“[E]very failure to cope with a life situation must be laid, in the end, to a restriction of consciousness. Wars and temper tantrums are the makeshifts of ignorance; regrets are illuminations come too late. The whole sense of the ubiquitous myth of the hero’s passage is that it shall serve as a general pattern for men and women, wherever they may stand along the scale. Therefore it is formulated in the broadest terms. The individual has only to discover his own position with reference to this general human formula and let it then assist him past his restricting walls. Who and where are his ogres? Those are the reflections of the unresolved enigmas of his own humanity. What are his ideals? Those are the symptoms of his grasp of life.”
— Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces
10:19 pm • 11 June 2014 • 5 notes
“This, I believe, is the great Western truth: that each of us is a completely unique creature and that, if we are ever to give any gift to the world, it will have to come out of our own experience and fulfillment of our own potentialities, not someone else’s.”
— Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth
11:38 am • 8 June 2014 • 12 notes
Dusk in a City
The vine ripened dream sequence
for a coma inside the stubborn perception,
two brown and red cardinals chasing
moving gone. For a soiled man,
a precipice, has magnificent places to go
escape the clattering heart signal, a pace
too and know: never explained
the darkening street, head down,
expanded puddle mouth (don’t
die too soon). It’s a mechanical half
wound sickness of thought; love that
gapes before awareness throne, craft
secret cleansed the pixie under ice.
You’re here, you’re there, you’re where
glittering star dirt will envelop, that is
emerge to presence seeing a difference
between immorality crowded among skin
and an immobile christening of continuity
through non-deciduous atomic structure.
If that’s unclear, lay your hand on the stove
and count to ten, unbending your hush
memories. I’ve unshackled the phosphorous
of failed angst and spit forth two shoes
dyed white with small buoys atop. Something
to be afraid of has landed within, but will
sink as the sky gathers into the box and
the little animals evolve as lovely dust.
11:27 pm • 7 June 2014 • 18 notes
Purgatory Related to Coinciding with or Raising Living Beings
The construction of effort
in this day of June 3, 2014
has boiled down upon
nothing more than organisms dying
and organisms born. Whatever
axis dictates forward imagining or
backward reconstruction, there is
always room for speculation present
cream. The Doppler effect of aging:
colors appear transformative,
different in the cumulus light
edging across screen missing
tense subject conjunctive.
Whether it’s simple to dissect
the causal relation
silent rebirth shroud made from
garlic root. The purple pot boils
with an obstructed justice, a druid,
making megalomania from figurative
demise. An attractive window at
the drive-thru with a strawberry
milkshake; the magic of machines
spitting intolerance surprises and joy
from artificial leggings told through
the eyeball’s mud flap cherry grin,
a thing to situate between modernity
and post-meta-reactionary penumbra.
I know there’s an exit, I’m just
taking the long way to see a reverse
clock skin peeled upward in sync to
arterioscleric evaporating pipes in
playing hymns of a lifetime’s calcium
What’s real if the doctor hides
between the bush? Do you remember
never spoke? It shimmers atop fluoride
dreams, liners that stick more so than
the next artifact of biopsychosocial
interrogation. The clasped palate
extends beyond reason, forgetting
the excess, clips danger at the heart
of any situation: rolling down a bare
rocky hill. Under ricocheted vibration,
a horse (of a kind) will enter and show
us a way. The farms changed overnight,
the hay gone, the water dark, the roosters
nesting, and then the thunder clap and
the closed mute faces.
10:28 pm • 4 June 2014 • 14 notes
Tomorrow Might Come
There’s a certain color in my face
that I can’t place without believing
little book things. We can find a way
to sort through time, make ourselves
into what we wanted or dreamt or hated,
as long as the fingers moved. I have a twin
muse looking through the mirror, marks
on the arm, somewhere down Euclid or
North Avenue. Where the bob turns red,
there’s an Old English way about following
the dream until it’s day. I can’t think two ways,
painting my face white to replace the sun
and all my regretful bowing. They say,
just wait until it’s over, meaning: sing
and there will be another day to walk
and lips to shine and pigments to mix
on your shoulder. Can you see me now?
I’ve got a sheet where my pride hid,
a more handsome projection of id driven
fear. You can be who you want today,
the projector blackens our fallen mask,
gives it some new material like canvas
to cut into pieces and spread across
our skin. I wear an orange flower in my
hair and remember tomorrow might come.
I’ll pick up the brush and keep it painting.
9:53 pm • 3 June 2014 • 32 notes
If you take life absolutely seriously, you must realize there’s the counter-play to it, that the world of law is simply an optional world. When you do something you create a pattern that excludes other possibilities, and there comes a time for opening up to all possibility and the creative act.
Actually, everybody who has ever done creative work of any kind knows this moment. You make your plans in terms of what the mind can think of, and if you hold to those plans you’re going to have a dry, dead piece of work. What you have to do is open out underneath into chaos, and then a new thing comes, and if you bring your critical faculty down too early you’re going to kill it.
There’s a beautiful letter that Schiller wrote to a young author who was having the trouble that’s known as writer’s block. This young writer had oh, so much to say, but he couldn’t write. This is a normal situation. Schiller said simply, ‘Your problem is that you’re bringing the critical factor into play before you have let the lyric factor work.
Look what happens to us in our schools: we learn to criticize Milton and Shakespeare and Goethe and everybody else, and then the teacher says, ‘Now do some creative work.’ You sit down and this bit of spilth begins coming out and you think, Oh, my God! That’s nothing. Of course you can’t write like Shakespeare, but you can write like you, perhaps, if you let yourself go.
— Joseph Campbell, Goddeses: Mysteries of the Feminine Divine
9:48 pm • 3 June 2014 • 4 notes
A Fear to Seeing
Recovery went like this too:
I saw a pale, fat white man
hair excess, tanning by a pool
through the train window I do
regret lying about the fear of death
compelling to crawl upside down
as if nothing were temporary
reverse magic in a drain of houses
that pass through an unfocused rear
view mirror of vehicles we spent many
days earning our dearth of physical
activity hands down the best time
I ever spent parsing finger signals
made through wordless eyes changed
not by any action I premeditated
neither the sequence of unenviable
desires that lead to rebirth, death, life, etc.
each promise a new circumstance for
telling the season to go fuck itself
because the loneliness that tells is
the loneliness that surfaces via compliant
waiting lines, traffic ticket acceptances,
the greasy wheel that shouts when
you’re down and all the tennis courts
become stale promontories to living god
mythology I’ve hidden or forgot which
lacks innocence and drive, now that I’m alive
more cases to pull down, more passengers
to retain along the coast extends beyond sight
12:13 pm • 30 May 2014 • 16 notes
this poetry game feels like over cooked pasta
i need to be someone’s protege
8:26 pm • 28 May 2014 • 5 notes
Lay Your Mineral Flower Here
All colors have been called
to wear the new scarf in bold
hyacinth, meld with changing,
a daffodil pressed toward fledgling
pubescence. I’ve a camera in
my chest cavity where the clock
cannot stop nor count dust in
multiples of prime numbers.
This matte building that holds
freedom I worship potentialities
carved from calcium blocks.
The espresso cup of life,
the skeletal remains of country
accents, my screwed up leather
belt clings to frayed cotton and
yearning. Bring pizza and lay
down your turpentine insides,
measured tall to layer upon layer
nigh impossible surmise the black
dawns that covets finitude.
There are only thirty minutes
in this moment, enough time
to wash up and say bless you.
Glimpsed a mannequin with blood
and eyes, fell down the elastic stair
to a navy blue pool. I’ve asked
one too many questions, felt
poorly about my body invading
space and algorithms predicting
my next charred face. Laying down
to see the balloons, it’s a metrical
dose of Epsom salts breaching
calloused hands. You hang your pity
low, dance under both moons,
and wave to yourself as you pass
the strange booming hydrangea box.
7:41 pm • 28 May 2014 • 15 notes
I’m in the cave, a labyrinth of foot worn paths
under the building foundation, everyone is
smoking marijuana and I have a towel over
my face but I’m talking. Everything is a shade
of grey. The wisps get in somehow and I am
afraid. Later, I am running along a thin rotting
boardwalk filled with vendors and bodies, pushing
my way through but I cannot get through. There is
a large metal door that slides down on each
corridor. I am late for unknown event. I am late.
I am moving and stifled and arrive in a grocery
store parking lot where the family waits to buy
me things I cannot afford. The police are perched
at the exit to search us for contraband. I make
love to an unknown person by hugging her
and we catapult miles into the air via unknown
device. Again and again repeatedly with lush
green grass cushioning the fall. We kiss and
decide it won’t work out without the excitement.
I quit my desk job and return to gather last paycheck
where everyone is mopping my work space furiously.
11:49 am • 27 May 2014 • 12 notes
There Are Many Ways to Climb the Ladder
Somewhere the dead live to die
again. My asymmetrical hat lands
at the feet of children. You’ve got
three dollars, longing for sugar,
magnificent detritus behind your
summer coat. An immobile, jagged
thought: miles of garbage bags
filled with high school girlfriends
who’ve wrinkled in their age. I look
at the mirror and wonder at lack
of change, dying or effervescent
return to the glimmer. Will’s words
are returning to themselves to rest.
The paint of longing echoes in depth
where there is more than one home
to burn to dust. For the little excerpt,
tense structure resembling Borges,
it comes to a palatial surmise of circle
within circle within circle and a catacomb
of points that contain color and emotion.
Metastatic limbs swinging into ground,
garrisons of intent piled at the portcullis,
mental lepers washing their hands,
I’ve not begun to accumulate enough
carbon for an ascended narrative.
The living, dead as a Joyce novella,
wear a figurative winter through a summer
in hopes of a survival made from Plexiglas.
11:07 am • 26 May 2014 • 13 notes
Blood / Salt
You can do what you want with
given time, hollowed and filled of things,
like last weekend I shared a jail cell
with a Blood and sang Lois & Bram’s
Elephant Song because we could (even
though he claimed to be my guardian angel).
In between explaining codes, Los Angeles
hand signals for birds, I wonder what blood
I sip as if Thom Yorke were my long lost nephew.
Winter came through the lock and irradiated
my sleep then sweat returned and drove.
It’s easier to cry better when you lie down.
A fluorescent light in all the dog eyes, it hums
and totters to statue’s whim. How has this beat
become? Help me I’m alive, Emily Haines said.
Troubled sand whispers that snark and flourish
when walks evaporate in calm. I had a quilled
daydream of long tan legs and pastel skirts
that propose the notion of continuance as
radical pathology driven deep into the shadow.
You swear like a brown cardinal who hasn’t
flown in years. There’s this white fading blossom,
there’s hierophants for carbon dioxide and sodium,
there’s every genie that rests on your left shoulder
and frowns. Knee-high chocolate patent leather
boots and an affinity for shrugs that complicates
membranous desires. I made waves of my guilt
and became a national champion of mistaken
identity, doesn’t it feel right? This fucking light,
this fucking little light that won’t stop being.
You want to hear me but quite a sound we’ve made
through the rainbow gutter, it doesn’t come easy.
I’ve got these three snakes around my neck,
they’re mine: to the capitalist interior, they’re
fully registered and insured. Doesn’t it sting as
the black currant melts and appears to be a felt
vision of argument after argument about missing food
and dirty dishes? This voice feels unfamiliar from
the outside in, from the feet up a tingling reverb,
ownership feeling and sensation, plaid facial expression,
Velcro shoes well into adulthood. Let the sun
remonstrate my equally failed accomplishments
and open the dark blue door to show this thing
I am being, this thing that I is, blood and salt.
10:40 pm • 25 May 2014 • 29 notes
Little Black Love
I thought I said to the wind
keep it here where the grass doesn’t
grow, carry the black suitcase to know
reprieve against color, the answer sits
still until the meniscus spills. The harness
dress, before a flat wave of random
sense needing acknowledgement or
approbation to cool thinking ditches.
It has name, places, affiliation, dirigible
constellation window watching a dim
battalion inside. You tuck your shirt
and there are smiles for being awake.
The dream in which the city burns and
finally alone, you fish for condensing time.
I’ve waited a thousand minutes for nothing,
everything I hoped to ever happen.
The pronouns get sticky like sweat and lapse
down the eyeless corridor. Why are there
excess ocean metaphor? The analog to
living, dissolving into mud and creeping
through storm-drains that overflow, given
the microbial moment, helping fall up
the ladder, reversed digits on the steering
wheel, transposing feeling into a monetary
reckoning of how to find the way out. I know
there’s someone in the woods, a little black
and white dog who barks silently and waits.
11:31 pm • 21 May 2014 • 18 notes
heyyy jail was fun, i’m back now, poems to come, bye
12:24 pm • 20 May 2014 • 3 notes
the dream in which david foster wallace appears in the guise of paul dano to deliver me really sobering news about the whole writing thing
9:33 am • 12 May 2014 • 4 notes