11:25

There are birds screaming at me because I am sitting near their nests in the pines, but I do not care; I speak to them, give them words whose tone of voice reminds them that I am an animal without claws and eyes too similar to theirs. They leave me alone.

I do not know what to say think feel so I spoke to my lover--who is like my own soul--and he told me he did not believe in the separation of body and mind but that the electric current of thought was no different than my automatic circulation of blood and that I should pay no attention to what is mutated and swims in the lobes because the water of my brain does not match reality. I agreed, and we kissed, but I thought that imagination itself was of god (even if It does not exist) and that the reality of my experience of the universe is absolutely ordinary, but nonetheless remarkable. There is not a division between the fantastic and the mundane.

I began to think of myself and to whom I was speaking : who is the I that talks and how have they lived and died, do they have gender (a word that dissolved when speaking of the ego), what is between my marrow and will I remember what happens after death because through fantasy I sometimes feel my conception. My skin crumbled in my palms so I listed all of the colors that reminded me of my lover's skin and semen: aero, amaranth, azure, bone, byzantine, cardinal, champagne, deer, eminence, french wine, gold, harlequin, indigo, jade, jasmine, june bud, lemon, lust, magenta, misty rose, moonstone, palatinate blue, silver, patriarch, peru, pink pearl, psychedelic purple, rich lilac, saffron, seashell, silver, soap, timberwolf, ultramarine, violet, white smoke.

Truth came back with its clouds and technology, warm thick May-storm air and I breathed because I am sewn into the fabric of reality and I watch the infant birds come out of their nests to the grass with their soft mouths and I understand the anger of birds more than my own language. Their feathers are more expansive than thought, the stretching of their wings cosmogyral.

4:25

I have many minds.

I feel that sanity is split into two shores with an ocean in the middle, where I rock and glide on the waves that look like lucid icebergs but never touch my palms to the sand. 

I bring myself back to reality, back to my real life and all I feel in the morning while in bed after hours with friends and wine is my broken heart and loneliness, not only in my own body, but filling the room all the way up to the wooden beams and fans that are no different than me, that came from the same ground. I touch the dirt, I touch silk, I touch hair and knives and computer keys and holy books and I know it all through the sensation of an absolutely broken heart, which is not sadness or anger or depression, but eyes that are being cracked like eggs, losing their shells, coming back to their reality of malleable, sensitive organs.

The color of spring was too much before I fell asleep and all I could see was the brightness of green, the thick grass, the ivory-diluted-blue sky. Color is stimulating and I feel it around the letters I put on paper and I know that I am nothing -- human -- but I am also everything and I have no sense of god but myself and all that is around me, all of which is boring and ordinary. I think my cat's fur is metaphysical because we were next to each other one night and I was amazed that two different species with varied bodies and ideas of normalcy that grew on separate forks of the evolutionary branch in our milky fingered galaxy came to be resting on the same blanket, loving one another, sharing air and water. However, there is nothing more common in our culture: I paid money to adopt her from a shelter while in college and I am imprinted as her mother. That does not our meeting any less remarkable. Sometimes I feel that I need no other god but the simple, glorious intoxication of reality.

I am inundated with paradox:

I am full of enthusiasm for life and laughter, but sometimes the water feels like suicide.

I am alone, but found in everyone.

There is no sense of "I" but the thoughts and words keep coming, the desires, wishes, and fantasies.






I am driven, but I do not know towards what; I want to give you something, You, with your varied luminous faces and hands that I know I will love once we touch.

10:54

I do not have time to feel to let my fingers gain moisture, to close my eyes and open them to something I have created which is my only comfort as I live in my insanity, the back breaking madness of my fucking mind that pushes me to the corners of what I consider to be reality and forces me to create words and images that are so awful, so thick and fat with terror that I do not know who could love them or bear to touch the person whose skin they fell out of.


Last night in my sleep I told a German man of how to recognize ghosts. I said that you will feel them slide across torso and every hair on your body will move, especially the ones on the lower back. I said that you have to speak to the air, ask what is there, and try not to be terrified.


I have so many more dreams, most made of love, that I do not remember because I give myself to meaningless tasks and my laziness. I give myself to fear which is in every cell of my body like DNA and memories and the semen of men who lived thousands of years ago in some cold land of Eastern Europe and I wonder if they cared for the women they were inside of, if they liked animals, if there was some beauty in the ceaseless snow.


I said to my lovers Hey, let's go get a drink and we barely eat so after a the gin cleans out our cavities we are laughing at the chilled May sun and the loud blue jays and I tell them I can't breathe because of the claustrophobia of the mountains, that my heart is turning blue, and they laugh and touch my skin and I wonder what has happened to real romance, to the soul-song dance of communication between the emotion of the given people that kiss not only from the genetic desire but because there might be a piece of poetry to be shed as summer comes and the orgasm of my words and clitoris are not for my pleasure alone, but because I think I have found something so beautiful that it will give you a reason to stay alive.



How do you dissolve fear, like fur in acid? How do you experience true intimacy?


I hate that what I work for and love most has been learned and did not come from my lips as naturally as a crying and vomit. I took all of the words in, digested them with milk, created something already known but smelling of my thighs and fingerprints. I like to think that if I never touched my mother like those great beautiful children who lived in forests with their furred siblings and matted hair that all of the words would still exist in the voice that had never been touched by language, born deep in the body, lower than the bones, in the true, quiet dark. I read a story about an abused child who could not communicate but when she heard classical music she stood still, full with the experience of real emotion. 


Syllables are the piano pieces of my soul.


Chilly, Mohammed-May sun.