Day: July 8, 2009

in our days if celebrity
15 seconds
own home pages
fans
stalkers
readers we’ll never meet
the art of being
these days
may just be
the ability to create an adequate
Testament of Self

perhaps I just think this because it is what I have come to do so much of
pages of photos of me
writings of my thoughts
even my voice
saying little things
in my little voices throught time…
videos of me talking! excercising! fucking!
of course!
and singing songs…

just being…
I Was Here!
This Is How I Did IT!

i write this to you know
because I want to walk through the house of you
I want to read the words of your beliefs
see all your favourite pictures you’ve taken
and those taken of you…
your particularily fine fuck flicks
and your self indulgent musings into the lense

do you have this somewhere?

is it far too crass?

( I wrote this to someone I’ve never met, but on the net… a testament to my own ability to become fascinated with people again… which it seems I had lost for a while )

.flickr-photo { }.flickr-yourcomment { }

there is actually a can manufacturer who puts transformer logos on
their cars?
nj plates..

the love story

it doesn’t matter if you have a wife
or a guy you’ve lived with for 19 years
it seems the most marketable
ahhhhh, hooking
sticky
yearning
tasty
sugarylump of item-to-share
is the Love Story.

i remember when i was 14
i forbade myself from listening to any more love stories (is that true? it must have been 18)

i remember when i was 18
i met her in a dark alleyway
after staying up all night
it was actually the back of the apartment building
cold dark brick in every directions
eyes burning, throat sore
crystal meth and bossy film maker
up all night
all night in a new huge thumping city
the heat yet to bowl us all over
and he walked in
his eyes like two fucking spoons to dig into me and cut out my heart
who created some silliness with me
then took me by the hand
into the park
but not through a door
over a wall
and up a huge cliff!
A HUGE CLIFF
as any rock in central park can become
when it’s a love story

the sky opened up
the birds gave us presents
we never slept again
and in my mind
i could only sleep with him

no
it wasn’t sex
it was purer than that
only love
only brother
only sister and mother
this kid was my soul
my mate
we were together in a way no others were
(they way we all are, they way we all dream about being)
he seeing all of my posing
my poetics
my tragedy
in fact high-lighting places i’d been un-aware of
to make my darkers more dark
to make my story more tight
more pull
more love
as my broke heart limped along
only 19 years old and already a cripple
born like that, really
raised like that
malnourished on sugar crystals
and a father who’s always gone
and doesn’t know how to hug when he’s there

the tension, the un-attainable
he wanted me to be his wife
or husband
it’s the only way i could see it
he was always a woman to me
his lithe beautiful body
his hurtful, insightful words
the only story we knew was the love story

and i can’t hold onto that
my eyes make contact
and my fingers go slack

why do this again?
i’m not kidding

he’s in a loveless loveful marriage of constant bickering and couples therapy now
he’s so happy. so stable. so fucking shut me off.
all of my love stories have come to ground
far from port
broken little ships
with only one captain on them
or only one passenger
maybe i wasn’t steering enough?
along for the ride
hoping everything would be better when we reach the other side
but i’ve always been crashing on the same shore i’m pushing off from

ugh
so tired of it
i always try to forget

more love stories
more love stories.