24.

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I like the number 24. I like the number 12, I like having it twice. I like the possibilities of 24, the possibilities of 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 8.

Happy Birthday, to my 12 year-old-self. On the anniversary of the first complete rotation of cycling 12, cycling possibility, the age that promises possibility, but possibility anchored by my own will, anchored and drawn up from beneath leagues of years limited by factorial logic.


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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.

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.

prayer for forgiveness. (5&2)

oh god i replaced
the clean
to be more like you
and god
i displaced loose things
for love.
common people do
not stop
speaking, oh god i
never
ask why you seized my
fervor
and substituted
textile.
revised commitment
won’t soothe
growing fires i see
as just
static. ecstatic
to be
alive but greeting
some death.

when i turned five years
old, two
demons in the form
of sage
whispered eternal
cycles.
since then all i’ve done
is lie.

together that’s a seven.
sevens
multiply.

Genesis 1:1-31. A Translation

6. it was good (the fluid emptiness of form, the swift-flowing darkness, the longing of day for night and night for day, their ephemeral froth fused as electric sex of dawn and dusk)

5. it was good (the shell of soil, the transparent lifeblood, the ubiquitous musk of infinite sky they fling spiraling, smoking promises, hopes, fears, panged sobs)

4. it was good (the ossified crunch of earth, the calm and hysteric sea, the vegetation damned to wither and die, wither and die as roots grow stiff in reason, hardened by season)

3. it was good (the scattering of eyelet lights, the subtle winter frost, the dissection of light, dark, spell and position into a cycling mirror of feigned lucidity)

2. it was good (the soaring spread of wings, the underwater cities, the particles of flesh and flavor made matter as ourselves, to finally puncture an everlasting peach-armor)

1. it was good (the wandering woman hesitates in front of crumbling plateaus, locked-in dreamy and dead. silently she whispers, “a moment of clarity.” she laughs.)

it was all very good, and it was all very sad.