I am cigarette soluble
an ex-dystopian author
with a caffeine fix
a nicotine buzz
bloodied knees and unconvinced knuckles
fighting a cognitive dissonance
unbeknownst to intellectual override
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
ex-lover's tanka
not you I miss --
but sun-kissed skin
lying on our bed
the smell of old book
and spring
but sun-kissed skin
lying on our bed
the smell of old book
and spring
A Ghost's Eyes
I put away our photographs today
turned them face down
and put my back
to your memory
I said goodbye to you,
the final goodbye,
in a city far from here.
drunk.
on the phone.
but you are still with me
you followed me home.
I put your face into
the desk drawer
I put your face in a place
I can no longer see.
I threw away the key.
except I put my tax return in the same
drawer so so I'll have to break into my own.
and there will you be.
your callous, ever-loving, ever-laughing
face
staring right back at me.
I put away our photographs
I locked them where I cannot see.
But you still touch my dreams each night
and always, always,
you are staring straight through me.
(get out of my head.)
(you're ruining everything.)
turned them face down
and put my back
to your memory
I said goodbye to you,
the final goodbye,
in a city far from here.
drunk.
on the phone.
but you are still with me
you followed me home.
I put your face into
the desk drawer
I put your face in a place
I can no longer see.
I threw away the key.
except I put my tax return in the same
drawer so so I'll have to break into my own.
and there will you be.
your callous, ever-loving, ever-laughing
face
staring right back at me.
I put away our photographs
I locked them where I cannot see.
But you still touch my dreams each night
and always, always,
you are staring straight through me.
(get out of my head.)
(you're ruining everything.)
the equation solved
in this syphilitic city
once my haven now
grown too small the
anarchists are baiting the capitol
the police are baiting the students
or is it the other
way 'round?
either way the story's spread
either way, the future's been set
only one thing left for this town --
'tis better to just burn it all down
once my haven now
grown too small the
anarchists are baiting the capitol
the police are baiting the students
or is it the other
way 'round?
either way the story's spread
either way, the future's been set
only one thing left for this town --
'tis better to just burn it all down
Being A Grown-Up Means Nothing
come on, Iggy, don't let me down
don't tune my guitar down
one step, two step
half-step, you bastard
I lost my tuner last week
I can't do any fixin to your breaking
and you tell me
"your face changes when you
put your glasses back on --
stop hiding behind lenses"
But I won't because
I am three and I am
petulant and I want
another lung cookie, dad.
You keep telling me to make music
you keep telling me to sing songs
but you never leave me alone
for very long
and my muse prefers
nakedness,
but she's shy and turning
your back won't do --
so would you please leave the room?
and while you're gone, I will
open my bedroom window
because I am six and I am
petulant and I want
another man's arms --
my muse prefers nakedness --
to be in front of him.
And he'll dip me backwards
and buy me flowers
and teach me the body poetic
the body electric
because we are seventeen and
we are petulant and we want
to know what its like
to keen.
And when you come home,
you'll just be alone because
I'm alone
my muse prefers nakedness
and the solitude of pines these days.
don't tune my guitar down
one step, two step
half-step, you bastard
I lost my tuner last week
I can't do any fixin to your breaking
and you tell me
"your face changes when you
put your glasses back on --
stop hiding behind lenses"
But I won't because
I am three and I am
petulant and I want
another lung cookie, dad.
You keep telling me to make music
you keep telling me to sing songs
but you never leave me alone
for very long
and my muse prefers
nakedness,
but she's shy and turning
your back won't do --
so would you please leave the room?
and while you're gone, I will
open my bedroom window
because I am six and I am
petulant and I want
another man's arms --
my muse prefers nakedness --
to be in front of him.
And he'll dip me backwards
and buy me flowers
and teach me the body poetic
the body electric
because we are seventeen and
we are petulant and we want
to know what its like
to keen.
And when you come home,
you'll just be alone because
I'm alone
my muse prefers nakedness
and the solitude of pines these days.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Untitled; Nora Furst
Beneath the feathers
cradled in the elbow between
muscle and bone you perspire
fingernails adust
veins blued
retired to a chemical we are not
without desire and dissonance
just lacking in clarity
and a persistance of
worlds shouldered and terror
bared
tell me where were you the moment you discovered a
resonance in your rib cage
detracting from the song
in your skull tell me how
did you create emeralds from sand and
squirrells from avocados
i am no magician no musician
just a cacophany of threats and lullabies
just a retarded penguin slapping my wings against my thighs
of course there is beauty in
watching new freckles appear
tasting your boy's sweat
knock-kneed and
sweet of breath
discovering the subtle texture of your friendships
the folds in your soul
battling the red ants of your mind
an ice cube on your toes
the eyelashes of a wild mexican bull
cradled in the elbow between
muscle and bone you perspire
fingernails adust
veins blued
retired to a chemical we are not
without desire and dissonance
just lacking in clarity
and a persistance of
worlds shouldered and terror
bared
tell me where were you the moment you discovered a
resonance in your rib cage
detracting from the song
in your skull tell me how
did you create emeralds from sand and
squirrells from avocados
i am no magician no musician
just a cacophany of threats and lullabies
just a retarded penguin slapping my wings against my thighs
of course there is beauty in
watching new freckles appear
tasting your boy's sweat
knock-kneed and
sweet of breath
discovering the subtle texture of your friendships
the folds in your soul
battling the red ants of your mind
an ice cube on your toes
the eyelashes of a wild mexican bull
Friday, May 9, 2008
09.05.08
speed.
speed.
the road eclipses.
I have been outsourced to my future self
and she is a driver
as I should have been.
speed.
speed.
the road.
eclipsed.
speed.
the road eclipses.
I have been outsourced to my future self
and she is a driver
as I should have been.
speed.
speed.
the road.
eclipsed.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Vortex
housed in stars
your eyes shine
like the silver river
on a full moon's night
your skin in the back
of the car
I am wretched
and you are holy
I am drowning
and you are air
when you go, I cling
in a desperate sense
to your scent left
on the seat,
become a ghost.
I drift.
I
drift.
your eyes shine
like the silver river
on a full moon's night
your skin in the back
of the car
I am wretched
and you are holy
I am drowning
and you are air
when you go, I cling
in a desperate sense
to your scent left
on the seat,
become a ghost.
I drift.
I
drift.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Story Song
I know that I'm a bitch
Sorry I sold your shit
but you know I did it
out of love
It was Sunday night
everything was going right
a pitcher of beer,
some friends who were queer
baseball on TV,
just above you and me
here I thought we were
oh so happy
Then you spilled the beans
just had to come clean
the tale of afternoon
it came out too soon
"The money's mine by right!"
you grabbed my arm tight
here I thought we would
give to charity
Dressed like Robin Hood,
'cos you said that we could
Knocked over the bank
(vaults are cold and dank)
The cops had finally come
and you had the gun
here I thought they'd
take you away
We made our escape
cop cars in our wake
and hid in an alley
thanks to aunt Sally
The plans had gone South,
beyond every doubt
here I thought we would
have to pay
Gtfo* car arrived
you put the gun on my thight
then you pulled the trigger
you idiot wigger
I said, "You want me to die?"
you gave no reply
here I thought it'd be
wise to pray
The cops came 'round
you threw the piece down
I hid in the trunk
and got in a fun
So then I was mad
cos you treated me bad
Here you thought you'd
sell me out
Forty minutes later
on the streets of Decatur
You found I was there
and gave me stare
I said, "You shot me in the leg!
Don't make me beg!"
here I saw you
start to pout
You said, "You're such a bitch!
You sold all my shit!
Those records were dandy,
and you sold them for candy."
I said, "Candy-coated drugs!
The ones that you love!"
here we thought we'd talk it out
So no here we are,
in the back of this bar
You're telling all our friends
the means to our ends
You're starting to shout
I'll study my stout
here I think I'll just
grab your piece
I know that I'm bitch
Sorry I shot your shit
but you were makin' me
oh so mad
*Gtfo = pronounced sort of like "g't faux"
Sorry I sold your shit
but you know I did it
out of love
It was Sunday night
everything was going right
a pitcher of beer,
some friends who were queer
baseball on TV,
just above you and me
here I thought we were
oh so happy
Then you spilled the beans
just had to come clean
the tale of afternoon
it came out too soon
"The money's mine by right!"
you grabbed my arm tight
here I thought we would
give to charity
Dressed like Robin Hood,
'cos you said that we could
Knocked over the bank
(vaults are cold and dank)
The cops had finally come
and you had the gun
here I thought they'd
take you away
We made our escape
cop cars in our wake
and hid in an alley
thanks to aunt Sally
The plans had gone South,
beyond every doubt
here I thought we would
have to pay
Gtfo* car arrived
you put the gun on my thight
then you pulled the trigger
you idiot wigger
I said, "You want me to die?"
you gave no reply
here I thought it'd be
wise to pray
The cops came 'round
you threw the piece down
I hid in the trunk
and got in a fun
So then I was mad
cos you treated me bad
Here you thought you'd
sell me out
Forty minutes later
on the streets of Decatur
You found I was there
and gave me stare
I said, "You shot me in the leg!
Don't make me beg!"
here I saw you
start to pout
You said, "You're such a bitch!
You sold all my shit!
Those records were dandy,
and you sold them for candy."
I said, "Candy-coated drugs!
The ones that you love!"
here we thought we'd talk it out
So no here we are,
in the back of this bar
You're telling all our friends
the means to our ends
You're starting to shout
I'll study my stout
here I think I'll just
grab your piece
I know that I'm bitch
Sorry I shot your shit
but you were makin' me
oh so mad
*Gtfo = pronounced sort of like "g't faux"
Blake's Vision, 01.05.08
What is a stone?
it has no heart and no blood to beat
it has no body, yet retains my heat
What is a stone but cold and gray
'Till my palm it caresses,
and within does it lay
What is a stone, neither gentle nor mild
a weapon it becomes in the hands of a child
A stone knows not love, nor hate
Neither sorrow nor joy, yet decides a man's fate
The wisdom of man wrought in stone
The lives of men fought in stone
Lifeless, it rends our history useless in age
For it will live longer than my words on this page
A heart of stone does pain betray
A kidney's stone, another way
In Israel, thrown
In Ireland, plucked for seeds to be sown
What is a stone that fits no in your hand
to guide meditations from destiny's strand
Yet without anchor, what are we but lost
and left underground, too deep for the frost
What is a stone
it has no heart, nor blood to beat
but in my silence, retains all my heat
it has no heart and no blood to beat
it has no body, yet retains my heat
What is a stone but cold and gray
'Till my palm it caresses,
and within does it lay
What is a stone, neither gentle nor mild
a weapon it becomes in the hands of a child
A stone knows not love, nor hate
Neither sorrow nor joy, yet decides a man's fate
The wisdom of man wrought in stone
The lives of men fought in stone
Lifeless, it rends our history useless in age
For it will live longer than my words on this page
A heart of stone does pain betray
A kidney's stone, another way
In Israel, thrown
In Ireland, plucked for seeds to be sown
What is a stone that fits no in your hand
to guide meditations from destiny's strand
Yet without anchor, what are we but lost
and left underground, too deep for the frost
What is a stone
it has no heart, nor blood to beat
but in my silence, retains all my heat
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
The Soul's Ichor
what do you want out of life?
I think I'm actually pissed off enough to answer this question. None of my usual wishy-washy complacency and indifference. What do I want?
I want to live in a city where I have a favorite dive bar and a favorite dance club because there are enough to choose from. I want to work hard for things I find rewarding -- I want my theater to be tangible and I want people to see what I do and I want it to make them THINK. I want it to make them FEEL. I want them to hate me for it and still be unable to drag themselves away.
I want to be consumed and devoured by love that is seethed through teeth like rage.
I want people to be not afraid of being angry.
I want to publish my book, damn the consequences of all the secrets being leaked, and any lies I told exposed. I want people to know my name, but never know my face. I want it to stir up enough shit that they give me a second book deal, and I can go on another adventure -- I want to go on an adventure that ISN'T fueled by love or infatuation with a person. I want to decide where I'm going by what train leaves closest to the time I get up, or go to sleep.
I want to live in Casablanca with Jessie, and lie in fields outside the city and smoke and write poetry and not have to worry about whether or not we're going to make the rent this month. I want to live in Argentina with her, on the top floor in the middle of the city, with no air conditioning on the hot winter nights, I want to spit venomous lines at each other in our fury at no one and and everything.
I want to make music when I can with people who are dedicated enough to sit down and practice with me. Who will work out the lyrics with me.
I want to add fire to this dull gray world we're living in.
Most of all, I want to laugh in an evening gown on some rich pretentious asshole's yacht; I want them all the compliment me, and tell me how fabulous I am. And I want to be laughing because of how they'll never know, never realize how cruel I am, how I'm exposing their idiocy and hypocrisy in my work. I want to publish their stories with changed names, changed dates, some changed places, with just enough truth left for them to think maybe its about them, but not be sure enough to ask me or the other people involved in that particular tale.
Ahora es tiempo para todo el mundo comer mi justicio.
This shit has flatlined, the exclamation has been uttered. Fuck you, I'm not living for you anymore. I'm living for me. Fuck your cause. I don't give a good goddamn.
I think I'm actually pissed off enough to answer this question. None of my usual wishy-washy complacency and indifference. What do I want?
I want to live in a city where I have a favorite dive bar and a favorite dance club because there are enough to choose from. I want to work hard for things I find rewarding -- I want my theater to be tangible and I want people to see what I do and I want it to make them THINK. I want it to make them FEEL. I want them to hate me for it and still be unable to drag themselves away.
I want to be consumed and devoured by love that is seethed through teeth like rage.
I want people to be not afraid of being angry.
I want to publish my book, damn the consequences of all the secrets being leaked, and any lies I told exposed. I want people to know my name, but never know my face. I want it to stir up enough shit that they give me a second book deal, and I can go on another adventure -- I want to go on an adventure that ISN'T fueled by love or infatuation with a person. I want to decide where I'm going by what train leaves closest to the time I get up, or go to sleep.
I want to live in Casablanca with Jessie, and lie in fields outside the city and smoke and write poetry and not have to worry about whether or not we're going to make the rent this month. I want to live in Argentina with her, on the top floor in the middle of the city, with no air conditioning on the hot winter nights, I want to spit venomous lines at each other in our fury at no one and and everything.
I want to make music when I can with people who are dedicated enough to sit down and practice with me. Who will work out the lyrics with me.
I want to add fire to this dull gray world we're living in.
Most of all, I want to laugh in an evening gown on some rich pretentious asshole's yacht; I want them all the compliment me, and tell me how fabulous I am. And I want to be laughing because of how they'll never know, never realize how cruel I am, how I'm exposing their idiocy and hypocrisy in my work. I want to publish their stories with changed names, changed dates, some changed places, with just enough truth left for them to think maybe its about them, but not be sure enough to ask me or the other people involved in that particular tale.
Ahora es tiempo para todo el mundo comer mi justicio.
This shit has flatlined, the exclamation has been uttered. Fuck you, I'm not living for you anymore. I'm living for me. Fuck your cause. I don't give a good goddamn.
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