Poetry Doesn't Want Anything Except the Death of Everything We Love

New dream in my dreamjournal.

Considering the many ways of being here, with friends, in the world; of being here, period; of be-ing.

Ted asked me what my most abnormal belief was. I was talking about how artists, through their art, express sentiments, beliefs and experiences far from ordinary, things that were they expressed in daily conversation would elict strange looks and gossip; in the workplace or other professional environment these expressions would be simply unacceptable. Art is the only sanctioned venue for extreme oddness. Ted suggested making art on that very subject, but I see that as very much done. If art is created to address the issu, as it has been, that art is immediately permissible again. The viewer will not and cannot grasp the subject matter except in the forum of art. An understanding that goes beyond that would require a paradigm shift in the viewer. This is, to me, similar to the way most people understand being transgender.

Many people will profess to support transgender people, will feel like allies, will be angered by any perceived affront coming from others, and will be as kind and as lacking in judgment as can be. Yet they will continue to see an FTM as a woman and (less often) an MTF as a man, and see genderqueer or third-gendered people as their birth sex, too. Their understanding remains solidly in the original paradigm, just as someone who doesn't allow what they understand from 'art' to truly cross into everyday life, even if that is the point of the art in question.

The paradigm shift needed in the transgender arena is to refuse to see the body as empirical evidence; that is, the body becomes secondary to something more incorporeal. It is much more common to nearly make this paradigm shift. Even if the idea of physical reality being secondary to something else is apprehended conceptually, it is still apprehended within a conventional sphere; thus it remains a concept.

It would follow that anything one could write or speak or paint, etc., is already nullified by virtue of its medium.

The end purpose of art is our liberation [the destruction of everything we hold dear or sacred.]

Ill Feelings

I can't learn. My body hurts...I feel wrong...I am twenty years old and I have no skill. I have no degree, no college education. I can't play sports, run, ride horses, kick ass, or build shit. I cannot fix a bike if my life depended on it. I cannot build or repair a computer, I have not made much art worth looking for. I can cook okay. I barely have enough energy to get up.

My skills are not anything that exists in this world. My body is small and my bones feel like they are full of holes. I am a black sun setting over desert.

I cannot think of a single person who has less skill then I do, who knows less. My main creative urge is to slit my wrists.

I ran as hard as I could toward enlightenment and nobody can see the difference;

Sometimes I think I am an explosion;

no-one i know cares as much as i do. I lose my lovers because

I am as soft and vacuous as a banana going warm and moist in the summertime,

as a creampuff sun setting over a country tract house,

I made art and no one called.

The Cold Wet Dirt Reminds Me of Home

We sat on my tailgate outside your apartment
and our twilight words were dripping in my tears
you were skirting the cage of the tiger
that i keep locked up in my body: i asked you to be with my flesh
to nestle your head into my shoulder
together, let's ignore the bloody segments
of limb that we followed to get here
to your adobe house in the desert where i picked
the bones clean

I want to be everything: I am coming unravelled
like the spoon wrapped in cloth caught in a tiger's mouth
i struggle to make my words seen
i don't want your pity
i want to feed the world to lions

CUZ YOU HAD BLOOD IN YOUR EYES
"it ripped right through our flesh, the children of the moon,"
IT WAS THE SAME

I don't know how much longer I can go explaining
that i am broken and slit from throat to dorsal fin

I want the deaths of all my childhood birds back
wrapped in the endless white cloak of winter
"and the strangest things seem...suddenly routine."

I want you to see who I am not

I am not going to...
let's throw a big party

"suddenly i'm Miss Beehive 1963."

i won't give you

a solution to your insoluble problem.

If I Was Your Woman

Christmas twin falls idaho
is the oldest memory
she was only two
it's the first time she felt blue

I have set myself as far apart as I could
For I wanted to see into the nature of things
I am immersed in a feeling so big
I am missing you
without knowing who you are

I love you
with all of my being
I didn't know I'd ever see you but now
my head aches with the knowing of you

I see all the young in white
huddled in a spring rain
i could crack open with poison
i crawl into my sandbox to escape the pounding wet
i can't avoid the train

i wonder what the old think
of the brand of the young
the way they wear black on their luminosity
the old have no use for black

i could cry i could crack
in your treehouse thunderstorm

stuck together yeah

I Don't Want Your Oil Money

Wait--yes, I do. No! No, I don't!

The fact that wealthy multinational corporations, not the least of them the oil and natural gas companies, contribute millions of dollars to partially or entirely fund environmental restoration projects means that these projects will function as a high-budget, glamourous PR stunt with minimal environmental impact. Projects funded will be high in educational content and low in physical environmental remediation, and even lower in advocating for effective policy change to protect the environment.

The corporate contributers' influence will be mostly invisible--that is, it will be reflected in what is not shown. It will, at times, also be visible in the form of donor honorarium and product placement. In all ways, projects funded by major corporate entities will reflect their interests.

Non-profits funded by corporations, which are the direct beneficiaries of capitalism, will never effect environmental benefits, given that capitalism is in direct, violent and unavoidable conflict with the health of the planet.

I Didn't Know Her But She Thought She Knew Me

she brought it down in the wet wet sand
then up to the acres of sky in her hands
then across to the isles of green stretching on
then down to the underground rivers of song

she wove ten thousand spiderwebs trembling with light
she wove sixty white geese from thought on her mind
she turned a pail of milk on its head
and drew forty five lessons from the spread of its dregs

mona was restless, empty and virile
she could make grown men cry at the sight of her smile
she hated politicians and made rapists embarrassed
she placed upturned tacks on the seats of psychiatrists

one day she hoped someone'd take her home
to the small distant planet that she called her own
she built a spaceship made of twig and red wire
got herself inside and she set it on fire

The Number of the Beast & the Sweet Taste of Failure

"I'm counting down
The number of the Times
So when we get the sign from god
I'll be the first to call."
-Dresden Dolls, My Alcoholic Friends

We're all waiting for the day we
get to Fail our final event;
Whatever we do for good or for evil is
done in the spirit of self-immolation.
We are operating in desperate straits
and since our first days on Earth
we have learned the language of predicted disappointment.

All the talk of peace and Love on earth is
a bunch of crap.
If we wanted that we would stop fucking around
and do it and do it and do it every day until we died of it
and wake up again from the grave and fucking do it some more--

WE DON"T WANT TO DIE
WE DON'T WANT TO SEE
WE'D CLIMB A MOUNTAIN NOT TO SEE WHAT'S IN FRONT
of our faces.

We want suffering.
We want to die unbelievable and quarralsome deaths,
we want wars that rage for centuries and obliterate us kill us all
what we really want is children with no limbs
what we want is an arsenic picnic
what we want is no more whales,
we'll do it all lace me up tight till i bleed on the line
Because we want to not have been born
We are sorry for all that we are

We can't take it back.
We can't make it ok.
No amount of suffering will
bring Adam back into Eden
will restore that apple to the forbidden tree
will put Eve's hymen back in her crotch like a nested songbird.

What we really want is to get shot in the mouth in front of a bunch of onlookers
What we really want is to eat poisoned food from the enemy
What we really want is another holocaust, Godfuckingdammit
We want unabomber subway massacre beaten wives and french fries giving us five
million different types of cancer
We want insidious violent grotesque blasphemous suck-off festival of chocolate and dim lights
We want murdered lesbian witchdoctors on the evening news
we want stonings
we want to drown those little girls on improperly installed pool drains
WE LOVE IT WE LOVE IT
WE FUCKING DEMAND IT 24/7 FEED IT TO ME

we suffer because we love to suffer.
because we have never learned to feel good
because we have no idea how to really Love
because we have no idea how to dream
any other dream.

Put down your sword for a minute and listen to the heartbeat of the supreme majestic.