassy stocky silly stewardess, stitch work stretching, snitching solo
Penalized (only when, fortress falling) stocking sinner
Push up, down she went, white dress window seat
Bellowing out a beastly blaze, bit back the bites
From boys and bears
I see myself, a stocky silly stewardess
Silky sweat glaze, I was coughing counting corpses on a Sunday.