Biguine

Begin
Big

Band

The Hizo Mozumba.
Horrozo Molamba.

The Hat Maker's Concubine

I am the hat maker's concubine
and he is mine.
I live only to oolay
in a self-made lexicon

Noone sits in the word chairs unless it is for serious talk.
Free association is over-rated. There should definitely be
some meaning there, or else it's not fun.

Black Book

The most fun with words I have had lately is Ada by Nabakov.
It's French and Russian.
And the two characters write in code.
As it should be.

Like Ginsberg and Mayer.
Whomsoever joins the cypher and can stick around long enough
shall have the glory.

Perseverance. Dedication.
( to the art, not the job )

( to the love, not the technicalities )

I made a loving Uturn last week and my body hasn't caught up with me yet.

Dr. Love says Mumbo Jumbo that I enjoy like this, " are you a body with a spirit or a spirit with a body? " or something like that. I assume he believes in that stuff, and I have my own way of saying things.

I wonder how long I will live.
I don't feel healthy. I'm dying.

( we all are. everyone dies. )

I have a friend in particular who is acting like a widow,
acting
acting
acting

I don't have the energy to tell her what I know, because it would be forced, ingenuine.
My belief, when a friend dies, goes beyond anything I can put into English words.
That's why I so envy the characters in the Nabakov book ( language, my love, i am married to the words )
If I said it in English, it would scare me. I can only say words like 'protection' and 'body guard' and 'sea glass' to describe it. It is my code language and you can't take it apart.
It is my deconstruction.
Structure that makes up the bones of what I am.

Yesterday, I gave up on all the questions and themes of academia.
My thesis is "Everyone Has Bones Underneath"

It takes away all the talk about blood. There is marrow, and it is where the blood comes from.

This is all I can say. It is from a poem by Neruda and it might be my thesis.

( whatever a thesis is... which is beside the point. )

Epiphany Day Eight Years Ago

The oldest cat hated me because he knew I was evil.

He told me by pissing on the kitchen island.

He maintained eye contact.

This day was an epiphany.

Le Spoon De Ja Mo'an

Purple and Yellow Spots Like Stars
Recover time from
Le Spoon De Ja Mo'an
Reading about violets
and caterpillars
unbearable young love
after researching an emerging subculture.

I match up the words "smallish" and "longish"
and all the GG's and BB's of made-up
Russian-French-and English phrases
like it's my job.

A big black book with sticky notes in it.
My thoughts are on the sticky notes.
I misplaced my mechanical pencil (my favorite kind).

I wear an orange sweatshirt to match the sticky notes,
the gum, the flags, the tape, the scissor-handles.

Early to bed, early to eyes.
Stairwell to skylight.

...
Erase my face to be anonymous
Wear socks like jocks.
Get mad at fads.
Paint like a five-year-old with a serious sullen face
and talk to the paintings like they are not doing what I want
them to do
I am the boss, their bully.
And I am not in charge of anyone but them.
...

Aerobics- Whitalicious

Ass Alignment.
Assignment.

Better Bond.

Criminal.
Dialog.
Effacement.
Ferment.
Grindstone.
Hinder.
Ignition.
Jack Pot.

Kindred.
Lament.
Mortal.
Narcissus.

Oppenheimer.
Presence.


Question.
Radical.
Suffice.

Telegram.
Untied.
Vortex.

Woman.
X-ray.
Yellow.

Zeitgeist.

Should I Send You an Email if Someone Crashes Through My Ceiling?

Yes?

A little chinese lady.

Great. Now the other cat is staring at the ceiling.

Graffitti Tunnel

Fortunate, Lucky Winter, please bring me a lively Spring.
The kiss of cold on my ears
Electric frozen knees.
Please trade:
Popping up in the mornings card and vibrating stomach card...
For the Happy Safety Card.

It's a fair trade ( like the sugar ) and I have nothing up my sleeve.

Safely Sternly fill the echo tunnel with graffiti and poetry.
Make the words eloquent and kind.

I felt normal for a few hours.

I was being normal for a while last night, getting tired, doing homework, when all of the sudden,
I went to sleep.
My subconscious took over again and was driving the bus yet again.

I had a dream someone set my hair on fire.
And then I assisted in the delievery of four kittens.
And they were not normal kittens. Nor was anything normal about the dream.

I intend to write more about these dreams of late.

Window of Time

There is a window of time
In which I deprive myself
To force the tunnel
In the direction of black and white
on yellowing pages
Holding together a falling-apart book
with rubber bands and tape
Holding the lid on with wax
Holding the paper in the water
Keeping shoes that have no ties
Keeping a third of the salt for myself to make as an offering
Keeping the pot for the bath with the honey

A third of my time must be for this and only this

Three cards,
A hat with gloves,
Something for the future

I look forward to the bottle, the denim, and the dye.

This day is for the future worn like socks with holes
dreaming of rubber-thonged toes.

My descriptive words use hyphens, because they sure as hell can't use me.

They are mine.
Nothing for ownership.

I behave in my mind like a vagabond.

( Future Sailor Boots )

I quote because I am speechless.

"At night I often stay awake. I am the sentinel at the gate of the sleep of others, whose master I am. I am the spirit that hovers above the shapeless mass of dream." -- Jean Genet

Sullen Poverty Family Tree Hospice Hunger

A white circle at the base of the alter is a testament. And I wonder what it is to build mutual respect.
It is a pet peeve to choose a nickname for oneself, and probably common to attempt to reject a bad nickname.
I think now of my great grandmother who wouldn't bathe in front of the television because she thought they could see her. She also became insulted if anyone sent her a card with an animal on it because it meant you thought she had a likeness to it.
I wear her necklace.
Her daughter-in-law was a nurse with a chip on her shoulder and a womanizing husband, who perhaps only womanized her. I can testify to this, even after her death, he wished his ashes to be poured over her grave so that he might have one last chance to be 'on top of her.'
Such a thing for me to do in a graveyard, carrying out the last wishes the whole family knew.
Maybe it was just us, the three of us: My brother and father.

And my father would be buried in that same spot in one year, one month, and a few days.

The same spot.

It is a reality which proves superstition, and proves the family bond.

The nurse, the grandmother, I look just like her. I am probably tough just like her. I never met her, but I learned about her because our lives have parallels. A Pisces to mold your ideas about love. Loss which carries weight, dragging it like a canvas bag full with something only the barer can know like plasma-soaked rags from a hospital.

( A hospital for the sick of spirit; a suicide hospice. )

It is the type of weight which makes me protest by hunger strike.
The weight which holds down the physical body, so heavy it forms lines on my brooding face.

Renegade

To watch Fight Club two times in a row like my friend told me