Perhaps Jesus was Mary's creativity, fathered by god, sliding into her body while she slept or ate. It gathered wisdom as the years passes, teaching and healing others, curing illnesses, feeding the hungry with words and images, bringing a man back to life after he had fallen into the death of his own subconscious. The productions of her mind were so clear and impressive that they had to be mutilated, tortured, displayed for her entire community. She may have cried at the feet of her own destroyed passion, which she entombed, and within days it came back to her, strengthened, moving rocks and soil despite its scars and cracked joints. Perhaps Mary wrote the gospels, daring enough to suggest that her work should replace the mythology of her own culture. Perhaps all of Christianity is a celebration of the intellectual pregnancy of an unwed teenage girl.
Crucifixes are worn to remind us of the inevitable resurrection of poetry.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
5:03
There are loud voices all around me driving me mad with their inflections and elongated pronunciations like there are other words underneath stretching out the sentences, about the universality of life: loneliness, the delicacy and fragility of time.
I need silence and novels and whiskey. I need this storm to be the only noise in my head as I become wearied of the internal-speak with its flashing memories that are totally useless, telling me things of childhood and cutting me open so that the ghosts that try to get inside my hips and float between my fingers can pick inside my stomach for the food I have swallowed because they are not strong enough to hold their own. I am reading cards over coffee and learning Muslim stories, writing prayers to Joan of Arc for people who may have not existed, but who want to have their lives told to those with different shapes of arms, clear faces, people who did not come out of the sea but sprung from jagged rocks and soil. My words may not make sense, but I promise that they will form into proteins, clouding your eyes while you sleep; you may see redheaded women with bruised teeth and grotesque, mutated animals in your dreams. Think of me in the future when the doctor pulls the milky cataract out of the lens.
Assist the things that terrify you with their power, work with your fear, stretch its plasticine and chew its calories. Whatever causes horror in your animal-mind is simply trying to welcome you back to what you are.
My bestial temporal lobes are full of lunacy, an ecstatic form of sanity; I am a true lunatic, talking to the moon.
I do not know what I am writing I do not know my body and my mind I do not know gender or the ecosystem of soil but I know the rotation of emotion in the color of sonic, neon blue that exists in the ridiculous gray matter that sends electricity into my spinal fluid. I will raise my shirt and show you my breasts and the glowing indigo in the curve of my back.
I leave my journal open on the back porch and ghosts come out of the fog, wanting to read my work.
"No," I say. "It is not ready yet."
I have to write of the things that wake me from sleep and leave me alone at 3 am, cold in the cruel July heat, all of my dreams sucked from my ankles. Writing is the only thing that saves me from death. I am inundated in my own sensuality, I have fed my blood to demons and flowers and replaced it with chemicals; I would not have survived any other way.
I am a witch. I belong in water. I have created my own personality, carved the angel out of marble, freed Botticelli from Hell.
There are oceans turning on Venus. I live for beauty and freedom, two words I cannot even define. I hear the singing of androgynous women and see a person with dark circles underneath their eyes move their thin fingers and write poetry in the air that I can only read when I sleep, words my mind wrote while I was busy living. What is inside of me?
Women who pray often wear veils. They split their knees on the floors of holy rooms, tearing open their skin to be like a dead prophet, their wrists and foreheads dripping onto the ground.
Abyssus Abyssum Invocat. Christi crux est mea lux.
I need silence and novels and whiskey. I need this storm to be the only noise in my head as I become wearied of the internal-speak with its flashing memories that are totally useless, telling me things of childhood and cutting me open so that the ghosts that try to get inside my hips and float between my fingers can pick inside my stomach for the food I have swallowed because they are not strong enough to hold their own. I am reading cards over coffee and learning Muslim stories, writing prayers to Joan of Arc for people who may have not existed, but who want to have their lives told to those with different shapes of arms, clear faces, people who did not come out of the sea but sprung from jagged rocks and soil. My words may not make sense, but I promise that they will form into proteins, clouding your eyes while you sleep; you may see redheaded women with bruised teeth and grotesque, mutated animals in your dreams. Think of me in the future when the doctor pulls the milky cataract out of the lens.
Assist the things that terrify you with their power, work with your fear, stretch its plasticine and chew its calories. Whatever causes horror in your animal-mind is simply trying to welcome you back to what you are.
My bestial temporal lobes are full of lunacy, an ecstatic form of sanity; I am a true lunatic, talking to the moon.
I do not know what I am writing I do not know my body and my mind I do not know gender or the ecosystem of soil but I know the rotation of emotion in the color of sonic, neon blue that exists in the ridiculous gray matter that sends electricity into my spinal fluid. I will raise my shirt and show you my breasts and the glowing indigo in the curve of my back.
I leave my journal open on the back porch and ghosts come out of the fog, wanting to read my work.
"No," I say. "It is not ready yet."
I have to write of the things that wake me from sleep and leave me alone at 3 am, cold in the cruel July heat, all of my dreams sucked from my ankles. Writing is the only thing that saves me from death. I am inundated in my own sensuality, I have fed my blood to demons and flowers and replaced it with chemicals; I would not have survived any other way.
I am a witch. I belong in water. I have created my own personality, carved the angel out of marble, freed Botticelli from Hell.
There are oceans turning on Venus. I live for beauty and freedom, two words I cannot even define. I hear the singing of androgynous women and see a person with dark circles underneath their eyes move their thin fingers and write poetry in the air that I can only read when I sleep, words my mind wrote while I was busy living. What is inside of me?
Women who pray often wear veils. They split their knees on the floors of holy rooms, tearing open their skin to be like a dead prophet, their wrists and foreheads dripping onto the ground.
Sunday, July 7, 2013
9:35
I had a dream that my journal was full. I turned the pages and saw words upside down, pictures, prayers. I always see when I close my eyes with enough images and lunacy for you to wash your body with, drink in the hot July, massage into the bruises of your feet. My head is hungrier than my limbs and I desire the filthy words of Anais because they have more honesty than the poems of a mystic starving his cells of water in a desert, the coyotes refusing to come near because his sweat is so sick. I heard once that only women can be close to god, but I did not listen, because I feel that I should have been born a man with a man's freedom, his hard body and strong jaw. My lover calls me a beautiful boy, a prince; my brain is full of ambiguity and non-reality. I understand that part of my happiness is accepting that I will be lost forever.
I do not understand myself, I do not understand this gray-morning sky with its lights turned down, I do not understand how fruit is grown and how the cut on my leg healed without me paying attention to it. There are ghosts everywhere. The sound of the ocean may be the oldest thing on earth and I hate being locked in the mountains because they are often too beautiful and I live in the bathtub because I am a witch, a womb-man that needs to be close to water. A creature that desires beautiful skin. For the first time in years I miss California with its loud waves and the surfboards on the porch, the pot full of jasmine rice on the stove, the sand in my mouth that I thought would suffocate me. I could fall back into the sea, but I am scared that it would spit me out, and I could never live with that rejection.
I only want to write to you, whatever you are.
I feel that these words can be useless, a waste of time.
I want them to pack into your joints like cement.
I want to cut into you skin and lick whatever is underneath.
I want to replace your heart with an apple, eat your thoughts.
I want to give you keys, but tell you not to open the room.
(The key will fill the house with blood if you do)
I want to translate the myths in your mind.
True poetry is cruel.
Wild animals have been waiting for us, at the edge of the desert.
Move through my body like air.
If you turn me inside out, you will find fur.
When I die, remove my fingers and use them as runes.
God is red.
Use what is between my legs as cream.
I want to disgust you.
I want to terrify you.
I want to give you the words that make life worth living.
My skull has been cracked open with a hammer and I am seeing things in the grass that are not there. I am sewing emotion and plastic into my skin. I detach soul from body and go back to a life on ships and in lighthouses, eating fish and sleeping in hammocks, surrounded by water that I cannot drink. I want to be free from Hell.
I do not understand myself, I do not understand this gray-morning sky with its lights turned down, I do not understand how fruit is grown and how the cut on my leg healed without me paying attention to it. There are ghosts everywhere. The sound of the ocean may be the oldest thing on earth and I hate being locked in the mountains because they are often too beautiful and I live in the bathtub because I am a witch, a womb-man that needs to be close to water. A creature that desires beautiful skin. For the first time in years I miss California with its loud waves and the surfboards on the porch, the pot full of jasmine rice on the stove, the sand in my mouth that I thought would suffocate me. I could fall back into the sea, but I am scared that it would spit me out, and I could never live with that rejection.
I only want to write to you, whatever you are.
I feel that these words can be useless, a waste of time.
I want them to pack into your joints like cement.
I want to cut into you skin and lick whatever is underneath.
I want to replace your heart with an apple, eat your thoughts.
I want to give you keys, but tell you not to open the room.
(The key will fill the house with blood if you do)
I want to translate the myths in your mind.
True poetry is cruel.
Wild animals have been waiting for us, at the edge of the desert.
Move through my body like air.
If you turn me inside out, you will find fur.
When I die, remove my fingers and use them as runes.
God is red.
Use what is between my legs as cream.
I want to disgust you.
I want to terrify you.
I want to give you the words that make life worth living.
My skull has been cracked open with a hammer and I am seeing things in the grass that are not there. I am sewing emotion and plastic into my skin. I detach soul from body and go back to a life on ships and in lighthouses, eating fish and sleeping in hammocks, surrounded by water that I cannot drink. I want to be free from Hell.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
12:42
I have been awake for hours and I feel as if the day is almost done and in many ways the life outside of myself agrees with me, as the sky is a perfect and soft and reflecting off of the leaves gray. There are times that I see the color of blood in everything, mutated to greens, purples, and yellows; blood is subjective, ageless. I feel it in my thin wrists shining blue through the skin, branching up into my palms where the lines are supposed to reveal my future but I only smell the perfume from this morning and see my grandmother over fifty years ago before my birth--which was an accident--with her small wrists that were not yet ruined by gases filling her lungs that I am sure carried memories...what happens to what our cells remember when the organs are removed from our bodies?
The new novel is moving slowly and I have not found that rhythm that coincides with the genuine of my work and I feel that I am creating a structure that is not for myself, but the demotic idea of literature, which pours rubbing alcohol onto the human brain (and perhaps those of other creatures, because interconnection begins with how we view our environments through the filter of our personalities, which is just an encompassing word for the genetics of emotion). We need new books full of insanity. I want to create words that stick with the reader and drive them mad because only through the lenses of fear and anxiety are you able to see the disease in the marrow of your bones, rattling in your body like rosary beads.
I hear the lonely echo in the cavities of my skeleton while I walk and the sound reminds me of an empty hospital hallway. I sometimes do not remember that I am made of flesh because I am not sure if I am human -- my father speaks to apple trees while I silently rub my fingers along microchips, writing pages for satellites.
I like insects and love letters written by sane-less women in the 18th century because they are microcosms of a different universe than the one I experience now with my inebriated eyelashes and numb fingerprints. I am obsessed with anatomy because I have bruised molars and as a child I watched a man play a man speaking to the skull of a man he knew as a boy, his words written in 1600 on a different continent by someone that also had eye sockets and pupils.
I had once believed that reality was the hallucination of my diseased brain but I now understand that life is true because I could have never imagined the fractals of trees.
We decided to trade bodies, talking over phones that were made by slaves. We agreed to share fat and muscle, lose fertility, but I think that we should keep our hands, as they are coded with the mechanics of our neural signals, maps that can be used to identify our numbers.
I do not light candles at Mass because of the normality of prayer, but only because I have fingernails and that are clear and thick; I touch the useless statues because they are made out of the elements of earth that hold the bloody-blue salt-water where organisms pop out of the surface like ideas. The earth is turned inside out and we sit on the beach laughing, listening to the sounds of the waves, which is only the rush of fluid through veins.
The new novel is moving slowly and I have not found that rhythm that coincides with the genuine of my work and I feel that I am creating a structure that is not for myself, but the demotic idea of literature, which pours rubbing alcohol onto the human brain (and perhaps those of other creatures, because interconnection begins with how we view our environments through the filter of our personalities, which is just an encompassing word for the genetics of emotion). We need new books full of insanity. I want to create words that stick with the reader and drive them mad because only through the lenses of fear and anxiety are you able to see the disease in the marrow of your bones, rattling in your body like rosary beads.
I hear the lonely echo in the cavities of my skeleton while I walk and the sound reminds me of an empty hospital hallway. I sometimes do not remember that I am made of flesh because I am not sure if I am human -- my father speaks to apple trees while I silently rub my fingers along microchips, writing pages for satellites.
I like insects and love letters written by sane-less women in the 18th century because they are microcosms of a different universe than the one I experience now with my inebriated eyelashes and numb fingerprints. I am obsessed with anatomy because I have bruised molars and as a child I watched a man play a man speaking to the skull of a man he knew as a boy, his words written in 1600 on a different continent by someone that also had eye sockets and pupils.
I had once believed that reality was the hallucination of my diseased brain but I now understand that life is true because I could have never imagined the fractals of trees.
We decided to trade bodies, talking over phones that were made by slaves. We agreed to share fat and muscle, lose fertility, but I think that we should keep our hands, as they are coded with the mechanics of our neural signals, maps that can be used to identify our numbers.
I do not light candles at Mass because of the normality of prayer, but only because I have fingernails and that are clear and thick; I touch the useless statues because they are made out of the elements of earth that hold the bloody-blue salt-water where organisms pop out of the surface like ideas. The earth is turned inside out and we sit on the beach laughing, listening to the sounds of the waves, which is only the rush of fluid through veins.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
6:41
I did not know what to write first, so I thought of words and dreams, William Blake, the man in the suit walking in front of me who turned around and said:
"You are raving mad, Mr. Artaud."
There are sentences I want to give to you and sentences I want to give to him and her and those I know who encompass both. I stood naked in front of my window this morning and saw a infant male cardinal eating insects off of the side of this home; I walked in the high grass of the woods yesterday and prayed to a mushroom growing on the side of a log. I saw a white oak that was 150 years old and much larger than my body and life and perhaps more beautiful with its innumerable limbs and green-brown hair (or eyes, I do not know what trees use to see), its skin a better shade than my own.
I love cardinals because their feathers are better than blood (synonymous with what is fundamental and of the greatest importance), holier than any ecclesiastic wearing their chemical colors of life, the mutilated and erotic body of a mystic hanging around their necks. All of god is flesh and fingers and I do not understand how Catholics can believe a human's soul is more important than that of a bird -- the stretching of the cosmos (god's subconscious) is made for all of life, which I feel is more abundant than marble statues of saints and water blessed by lonely, sick men.
I do not know what it means to dream only of ghosts but I wake in the middle of the night saying:
"His eyes! His eyes!"
"Daniel, you should of come home."
I sleep and speak to men I have never met, Spanish noblewomen who wear the faces of goats. A woman orgasms inside of me and hands me a rosary made with bright red beads, made from stones more precious than rubies and not found on Earth. I see the water we feed to hummingbirds, as if we are giving them Christ's blood.
Green and Red are sisters, they say. Green, the color of Life; Red, the color of god.
I have finished the novel and started another, full of different words, and now I am back in the room of my own mind, speaking to a cursed animal that is a Sufi. I am writing letters through plastic and satellites to my split-heart on a different continent. I am awake in a morning where light is yellow and the sounds of water are deafening; my fingertips on my own lips feel like a hymn to the power of molecules and the sensation of touch.
Sunday, June 16, 2013
11:00
I had a dream last night where I was escorted to see a man in a laboratory, who was trimming the dead branches off of a small plant. He was speaking Latin and I asked him what he wanted; he told me to forget my ideas and my mind.
"Why should I lose what I know?"
"Because," he said, "I am going to teach you everything."
I woke up, repeating his words in my head.
I feel my thoughts falling off of with my skin and I am happy with my hallucinations of imagination where I create scenes and lines that are something of beauty, even if they have been filtered with the dirt of my ego. I am only full when I write, like I am sticking cotton back into the empty spaces of my organs because I have eaten myself; I have cannibalized my limbs and fingers, my eyes are made of marble, phosphorescent from future pollution. I am born again and again and again, but with the same mind, whose frontal lobe is the only piece I have fingered. I feel like I cannot think through the close-to-summer rain which is just imbricated color, layered like a person. My own universe of friendship, work, idea, and love (which I have only had patience for) is so expansive when I braid my eyelashes that I laugh over my desire to understand the Cosmos and the order of G(g)od, which may be an expression of the same thing, like how science and poetry are split embryos.
I am giving most of my possessions away, even my library, as I do not want to feel responsible for any of it; I have the weight of sanity and words on my uterus, which is all I can bear. It is raining and I am alive, and I am born again and again and again and I am in everything I see; I am alive and in a female body, which means I have chosen happiness and beauty. I live to touch all beautiful things. I want to celebrate by talking, and making love.
I was born with a violent and dark thing inside of me, but it has grown intelligent; through time, it has become gentle. Or perhaps all of this is fear, which is only a thought that can be easily disregarded.
I have coffee and cream, sparkling water, and cake; I have hands and fingers and dried skin on my lips. I am surrounded and stitched with the complexity of life.
"Why should I lose what I know?"
"Because," he said, "I am going to teach you everything."
I woke up, repeating his words in my head.
I feel my thoughts falling off of with my skin and I am happy with my hallucinations of imagination where I create scenes and lines that are something of beauty, even if they have been filtered with the dirt of my ego. I am only full when I write, like I am sticking cotton back into the empty spaces of my organs because I have eaten myself; I have cannibalized my limbs and fingers, my eyes are made of marble, phosphorescent from future pollution. I am born again and again and again, but with the same mind, whose frontal lobe is the only piece I have fingered. I feel like I cannot think through the close-to-summer rain which is just imbricated color, layered like a person. My own universe of friendship, work, idea, and love (which I have only had patience for) is so expansive when I braid my eyelashes that I laugh over my desire to understand the Cosmos and the order of G(g)od, which may be an expression of the same thing, like how science and poetry are split embryos.
I am giving most of my possessions away, even my library, as I do not want to feel responsible for any of it; I have the weight of sanity and words on my uterus, which is all I can bear. It is raining and I am alive, and I am born again and again and again and I am in everything I see; I am alive and in a female body, which means I have chosen happiness and beauty. I live to touch all beautiful things. I want to celebrate by talking, and making love.
I was born with a violent and dark thing inside of me, but it has grown intelligent; through time, it has become gentle. Or perhaps all of this is fear, which is only a thought that can be easily disregarded.
I have coffee and cream, sparkling water, and cake; I have hands and fingers and dried skin on my lips. I am surrounded and stitched with the complexity of life.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
2:36
Taken from my journal on June 1, 2013:
Poetry is a way of translating the mystery of life, but it will always remain a mystery.
The absolute miracle of life.
Sitting beneath the apple tree and understanding the particular set of circumstances for human evolution, which includes the ability to appreciate the taste of fruit and the color green. I am taken in by the fascination of experiencing the universe as this person and the universe having an experience of sentience through me. I am a part of existence as much as an exoplanet full of oceanic mammals; I do not say that with arrogance, but as a statement of reality, which is a prayer to no one in particular--I sometimes feel god is the name we give to the sensation of corporeality, staggering and ordinary.
My existence is the result of absolute chance. I am thankful to microbes, salt-water, death, sex, time, language, and medicine. I am thankful to the knowledge of past humans, who are now intangible, except in my DNA.
To say god, whisper carbon oxygen hydrogen to the grass, your clothes, the dry skin on your hands.
I am purely human--by biology and the spirit given to me by god.
June 9, 2013. 2:47.
I am full of words and useless emotion and when I sit silently I hear a still voice say that it no longer wants to live; I wake and feel the absolute excitement, and beauty, of life. I love summer and the word June, which feels like an exclamation of the neurotoxicity of warm air color and fruit and I love birds because they know their purpose is to breed and sing, with no thoughts on the glorious voice of their songs; I love my white blood cells because they know the pleasure of untangling pathogens and the comfort of bone marrow.
I am here with my thoughts in the middle of the elegance of science and do not understand my own design. I feel weak and unaware but reading the first line of poetry sparks me alive and I have begun to notice a seal-song in the ocean of my subconscious and the deep, androgynous notes are full of a longing and understanding that horrify me, that may not even belong to my person, but to the millions of years that have created one woman whose gray organ protected by a fragile skull contains the amino acids necessary for creating life.
I can do nothing else but listen to the thunder and sit in the sun (a ridiculous star in god's own dark mind) which is not precious in the complexity of space but it was there to create my body and burn my child-skin.
I can become lost in the ecstatic experience of a star tearing the layers of an organ off of my body. Eyes are like planets, an angel's jewelry.
Dream Poetry. May 19, 2013.
Months ago I had a dream
where ghosts laughed at me,
pushing through my skin to lick my ribs;
they said my husband had died,
that I will marry
a dead man.
I saw you then,
your sweet face
crying underneath the weight
of their smiles.
The air was lavender and
pastel-gray above your head,
a delicate, polluted afternoon.
I walked through the noise
and told you a secret:
I have never been in love.
On my knees I promised
to carry your bones
on my back, make clothes
out of your skin, and place
whatever is left of your fingers
inside of me.
You kissed my hand
and the ghosts crawled on the floor,
looking for their tongues.
where ghosts laughed at me,
pushing through my skin to lick my ribs;
they said my husband had died,
that I will marry
a dead man.
I saw you then,
your sweet face
crying underneath the weight
of their smiles.
The air was lavender and
pastel-gray above your head,
a delicate, polluted afternoon.
I walked through the noise
and told you a secret:
I have never been in love.
On my knees I promised
to carry your bones
on my back, make clothes
out of your skin, and place
whatever is left of your fingers
inside of me.
You kissed my hand
and the ghosts crawled on the floor,
looking for their tongues.
This morning I stood naked
in the kitchen, listening to
the silent May,
slicing a pear in half
and placing a plate in front
of an empty chair.
Sitting across from you
I reached to the middle of
the table and felt your
open mouth against my palm,
your fingertips playing with
the strands of your teeth
tied around my wrist,
dyed a soft purple from
the rising sun leaking
in the kitchen, listening to
the silent May,
slicing a pear in half
and placing a plate in front
of an empty chair.
Sitting across from you
I reached to the middle of
the table and felt your
open mouth against my palm,
your fingertips playing with
the strands of your teeth
tied around my wrist,
dyed a soft purple from
the rising sun leaking
through the window.
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