In Response to Edible

Grief, ah this addiction. Amidst dirty laundry and filthy sinks I edge through the corridor past golden vapor ghosts.
Peril, this speculation. Boots come down crushing rotten green shag over the milky edge I escape my unholy skin.

I did it silently feeling my way toward perfection. I who committed feather pillow crimes entombed in the worthless duty of self-sacrifice.You noticed nothing. You who weighted. You the parliament. Periphrastic holy cleavage, subjunctive holy this. I sought neutrality within my wretched reflection but could not sustain the verity . I who remains muted. I the wholly profane.

This Voice I Speak With

people are programmed to accept a media construct
we are programmed to simply reuse elementselementselements
elementselementselementselementselementselementselements
reused, reduced, recycled,
reused, reduced, recycled,
reused, reduced, recycled
we are fragmented
I have become fragmented
(become f-r-a-g-m-e-n-t-e-d?)
my mind is burdened
I am haunted by the world around me
I fear I may become so unreflective there will be an implosion

is there such a thing as pure originality in this fragmentation?
I am in a delirium of saturation
my minds (minds? mind? multiplex mind)
my mind struggles to breathe in this mire...
struggle-s to breathe
struggle-s to move
struggle-s to survive

*breathe you fucker

...my over-saturated one-track mind

I must fight against this one-track mind
I must create a new culture that flows through my minds
flows through my bodies
gives new life to my beings

there is no fixed position
(except in hyprocrisy and sheer conservativism)
renewal takes a long time
a l--------o---------n----------g time
creativity rests in how I reconfigure
how I reconstruct the f-r-a-g-m-e-n-t-s
of my minds
of my memories
of my lives

discover your multiplex consciousness
multiplex consciousness
multiplex consciousness
multiplex consciousnesses

*breathe you fucker

writing is the only thing I can call my own
I want to learn how to communicate with my fellow human beings
BUT I don't know how to write
NOR do I know what to say
AND (even worse) this voice is not my own
YET...

*I can always squeeze something out of the past and
make it become new, call it MY own

is this originality? is this creativity? are these words then my own?
does my creativity rest in how I recontextualize
the previous expression of others?
does it rest in how I reuse, reduce, recycle
the f-r-a-g-m-e-n-t-e-d world around me?
(does this then become my f-r-a-g-m-e-n-t-e-d s-e-l-f?)

*breathe you fucker

this voice I speak with is not my own
these voices I speak with are NOT my own
this voice I speak with is all my own
these voices I speak with are ALL my own

women are not allowed to talk
tell them to shut up
I am not allowed to talk
tell me to shut up
shut up
shut up
shut up
SHUT UP SHANNON

*breathe you fucker

(it is as difficult to appropriate the thoughts of others
as it is to invent my own)

Blood and Guts Cut-up, After Kathy Acker

we live in an m-TV society so we'd better worship it
we live in a TV society.
Good is bad

this writing is terrible plagiarism because all culture-stinks and there's no reason to make new culture-stink
make culture-stink
new culture-stink

women are capitalists' toys. so what?
this is your pain so concede it
cocks are capitalists' toys. suck suck.
your pain has no relation to their excitement and danger.
wars are capitalists' toys. fuck fuck.
this is your pain so worship it
Good is bad.

they want to step into the snow
they want to keep this reality
this nicey-nicey-clean-ice-cream society

they want to keep the child

everyone hates her. the woman who is her
the woman who lives her life according to ideals
terrible plagiarism is the only reality we've got left in our nicey-clean-ice-cream-TV society so we'd better worship it
Good is bad.

they want to keep the child so they can teach her
everyone hates her
the woman who is her
the woman who lives her life according to nonmaterialistic ideals
this wild antisocial monster
we live in prisons where your pain has no relation to anyone else's

women are not allowed to talk
tell them to shut-up
don't you know you can't step into the snow

Punk rock. S & M sex. crime is total excitement and danger
don't you know, you can't step into the snow.

Punk rock. S & M sex. crime is the only reality we've got left in our nicey-clean-ice-cream-TV so we'd better worship it
Good is bad.

they want to keep the child so they can teach her to suck
everyone hates her
women are not allowed to talk
tell them to shut-up

they want to keep the child so they can teach her to suck their cocks
everyone hates her
the woman who lives her
the woman who is her
the wild antisocial monster

Women are not allowed to talk.
Tell them to shut-up.

Lowry and I

Lowry is a stubborn one, I can tell you that much. Argumentative, bossy and demanding it seems I seldom live up to her expectations. Always wanting, expecting, pushing for more I often find myself exhausted trying to keep up with her. I suppose such is life when one befriends a cynical perfectionist.

Don't misunderstand me, I'm not being disparaging, I do not dislike Lowry. On the contrary I find her company quite splendid! She is my most cherished of friends. Her sense of humor never fails to make me chuckle and certainly there is no lack of amusement in her presence. Always roaming around on random adventures, we have shared the most exhilarating of experiences. Life with her is rarely dull, always there is some new tangent to be off on, some great creative endeavor to pursue. She is compassionate and understanding, a kind and brilliant friend when she chooses.

"When she chooses" is the catch-phrase there. An isolationist, often she will disappear for days at a time, telling only me where she is going and how to contact her. She leaves the weight of responsibility on my shoulders to pay her bills, clean her house, care for her pets. I answer her email, open her correspondence, even talk to her partner and parents to assure them that all is well. Meanwhile she is off "finding herself" on some desert cliff or crumbling mountainside; or even worse, locked up in her studio creating art like some sort of mad woman.

Last night I met up with Lowry in a bar. She was rambling on about reality and fantasy. I was having trouble keeping pace with her racing thoughts and half-formed, half-assed ideas. She fully lost me when she began going on about alternate truths and historical manipulation. Politely I nodded my head and played the attentive listener, downed a few jacks on the rocks and thought fondly of my bed at home. I told her I was leaving - headed back to get some sleep. Bullheadedly, she refused to let me go, demanding I accompany her to her studio to work. Cursing under my breath I slapped down enough to cash to cover our tab and trudged out after her.

Yes, I trudged after her. Someone needs to keep an eye on her. Without me she would be wallowing in a ditch somewhere, living under a bridge in Portland (which is where I found her last time we split paths). I suppose you could say I have a love/hate relationship with her. She is my dearest friend yet my most cursed enemy. She tells me I'm not serious enough, too happy-go lucky...I tell her she is too somber and needs to be more optimistic. All in all, it seems we balance each other out; two incompletes making one whole. Or some sort of holistic, feel-good rubbish like that. Well, off to bed for me...that is if Lowry is finished in her studio yet...

Exercise in Style - Scesis Onomaton

Damn, cripes, confound-it, the midday bus was busy! The noon public transport was crowded, jam-packed, full of commuters. Luckily I found an empty seat and with a sigh, gasp, exhale of relief sat down hoping to get a quick nap, catch a few zzz's, grab a couple minutes of shut eye between classes. I tried to block out the commotion, bustle, noise in the vehicle. To my great vexation an annoying young man woke me from my slumber, the lad roused me from my rest. An odd college-aged fellow, he had a long, lithe, thin, skinny neck and was wearing a foolishly inane hat, was sporting a headpiece that had some sort of braided, plaited, intertwined cord. He was causing a scene, making a fuss, throwing a tantrum, accusing a young pregnant passenger of needlessly bumping, elbowing, shoving, bulldozing her way down the aisle. In a childish huff, fit, tizzy, tantrum, the young man flung himself into the nearest empty seat, hurled himself on the the closest available bench, heaved himself down beside me. Unfortunately, regretfully, lamentably adjacent to me.

The same afternoon, directly after class, a mere two hours later, 120 minutes further into my day, who did I see but this same juvenile nuisance? The exact sophomoric pest, lounging idly about, kicked back lethargically by the law building stairs. He was speaking with a professor, conversing with faculty, talking with an instructor who seemed to be commenting in regards to the young man's jacket. The educator was explaining the benefit of adding a button to his parka, stitching an additional fastener to the coat. The young man noticed me and enthusiastically waved, saw me and vehemently beckoned, gesticulated wildly, urging me in his direction. Feigning bewilderment, faking obliviousness, acting as if I hadn't noticed, I scuttled off in the opposite direction, moved rapidly towards the other end of the building, wasted no time in getting myself out of there as quickly as possible. Pronto, chop chop, lickety-split.