The Ego Museum

clouds like dust,
the stars like gravel grinding against hard sky and
amidst the tall grass
my agate core held steady

two deer in the night
voices in waves,
(ssshhh..... i didn't know they made sounds)
in gentle wail;
the grace in uncertainty

So much depends on
the nape of your neck,
my own dirty hands,
and the smell of some My Little Ponies hot from the dashboard sun.

Sleep has left me,
and while scuffed knees and the side-of-the-road
have broken my Metaphor
(what for?)
I kept on walking while
my mother held me and cried.

Coyote-Girl:
you 'aint learned a goddamned thing.

the heads flows;
refusing to dilute.
put me into your colored boxes
let me choose between one and six
the story no longer a species but a
digital impact

the computer flows:
obsessing and resolute.
if this how we slow things,
(refocus the past)
let me choose between
no choice and
the meniscus the liquid
of voice

Exploding into the rubber barrier of dead self by reading into the sex of transportation; car engines and bike pedals; touching open a void. Lather my experience into your religion, I'll cure the majesty.

stop.

Ages ago I created a menangerie; now it stares at me, unimpressed and with a certain degree of loathing:
Beneath the mattress are cramped cages housing warm fur and scampering legs, things that fuck and breed en masse with beady eyes holding out for love and space. Taxed, abiding by an instinct to hunt, the best I can do is collect, constrained by the Slow Mad Industry of a Malignant AnarchoDreamScape.

stop.

So i asked for the medication; it was a challenge. In a twist of fate I was asked to bless the most restless of seating over months of smoking cigarettes, poring over maps of the most useless escape routes, Rude Goldberg's contemplations of a Rorschach test, or maybe vomit.

stop.

How to play the game of questions frozen on lips,
cold symbol shattered from their own frozen fortitude,
negate the magnitude
(in a manner of speaking)
And still-- in this regime of once again and nothing new
where is the body?
We are quiet resolve masking slow panic and

stop.

Bring us back to earth with some fleeting instant of flash photography.
head in fishbowl, all sound transpires in muted colors
--and i am left here:
transcribing spirals; catseye; looking glass
as all the blood-bubbles from the edges of the world
(in the post-shock, life after cardiac arrest)
becoming hardened marbles
to be swallowed as sacrament

stop.

Feed us to the wind:
we will plant radios in old soil and
elevate that rhetoric
to the dusted pedestals of pedagogues and dead gods
if only to watch them fall
(that is)
the crayon scratches on the wall
the counterpoint, confusion of the yes and the y'all

stop.

Whim and worlds collide
to empty us
of that intangible suspect
the disease: eCoNomY
and autonomy earned means the death of the self-spurned,
Self-Saboteur,

so?

love looks good on me:
an ornamental headdress,
picked apart from the same wingtips
that brought me too close to the sun,
dressed in feathers from the flight
(and consequent fall)
weathered by the weight of it all.

the new subculture is one of nuerotic anti self reference.

we can only produce identity through pepetual and cyclical critique of the our sociocultural and political structures. can only exist through self-conscious negation and spoken un-alliance and awareness.

the new subculture is a eunoch. anger boils beneath but we can't blow our load on any new horizon. so we seek to make impotence cool, obviously, its all chill man.

the new hipster is the bastard child of a post-mortem irony, the new hipster is tired and digging in the dust, the new hipster DEFAULTS. defaults to the last bastions of community that might keep him safe from having to defend the claim to id, ego from critique. the new hipster is being, and is too tired, made to stupid from talking in circles, to yearn for production.

the new hipster isn't lazy, he's fucking TIRED and he can't GET OFF. he's soft, and when he's not destroying identity in order to legitimize the building of one, he's spreading the overcast to let it grow without any autonomous action that might be surveilled. he lets identity come from collective conscious, from the community that echoes ideals and yes please thank you, breathe.

he doesn't detest a stereotype because its not worth it. he's in flux, and only legitimizes his peers, who are the only ones who authenticate him.

the new hipster kind of annoys the shit out of me...case in point, identity exemplified....i am obviously one of 'em.

crouched, hunter
pushed worlds down my throat with quick inhalation and gulp, held them there compressed and frenzied
the prey being watched from above
was stalking back from below

lines intersecting spheres; moments showing years in the corners of their eyes.
where did this start? with a soldier's story, theory tickling future. with release.
with mouth and tongue and teeth and throat machine.

animals and weaponry; slackjawed moonbitch.

big game hunting. a murder of crows the orgasm of artemis,
on the wing, fight and/or flight, fight the flight, flee the fight, tomorrow's last night.

the no. the stop, the go, the blow. human naked facing the blow. i am not me she is the pack, the flow.
self-fulfilled whore virgin crow.
facing the know--soft inhalations of artemis vulgari. purple mapping the soft green. grazing leaves dew drops (spherical) on lips.
a heart; organ stolen from machine system, bent cog gnawed upon and dusted. still beating, veins leaking drool. all meloncholy is fluid.

now a body without organs.
now speaking of owls.

now watching two fall from a tree (satellite icarus) scream and fight in circles, leaving in dark lines across the sky.

the depth gnosis.
am.

shocking ancients;
suffer me this furrowed brow,
juxtapose this grinning pedagogue, pale skinned driving cab and speaking western vedics...
black magic; when old truths lose ground against the static of the radio,
politics taunts by hissing and spitting, a vortex of grey matter
naughty sines: salty sweet in their magic but it makes that innocence so dangerous.

the violence of 1:1, confirmed.
every other ratio reduced, shifting, infinite
1:3 3:2 7:4 8:5 3:4
the cure for this pathology is once again a naked mathematics
curio, colors and sound,
this is for my friends, who squat in urban rubble speaking tongues, who float and giggle intertwined shared flesh, who change roles to lover mother brother pet with each breath.

confirmed in the flow of the schizophrenic, the multiplicity
each day the same sign---flocks of birds fast and gorgeous against the sky,
set off like a bomb to illuminate my theory of fight or flight

don't panic,
love grows

i am coyote, sea-goat, fairy-cat
in a pool of saltwater, stirring the surface of liquid mercury-moon
cool skin adorned in (bio/lumina/essence)
the world has come courting, these fleshy little pearls from dark wet static

we are charting life with music, vibrations
one fading star in death
revived by tone and breath
body slick, muddy, wet
a creature singing, facing west

and the horizon too was there,
vying for attention,
in desperate attempt to draw me back from the tides,
dropping big bang theory, electricity
orange waves behind gossamer clouds,
unharnessed noise,
and each flash had me lusting further for the sky

negative/positive
both currents i have mapped,
and if i was lost before i remember now
that i am feral, wanderlust
and the universe is
leaving little star crumbs in the dark
so this hungry stray will never lose the path

when someday becomes one day,
and all sound has become shifting colors,
deep theory comes out in dreams

like last night
leaves that swarmed full across the sky,
pushed beyond a highway by warm winds
turned into small darting birds

and birds, in their
fast curve of feathers and musk
exploded into sand
roaring onwards,
the wind to mountains like rivers to the ocean

and here in waking,
giggling and slipping,
we three in the hot steam
soaping eachother
and the dirty adventure of our lives
rushes down the drain

all seasons-cycles mix
the orange fire of autumn, glowing and brooding
the winter black and still
the meltwater rushing orgasm, the beating heart of spring

i have gorged on
the hot placebo of summer

yeah,
see,

like bukowski
all sex is love

in slow drone
and bloody, scratchy bloody show

the heartbeat of
brainsong

(do me)

At high noon the sky is black,
walking on splintering tree bridges high above,
freshwater falls and green lake below,
the old growth was covered in caterpillar silk,
countless little weavers, waxy green encased in cotton
gossamer tracers shifting slightly in the breeze
(like hair on the nape of a neck)

and there were frogs in the water,
all singing their wet throaty songs
in underwater unison,
vibrations creating electric pond-scum bubble,
that rose above the water, slow and heavy,
colors move like dead rainbows

from the corner of my eye swift movement;
a coyote sprang from the bushes and swallowed a songbird
fell back from bridge's railing edge to the water
and turned into a man,
embracing his lover

all sound has become shifting color

nerves entangled with grass the pins and needles combining with the static in the air, cradled by the scrawled and scribbled translations of ego past, nursing from the mother's milk of sky, the weight of the sun a hand held over mouth. sinews, tendons recoiled from bone leaking battery acid exhausted defeated blending with oxygen, autonomy a phantom blissed out from the ecstacy of drowning in the plasma of zeitgeist. spinning in the corners of a broken building, arms strewn like rubble, the white noise of still corners and grey shadows.

we are kinetic,
and i am finally a
dead satelitte icarus

save it, girl
the sensorium is always with you
boxed and classified, themed and named,
but lost in the weave of

the theme, tapestry,
fractal and breath of song
melted and seeping
from pores

there is no forgotten land
but the human soul
history displayed
and
outside of it all

as an animal,
let the forest breath you into her womb,
soothing bruises from a
whisky-belting dry handed prairie father

save it, girl
bleed out into mulch and mud
each fallback
given as scattered prayer

It's so hard trying to learn the difference between
head and heart,
somewhere along the way we fall into it,
sometimes the compass fails and we forget,
turning the map upside down and sideways trying to perfect an angle or path,
but I remember now that
when the compass fails the heart still beats
a steady drum
to navigate a binary of black white, up down, (and of course) the in between.

Magic just up ahead,
you were there in fine form these past few days
fluttering around each bend
to remind me that the difference between
head and heart
is the zeitgeist of this human jungle

I will color my body with the geography of ghost towns
a topography of love
the ideology of symbols
the filth and dirt of
song, flesh, drug

Direct File Access, pump up your hardrive!
why do i need to provide this,
for download?
all those i love scattered to the wind,
my deepest connection is something only downloadable, never touched,
like a prayer.

watching smoke curl once more, speaking lies lies lies the only truth,
i can only hear a spirituality through
electricity

wet,
waiting,
authenticity in wailing
the microphone mama's tit denied,
Black, thrashing, pure sine wave perversion playing with entropy.
I know best the sounds and pains of the city.
My soul is an urban populous of anarchist squatters somewhere in limbo.
The air is pregnant with the scent of flower nectar.
The long dusty shafts of sun peek through clouds that sprinkle water on me softly, like a baby at a baptism.

The sun shines while hail falls, swirling pink and white cherry blossoms, sticking to the bottoms of my boots.
Sitting on my porch drinking lemon tea, the sound of kettle boiling next door.
Lying in the sun on my rooftop the sound of birds is deafening, coming from gnarled oaks...high high above me seagulls and crows chase and shout hawks and giant eagles, slowly circling, still and quiet.
In my mind I am still, quiet and circling like these birds of prey.
My body chases and shouts, trying to catch up, wings tired, wanting to soar.

This morning I was asked to be a lover and all I could be was a politic.

A kiss through through my bedroom window, and I cut my cheek on the thorns of some unidentified purple iris that grew between us there.
Later I sat under my covers clutching the crystals he had given me, wondering...

I am so filled with the love of the throw away.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you,

let us go

1)Upon waking I carry images of streamwaters flowing upwards from mossy stills, colored sea-grasses waving like soft hairs safe in the meniscus of the undercurrent, overflow.
Crystal mountains forcing fog away from stark blue cold, and always wet dark wood splintering from the lapping of a lake.

2)Earlier this week whilst waiting for a bus, I re-discovered animus.

3)Fuck me, Fuck me, Fuck me. It's raining and my feet are broken from a city that left me behind.
Here I find the only softness without danger, weaving some magic, some ethic, some gorgeous asphyxiation, left free from the micropolitics of self-referential cyclical desire.

4)Everything is breathing flesh I am slowly mapping. This is my deepest love.

Sitting under red light he told me how the difference between angles and curves will win or lose the war,
so clear to me now how
the difference between panic and paranoia shape my core,
and even now i sit here drawing lines for an audience to understand,
trigger finger sweaty, shaking,
game on

again i am hunted,
(endless loop newsreels, vietname war films and the clinically insane)
love has taught me nothing more than
how to program and win
a combat game

my roots are all twisted metal winding down in cool earth
beating off the ground the sun warms my sides,
straight,scent acrid

for i am no tree, no blossoming cycle
or falling leaves
nothing still and quiet, leaf muscle rough

a history for the illiterate,
a requiem for sensorium,
distorted cerebral

it's your paranoid angle,
a few degrees away from
the jizz and mess of freedom

I am responsible, where do I go, serious as this life?

go towards moth shadows, shooting stars,
evening moons, quiet concrete,
in love,

(but)

going towards moth shadows, shooting stars,
evening moons, quiet concrete,
in love,

I am responsible, where do I go, serious as this life?