who let you call all the shots?

healing is a pervasive force.

if we are going there, then can we at least take the scenic route, I would prefer it.

        it is the light in things that makes them last. 

same light that is tearing up the sky is coming for us.

i'll take pictures as if I can easily forget what I've seen.

made from the pressure of dirt, i'm a gem.

i saw my little sister in the city and i felt like the little sister (i always have)

in two different occasions she said to me "some things never change" while grinning,

smiling, i remember when i used to make fun of her crooked teeth.

now they are pristine and straight. it's funny the things we remember. 

there are no new ways of understanding the world

only new days to set our understanding against.

apperception

the mantel changes into a cut, jump

on the brow where hair and time

have formed a new skin, the bird

changes into a pane of glass,

a new object to be desired changes into the bird

once again. things


seem to be improving: the flightless


curiosity of ground ridden birds

are few, the sky formerly resting,

now becomes the landscape seen through panes of glass.


words can't be paragraphs but the movement of sentences do tell us otherwise:


to call something magic is unfair. places where my eyes were.

we ought not to be watched over so closely. we need the freedom


of monotony. only then

can monotony magically happen.

 An Excursion 

A flash of anger floods after the door slams, body posture like pulling teeth on the drive, silence draping the last words said fill the car, equally talkative double rail bridge across the way, an attempt of peace making babytalk through comedic relief during the walk on the path, skipping stones pries justification, refusal by the bend on the rocks, guilt and I almost fell in the water, cry of anger in the clearing, a weeping next to a nameless flowering shrub.

 Alan Davies 

 

S. Howe says that poetry is redemption from pessimism. 

i felt perma stoned all day yesterday and i suspect it's the allergies given that i slept 9 hours the night before.

Last night I had a dream that myene and I were sharing a huge room, there was a sliding wooden door in between us. a buffer if you will. we were both in our respective beds when I swung it open (the wooden door). my cat, basket ventured on her side of the room. 

Every 8 months or so I have a dream where myene makes a guest appearance. I wonder what my analyst will make of this dream. 

Maybe I dreamt of her last night because Katie annoyed me yesterday. She demands a lot of attention and gets prideful when she doesn't get it. I hope she didn't take me sending her that agnes martin essay on pride and failure the wrong way...

When we wake up in the morning we are inspired to do some certain thing and we do do it. The difficulty lies in the fact that it may turn out well or it may not turn out well. If it turns out well we have a tendency to think that we have successfully followed our inspiration and if it does not turn out well we have a tendency to think that we have lost our inspiration. But that is not true. There is successful work and work that fails but all of it is inspired

"The function of art work is the stimulation of sensibilities, the renewal of memories of moments of perfection."

During my walk home I called Brian and for the 4th time I told him I can't see him. I've been consistently flaking on our plans and he doesn't deserve it but I don't deserve this pressure either. He let slip: "I fell in love with you so fast." 

That pissesd me off...the comment felt manipulative and I ignored him via text.

I'm going to manifest a dream instead. 

polymathic foray into the elemental connectedness of all things

 “Books are weird. You just sit on the couch in your apartment and feel things - these unreasonably deep, cavernous things - and then you look up and it’s the same stupid world. Nothing’s changed, not even you.”

http://www.artandpopularculture.com/Celestial_Emporium_of_Benevolent_Knowledge

borges the analytical language of john wilkins pdf

baader–Meinhof phenomenon

When things are fine. Gabriella talked about the nuisance of being fine when coworkers ask you how you're doing. They always want something north of just fine. 

I started tretinoin a couple of weeks ago in an effort to stay as young as I claim, forever. I keep picking at my face but at least i'm wearing sunblock. Graduated with a masters degree last week. 

did some things that felt like feats. did some other things that felt like misses. 

When I feel myself growing sterner and hardening is when I know I have to stop. 

sentient vaudeville act. 

I feel like a fraud for wanting simplicity but getting bored of it when I have it. Objet petit a ad infinitum. 

Complexity is not the problem, ambiguity is. Simplicity does not solve ambiguity. Only clarity can do that. 

I found a framed picture of Freud at the Big Reuse. The other side of it is a picture of a gorgeous mallard.

There's always a mallard or a malady waiting for us on the other side. 

“What you forget, living here, is that just because you have stopped sinking doesn't mean you're not still underwater.”

― Amy Hempel, Reasons to Live

I made out with a coworker in a tulip garden inside of Pratt's campus. It was past midnight and the security guard stared at us until we left. The next day he says he cannot kiss anymore and it's no love lost– don't tell me we can't do things as if I care. 

In Taoism we are taught that losses are gains.

We talked on the phone for an hour and a half on Monday. A has me contemplating the feeling of a pull from the wind.

every street in Clinton Hill feels libidinously evergreen. 

I can't remember the last time I flew a kite.

Because I've never had rituals or traditions growing up, small tactile symbols and psychic pilgrimages entice me. It's the way we pay adieu and ode to the things we love that matters most (to me).

I don't want anything from the people who have currently decided to love me. Maybe I want to watch 24 Frames by Abbas Kiarostami, be solemn and quiet for Harold Budd, mull over impossible scenarios, improv on noon's eaves. 

 our solipsistic cultural cohort

there’s an angel at my table

systemic system synergy 

i have not stopped searching for paradise 

on the cartons of Oatly ads 

a more intrepid talker would have shouted ideas

dimwitted, the ones who insists on cures through notes

all the own’s body mind is time 

the documentary dormitory

how complicated the simple life can be

conceived of each other, conceived each other in a darkness

which I remember was drenched in light

actions of others didn’t define you

people will ultimately do what they are going to do 

it is the body’s self-lessness which is its ardor 

delusion needs a home too–

it matters what we call things

A big error comes when you believe that a form, name or position in which the subject is viewed is the only way that the subject can be viewed

https://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/archive/online_archive/v1_1_1999/fhbewild.html

conceived of each other, conceived each other in a darkness

which I remember was drenched in light

 We live on an island

I sit on a ledge in my favorite earth tones.

I could be called lucky.

In my peripheral nipples protrude & the woman,  

who I call a "whore" in my head, a few feet away is smoking,

french tip nails glisten with the sun.

She also could be called lucky.

Have you ever had to face the underside of something you loved?

The alarm in the morning breaks us from each other, the day plots

the disappearance of desire until night.

I picture my ex-boyfriend going to Home Depot with his dogs

just to feel a little different.

I could get my meter read,

that way I could meet a new person.

You never know what you're going to get with a new person,

they could be like real prose                                         thievery.

Whispering to no one, “this ledge is the lap of my apartment building.”

I remember bygone ideas like miracle workers and large breasted women.

They hardly exist nowadays, have you noticed that.

I like to remind service workers that we live on an island.

The city floats on island time,

tremulous as hetero companionship.

Now watch me straddle the railing 

of the lap next door

while breeze achieves its goal up my skirt.

I decided I don’t want to live forever

I want to stretch my body out of a window

only to grab the nearest tree branch while whispering,

“hellou” to no one.

I want to know even our limits.