A place to post freeform journal-type entries.
Deleuze Versus Bernard, A Conversation.
Bernard: I'm really tired tonight, but remind me to talk to you something about Riot Gamez
Today on another drive at dawn to the Country University, fog lifting in the sunrise like phantom birds of prey, I heard a song that reminded of the most quietly, subtly insane person I've met to date.
Platinum and gold, banana leaves, saccharine fruits and asterisks will always call to my mind her small, lovely body; her dark, cocoabuttersoaked skin; her big Caribbean hair with copper highlights like the synthesized surrealisms in the songs she likes best, pops of color in her dense curls like the color and rhyme in her precious dreams. In her junglescape dreams to be precise; jungles in the watercolor, acrylic and collage of her art are the jungles in our minds.
Ode to the Drunk Guys Outside the Window
Your incoherent yells and hey-ohs
Provide nightly shows of entertainment
For the girls on the third floor.
Collectively, you are the drunk guys outside the window,
And collectively, your band of characters
Cerebral Whispers by Dona Maria
Do not love me. Ghouls laugh
and call you lame.
You would not love
my flashing brain.
Don't! Do not! Mustn't!
Gullible pigeons, you are the cotton;
was it not clear?
Whom else do I hear
so often but you-
listen to your words.
"I ex-plod-ed my seminar's mind today,
and will again on Wednesday.
I'm the only smart one in the rooooom!
Prof loves me, everyone else annoys him.
Why? Oh, because I listen
and don't ask stupid questions."
Questions are not stupid!
You are not stupid!
You are just young
and too safe.
"I write my papers in an hour,
The balance of being both introvert and extrovert- the person who could exist, and had to exist, as both- was first found in the politician(insert footnote and explanation here). When the politician ultimately failed in existing as such to shallow behaviour(insert footnote and explanation here), the artist rose where the politican had once stood(insert footnote and explanation here). Now, as the artist is failing to the same shallow behaviour(insert fn), the philosopher and poet are needed more than ever, the dancer and musician are needed more than ever. A musician takes the stripped and embellishes it; a dancer takes the embellished and strips it.
Thoughts always interrupted by customers.
How to Make Me Cry
see a school of fish not my dignity
rebel against community as mechanism
show a fire
see as a pauper and pity me
assign me no significance
i will cry the tears of angels
then i will be fufilled
tell me what no one will hear
if truth, i will cry right there
if lies, i will cry later
in my bed, screaming
make victims of inconsiderate violence
hit me by chance
i will cry rebellion
choose and latch to a problem
learn it, know it, speak of it widely
i will cry for me and it
see me as a fish and love me as a friend
i will not cry then
looking through old documents; three excerpts
Liquor breeds sad eyes.
They become transparent to the turmoil in the head.
The eye brows slant slighty upward and in.
A little red wraps around the oval. They look through you.
The stuttering, doesn't impede your understanding of their torture.
Sad eyes scream, piercing your heart.
Look away, look back, you can't decide if its fair,
to break down and cry yourself.
Would they understand? You can't help it.
The tears are not selfish, the drops are to heal.
To whisper silently love is here.
Let go of past, let go.
But beer breeds bitter thoughts,
and sometime a brute.
Liquor brews violence in a peaceful man.
Liquor sharpens nails on a gentle hand.
You can say its a different way,
but you see the hate building up,
I have a fear (irrational, I know) that my sadness will kill me. Despair will surround me, at the center of a circle of dark mass, it will contract upon me, and crushing my rib cage in, the sternum I love, so firm will crack in or out or both and my lungs pierced by shards will pop with a last breath, but no one will hear the pinching, nor see my head distort crackling like dough with air pockets throughout it. My precious skull, no one will hear it, for the density of my despair snuffs me out, quickly. Maybe if someone is near, they will hear faintly a noise, maybe a zip of wind, or a woody clank and think it a rock or branch. I clench my teeth, sitting on a bench on a day which is agreed to be beautiful. Tight, contracting, pulsing in a thick presence from my jaw to the posterior skill, the skull summit, brow, temple, and eyes. I catch myself and relax, only to tighten again at the next distraction.
A series of poems that all arose from walks with my daughter.
Quiet your mind and listen.
Listen to the rain.
Listen to the trees.
Listen to the wind.
Listen to the resolute beat of your heart and its congruity with all life.
Listen to the life that is outside of yours yet beautifully entangled within it.
Listen to your spirit.
Hear it and know that you are home.
Swabbing up my sanity.
Fuzzing up my ears.
Your words are cotton,
laborious to pick,
under the hot sun of opinions.
Thick and dry,
fuzzy and white.
Your chatter is not comfort,
it is slavery
in auditory fields.
Infants and children sit on floors and grounds. They see no need for design, the earth invites them down.
Unless parents or nurses or teachers drag them up to eat, children prefer what's natural to their feet.
Adolescents retain this inclination fidgetting in their chair, unable to remember bright eyes amidst marks of good or fair.
Men are accostumed to a city of furniture, shelves of relics of events occurred.
I saw a man sittng on a rock,
a book firmly cradled in his hands,
raised above his bent elbows,
where there is urgency, there should be no delay