The Next Chapter of Lena: Confession

aren't you getting tired of seeing no updates? yet you return, day after day.


depression feels like desperation, and I refuse to submit a dishonest post.


Lena: Return.






Lena walks back to a place she has been before. A scaled-down Babel pierced the sky. A sound came out of the rip - bells. A woman in an ugly hat walked out. The church.


Entering the confessional, Lena walks back again to a place she has been before. 


"When was the date of your last confession?" the virgin asks her.


"Age fourteen. A requirement before Confirmation."


"And how many years do you have now?"


"Twenty-Four. So ten. Ten years since my last confession."


The virgin says nothing. Lena decides this silence is the least offensive prompt of all possible prompts which are directed as instigating one's admission of vulnerabilities.


"My first sin is that, when I was younger and forced to participate in this sacrament, I made up sins," Lena says. "I never felt as if I had done anything wrong."


"And now, you feel you have done wrong?"


"No, not really."


The virgin says nothing, and then says, "Why don't we continue anyway?"


"Why not I suppose. My second sin is not believing in God."


The virgin automatically responds, "Mother Theresa was plagued with doubt until the day she died. She wrote of it every night in her journals."


"I guess I don't see what that has to do with me, because I don't give a fuck if God exists or not. I write about interesting things in my journal."


The virgin clears his virginal throat. He reswallows the virginal mucus he has just worked so hard to dislodge, virginally. "Perhaps confession is not the right step for you at this moment."


"Jesus man. I'm getting there. I'm just fucking around right now."


"So you do have something to confess which burdens your soul?"


"No, but one of my characters does. Do you mind if I read a part of her confession to you?"


"I'm not sure I understand." Virgin clears his dumb virgin throat again. 


Lena clears her own de-virginized throat. "Her name is Aletea. She is conflicted right now because she is having an affair with her cousin. They played the 'show me' game when they were young, and now, their paths have mysteriously intersected again many years later. Their attraction is magnetic and natural and mutual. Yet of course it is wrong."


"Is this you? Are you talking about you?"


"No, Father. This is Aletea. She is one of my characters. From my journals."


"Ah - I think - "


"Anyway Father, may I please read you her confession? She is quite a devoted Catholic and I need to know what penance you would give her. For contextual accuracy."


"Er, alright then."


Lena opens her purse and removes a small red notebook from one of its compartments. She turns to page 17 and begins reading. Slowly.


"When he finally touched me it was how I remembered touch felt. It was bare sex, elementary sex. Everything else has since him, a footnote. Like I tapped into the center of a system. Its maxims. Its gears. At one point I said, as he was cautiously reacquainting himself with me, I said, in a last attempt to salvage my ethical self, to squander his carnal appetite, I said, 'Don't do this to yourself.' He said, 'But I'm doing it to you.' And god. I just fucking let him."


"Is that it?" the virgin asks after a few moments of dead air.


"Yes. What are the damages?"


The virgin merely swallows. "15 each Lord's Prayer and Hail Mary."


"Is that really it?"


"And a tremendous effort to change."


Lena frowns. "But if she changes the plot will be ruined. I have many more pages after 17."


"Well, then I guess she's not really sorry."


Lena ponders this a moment. 


"I guess you're right."

Memo:

>>>


When I never met you I saw you all grey.
Not mysterious - just boring, pathetically
augmenting your self away. Like an underground
worm deluded itself the sky-bound bee. You
dig high, but ground
vomits you up arbitrarily.
Like an aboveground worm deluded itself a hive-
found bee. Worm, you live on cement for five
minutes, visited just enough times

to gain
notoriety
in the spaces
of my lines.

Me, Disappearing

I have lost a part of myself in the last year and a half.

Not feeling, not love, those are always fluctuating, their loss and gain as steady as water lapping the shores of the Cumberland. The same is stress and equally to soothe, equaling the rhythms of desired rest and her will to move. No, no the loss is literal for once.  

To be precise I have lost ten percent of myself.

The internet affords a pictorial trajectory of a body's evolution. The bodies are fellows of the past, some lucky in the present, but past or present most are gaining. Years ago a bone showed, flesh covers it today, flesh and that other word more dimpled and undesired, still filling the first letter with F.

Two-hundred and ten ounces! I say I am trying to dress like a little boy. I start eating flesh and butter; it gets worse. I say I don't know how it happened but I do. I do because I want more gone. More gone than her, as if that would make a difference to anyone other than a slowly disappearing me.

three girl rhumba - connection

I've revealed to several people that, in my life before this one, I was living in England in the 80s. I died young, poor, and a punk - drug overdose. Then I got redistributed to 1987 Illinois farmland. I believe this more than I believe in god.

post about disorder.

Thisis a GIF Illustrating a woman ambivalent about nourishing herself from the ample foodsouce in the BKGRND. She make s-s-sure she looks thin enough to eat - boy does that sound wrong - then sits back down, hungry, but with the ability to wear less clothes than before. She feels great about it.

Here is a truth not exuding any beauty because she just loves imagined competition with flowers and others. But hey who can get more honest than this truth. A dead bird rots a dead flower people press in books.

Lena 3: in which Lena Sucks the Life out of Herself

Lena had made no conscious decision to quit her dozens of lovers, but inevitably it happened. She had been enjoying the company of two men (one Irish, one Scottish, she could hardly tell them apart) when a man from the deep deep south was unexpectedly introduced to her. She found him interesting only because everyone else seemed to find him interesting.

Lena was used to leaving men and in fact a man had never left her before. Thus she expected the same to happen, for her to see this man from the deep deep south for several days or weeks and then leave him. But everytime Lena thought she would leave him he left her.

"I know we will say goodbye to each other many more times," she said at the first time she said goodbye to him. She was right and she still is right.

Lena forgot about other men because she wondered about this one. Instead of growing duller he grew more fascinating. He smelled better to her each day. He had a favorite flower. They agreed on fetishes. He had the perfect width of cock.

But as I said before he was always leaving her. He went back to the deep deep south and also went to the arms of other women. Some women were real and some women Lena imagined were real. Lena imagined many women and somehow this made the man even more attractive to her.

Lena lost weight and cut off her hair. She felt her skin go rough so she cut into it with razors. She felt her eyes dry and tough and wanted to cut them with razors too. The less Lena cared about other men the more they flocked to her. The less Lena cared about her body the more men flocked to her.

A flock of silly birds shitting and squawking all around her.

The more she loved him the more she hated herself. "I hate myself because I am no longer myself," she thought.

Her thoughts went faster and less complete. Faster and less complete. Fast and less. She became less and less. She didn't even want to read this story anymore.

Lena was at her least when she met a woman whose named sounded like Advice.

gentleLena pt.II: the autobiography

gentleLena pt. I

* * *

Have I ever loved one? Lena thought once. She counted her lovers on  fingers and toes (a few times over.)

Her first lover she most certainly had loved. He was from down the street, not across the ocean.

Yes, I must have loved him I thought. Lena thought this too. I prefer dark hair and he had dark hair. This must be because of his inital influence on my sexual appetite. Such a realization inspired Lena to graph a multi-variable analysis of her lovers.

I must include all of the most important characteristics, I thought. Lena thought this also. She could deduce her true love from statistical pattern. This all made perfect sense to Lena and to me as well.

Lena wrote all of the most important and favorite features of her lovers. Here is her list.

1. agreeable fetishes

(some of Lena's fetishes narcissism and voyerism. She could only feel pleasure by witnessing pleasure. This is why she would do anything to catch a man touching himself.)

2. ability to make her cum

(Lena only came for a partner when it was deserved. Many men do not deserve to see a woman in such an ecstatic state; many women are fools for revealing themselves too soon. By principle Lena had never fabricated an orgasm.)

3. the width of their cock 

(Lena had realized long ago that length mattered little in comparison with this vital feature of the male sex organ. Coincidentally, she learned from a Chilean lover that a woman could, with startling accuracy, estimate the abilities of this organ by the shape of its owners' nose.)

4. a favorite flower

(Her mother had been a florist. A man with an eye for beautiful things could never be faithful but always be trusted.)

5. time spent thinking about them after, during, and before.

(This was difficult, but because Lena lived in her mind as well as her body she had to think about it. Some lovers, she hardly recalled how they felt but she enjoyed to fantasize about them, imposing her own version of the reality that occurred. Others were fantastic but at once forgettable. Lena was looking for a holistic mind-dweller.)

Documentation took much longer than Lena anticipated. She delayed the final result by composing many silly schoolgirl side-competitions, such as softest-to-hardest and fattest-to-thinnest. Finally she tallied the results.

By god, this cannot be, Lena thought. I am in love with Umberto Eco.

1st 1/2 2010 by #s & more qual.

today, reviewed the pop music of the year.




# of 2010 albums obtained: 42


# of 2010 songs obtained: 459


most listened to album: Beach House - "Teen Dream"


but the most exciting: Flying Lotus - "Cosmogramma"


unexpected delight: Wavves - "King of the Beach"


expected delight: Black Keys - "Brothers"


expected failure: Ludacris - "Battle of the Sexes"


unexpected failure: Autechre - "Oversteps"


# live bands observed: 17


that cost about: <100 dollars


because: parasitic good friend


best performance: Beach House


best anticipated performance: Pixies 


worst?: Surfer Blood


overrated album: LCD Soundsystem - "This is Happening"


underrated: Harlem - "Hippies"


2nd1/2.2010?: Panda Bear. Big Boi.

-TRAXX-

dance: Robyn "Dancing on My Own" (Body Talk Pt.1)

dancepunk: !!! "The Most Certain Sure" (Strange Weather, Isn't It?)

regular punk: TITUS ANDRONICUS FOREVER  <3

gpleasure: Uffie "Art of Uff" (Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans)

jockjam: Caribou "Odessa" (Swim)

minimal: Panthu du Prince "Stick to My Side" (Black Noise)

str8upelectronic: Flying Lotus "Computer Face" (Cosmogramma)

whatever Wavves is: Wavves "Mickey Mouse" (King of the Beach)

female voice: Four Tet "Love Cry" (There is Love in You)

rock: Black Keys "Tighten Up" (Brothers)

indie rock: Plants and Animals "Tom Cruz" (LaLaLand)

beautiful: Beach House "Silver Soul" (Teen Dream)

also pretty: Morning Benders "Excuses" (Big Echo)

personally relevant/chillwave: Tame Impala "Solitude is Bliss" (Innerspeaker)

loud: Sleigh Bells "Crown on the Ground" (Treats)

hiphop: Big Boi "Lookin' for Ya" (noalbum)

r&b: Sharon Jones "Better Things" (I Learned the Hard Way) 

experimental: Liars "No Barrier Fun" (Sisterworld)

chamber pop: Owen Pallet "Lewis Takes Off His Shirt" (Heartland)

pop: Drake "Over" (Thank Me Later)

overall: Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti "Round and Round" (Before Today)

TX FOR LISTENING. SEE YOU IN 6 MORE MONTHS


-soul of lists

two northamerican panoramas.

outside or inside: one feels him

wave. waves.


she or he. she or one. one or one. one or none.
.

BloodJetImprovTherapyBetterbetterbetter not do that anymore Fireplayer

a writing exercise i do in lieu of some self-destructive behavior. one take, one breath. no editing. begun in my new bloodred moleskin, thanks to the USPS and Amy E. Olson. Also I don't mean David Bowie. A cured caricature of myself. A false one.






Bowie is dead!
Bowie is the one who bled.
Borderless dread. Make certain,
take note, of the infinite stream of
infinite red.

Who was Bowie - a threat.
To what? To who?
To the only Truth left.

How did she die? Good question.
She was never alive. An apparition.
By words - abjection. Objection?
Effect follows cause?

Contradiction. Reflection. Oh-so-
certain the behavior of -ions. Oh
no. A Yoko? Not quite.

Any slight alteration of any slight
life and fate would have spared
her the blade of her knife.

Poem about My Handwriting

Pent-up manship. One-upped on internet
evangelists. Submitting curves and lines,
define your i’s with strokes that imply
even pressure, even blots won’t remain
blots for long.

Exert control!
o’s too round and you risk deflating
t’s too tall and fall replacing
b’s without backhanded regression
into clean, free, space.

Clean, free, space to contain the wicked
expressions of my lust and hate, church and
state. Swirled disguised maintained angles
so pretty and unpredictable they just fall
right into place.

I look at the ugly scrawl
scrawled on my desk-neighbor’s loose-leaf
thinking I have her beat but she raises her
hand and asks the doctor to repeat the
third-to-last thing he said and script
completely lost its potency that day for me.

Making Friends Stream

become quiet pretension
rooms they fill up the people
with themselves under.stand
ing under stars

more and more bored growing
more and more bored knowing where
you came

from

where



I left
I want to leave.quiet pretension
twice bodies with themselves with
out me just as well with me just
as well

more and more bored less forward
keeping quiet pretension filling
under themselves under
the stars standing under a
social grace I got left out:

How-To Poetry Lesson Two: Arranging the Bricks 0 Intro

(Yesterday the universal subconscious lost its faith in “integrity” by the margin of one soul.)
Now that’s out of the way; we can begin.


“Poetry is the pruning of language into an organic structure.”
“Poetry is the erection of words into rhythmic patterns.”
“Poetry is philosophy condensed.”
“Poetry is not encouraged in academic writing.”

But most of all poetry is active.

A writer not only energizes language, but channels it down a particular string of circuits.

A carefully directed linkage intensifies a poem’s speculative richness.

Think of it like a micro-macro relationship.


____

Until the next beautiful thing comes along,
k.

Poem About Cigarettes in AB rhyming scheme.

Esophagus, raw, but ready to smoke
Lungs and heart brace for a chemical soak.
Blue-shelled butane, clicked in brighter ignition,
my fingers and thumb commence their sweet fission.
Lingering poetic at the end of the stick,
the flame hits the wick and goes orange-so-quick.
Up towards lips lacquered red-maroon,
traces of color left on an arid afternoon
shade recessed filters with a feminine halo.
The sheen of fresh nicotine: oh, spiraling flow.
Delicate tappery releases ash to cement.
Committed flickery, the desire, the intent
to quit, the fires pressed in cylindrical cast.
Which of these cigarettes will be my last.

Extinguish, with a splash.