06 December 2015

13 November 2015

11 November 2015

10 November 2015


by Robinson Jeffers

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a
     bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a
     vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer,
     its orbit narrowing,
     I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and
     heard the flight feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come
. . . how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked,
     veering away in the sea-light
     over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be
     eaten by that beak and
     become part of him, to share those wings and
     those eyes –
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an ensky-
     ment; what a life after death.

29 October 2015

I had no time to hate, because
The grave would hinder me,
And life was not so ample I
Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since
Some industry must be,
The little toil of love, I thought,
Was large enough for me.


18 October 2015

this was a bad year for blog content
a public forum for drafts is a strange choice ive been alerted
what was it about this that so once appealed
during occupy and cecil's class this gave stability or strength
i dont have those things lately from this or anything
y writes 'i'm open suddenly to pre-you insecurities'
i'm ahead beyond and still back there
newly alarmed at my old volatility.
though now there's some anecdote behind it.
'i'm a spaz for a reason:' a manuscript.
'i didn't hurt you you only think i'm hurting
you:' a series. 'i'm diana ross:' a suite.
'it was never about you it was about my impossible
neediness clinginess sadness voracity starvation
the thing i needed - need - not you - is far away
and upon completion will yet prove not himself
i.e. not 'it' and the search will never stop,
not until the searching subject learns her breathing
exercises and accepts her present moment.
'it's fine here without you' 'it's fine without you, too;'
'the need i feel is self-propelling steam like
hot velvet roiling out of a humidifier;
you'd think considering my breaking my computer
in the spring and dashing my phone's brains out
last week i'd be more compelled to save content online
given my wires cross poorly
given idiocy
and the preternatural cloud
this is one of those exercises that never turns into a poem
even though it's line-broken and attempts to say nice things
it will evade shape and as it lacks a focused character will fail.
focus? i need content. i am grieving. i fucked up some shit
and am doubtful and hurting and fucked everybody over
i like to think behind closed doors when i'm onto myself
as a great controller of others—a farce clearly
your obsessions and your anxieties are harming you
and your work suffers
or rather you don't work when you're like this
the back of your neck hard as a salmon half-bludgeoned to death
and unfit for consumption

29 September 2015

It is raining here for the first time in weeks.
After posting nothing for over a month I worry I'm going to start posting too often.
God forbid I 'give myself away.'

from 'Opfer,' Rilke

O wie blüht mein Leib aus jeder Ader
duftender, seitdem ich dich erkenn;
sieh, ich gehe schlanker und gerader,
und du wartest nur — : wer bist du denn?

28 September 2015


"this was not planned,"
you write below your error.
neither are the good parts. so. it
may be okay. i may come find you.
been writing these things with no ends
which may be like not finishing any songs
or may just be stubbornness
or nerves, not knowing how much
it matters, or may be,
probably is, something else entirely
i.e. something new i.e. something
that's never crossed my mind til now

i.e. a beginning
i.e. every time we contact from now
on i am going to record as
a beginning

13 July 2015

#1 for 30/30 with Jenny.

Long Swim Dream

I waited for you all day. Just
waited and waited for you.
Gulls passed. You slept and turned.
I waited blissfully. Here he comes now,
I thought.

I had your picture you sent
and I gazed at it all day. Just
marveled at the absolute
sweetheart in the mirror. Your
continent undisturbed.

I wanted you
day and night. I was up at dawn
stroking your image
in muggy filtered sunlight.
California was new, a desert again.

I close my eyes. Here you come,
crawling over freestyle,
riving the foam-blistered Atlantic.
The cherry in a Manhattan
candied by bitters and frozen solid.

09 June 2015

Some people insist on exercising the sincerity of their intentions —LH

Is this sort of an obverse 'one of us cannot be wrong' entitlement,
the extreme and nearly self-congratulatory reverse psych of 'no
it wasn't any good / there's no reason why you should
remember me' It may be that I'm a headcase & the only one
Lol tho talk about self-congratulating and -serving

Guess what it is this time, bug?
'Thoughts and feelings'
yes! How did you
'It's often those with you'

Suppose I am guiding a hand 'not from love // but
from love's parts' (Lyn again). Suppose
sick hysteria (produced of care) prevented me
ascending a car I could have driven out
to meet his calmer iteration—he whom,
that which, I'd join by the whole of love
when capable—as surely as performed before,
living together? despite being too young?—
I'll meet you is what I'm saying. I
(gesturing) see you there. The floor of the emptied sack
of a northern California beach, its gray shell
abalone inside, flaked iridescence,
flatly holds us. We read as two mere added
granules, ribbing the sea-mulch surface.
And here I was convinced
this was the beginning of the end,
still in love and already heartbroken,
enraged and exhausted, desperate for a change.
The wet edges of Ocean Beach curl up
and we reconvene at the base of the newly-thrown bowl.

Pencilled into my copy of Book of 1000 Eyes so presumably written in 2012 in Berkeley

I will eat coffee
an egg sandwich and go
to meet my lover
at the copyshop
I don't know
the best he can do
& so can't say
Is that the best you can do
should he bring bad flowers
you bet i'm neglecting my coursework.

05 June 2015

Making Lace

Women in Love stuff
making lace stuff
sick today

04 June 2015

self-sufficient so a little lonely

02 June 2015

groups i'm not in

i am not educated deeply about the correct things
this is partially my fault mostly but also social
i do not know anything about oakland really
i only fringed at occupy and only in 2011 and only on campus at Cal
i hate kg but that is easy
thinking about race makes me uneasy and makes me feel lucky and stupid, not a flattering or useful combo
i want to care enough? i don't want to care too much. i guess about different things
(interpersonal emotional vulnerability is not the same as but is related to capacity for vocal alliance?)
i can get bored reading the work of the right
and the avant-garde
it's just frank's thing "that really used to wow me" or is it a temporally altered version of that (like, why am i bothering reading this)
eg i can and do often get into the reproduction of available content imported wholesale into a piece but it's usually suggestive of narrative drive or at least of texturing of experience. which is to say am i just a rookie. well yeah. but i hate this novice stuff. i want better writing
i can see a painting and it makes me feel (some type of way) or hear a song and feel some type of way (rich homie quan) (but mongrel coalition says fuck white bitches who sprinkle their verse with rap so i can't say that) (then the frail white says you're fencing me in!!!!!!!!!!!!!) (so how to acknowledge that when i make certain syntax certain music rises in me from my recent hearing? i'm better than pure appropriation - smarter, more sensitive. please please please. wags sad tail. but don't pity me - if i didn't want you to pity me why'd i put 'sad'? here's cheap pathos. here's kg all over again. somebody tell me what to do and how to do it right.)
(there i go throwing my hands up relinquishing responsibility.)

27 May 2015

book and poem titles

Theodore Millon suggested five subtypes of ASPD:[19][20]
Nomadic (including schizoid and avoidantfeatures)Feels jinxed, ill-fated, doomed, and cast aside; peripheral, drifters; gypsy-like roamers, vagrants; dropouts and misfits; itinerant vagabonds, tramps, wanderers; impulsively not benign.
Malevolent (including sadistic andparanoid features)Belligerent, mordant, rancorous, vicious, malignant, brutal, resentful; anticipates betrayal and punishment; desires revenge; truculent, callous, fearless; guiltless.
Covetous (variant of "pure" pattern)Feels intentionally denied and deprived; rapacious, begrudging, discontentedly yearning; envious, seeks retribution, and avariciously greedy; pleasure more in taking than in having.
Risk-taking (including histrionic features)Dauntless, venturesome, intrepid, bold, audacious, daring; reckless, foolhardy, impulsive, heedless; unbalanced by hazard; pursues perilous ventures.
Reputation-defending (includingnarcissistic features)Needs to be thought of as infallible, unbreakable, invincible, indomitable, formidable, inviolable; intransigent when status is questioned; over-reactive to slights.

26 April 2015

#62: Desire at the door

The weekend stuns
we have nothing to get up for
we can stay here

what had seemed like
such a sign
there in the sun
now moon's
petty coincidence

what part of No don't I understand

from FB [JL] re: a loved one Nepal

Elizabeth, everyone is staying outside another night. I think there was another large aftershock on Sunday. Besides that, the back of her house is at the edge of a very steep hill, and it's also raining heavily. I don't think she'll be going back for a while. She's with others from her institute, sleeping on the tennis court at the Hyatt near the airport. People go in the lobby when the rain is heavy, but nobody is sleeping inside right now.

06 April 2015

#61: Against Investment

Stakes being
incredibly low
one feels high
Ergo fighting
like dogs for blood beneath the table
I think
anything goes
to say
to risk it

29 March 2015

#60 menstrual hangover

I don't feel like it:
today's deep center is bright with unrelenting cramp,
the valleys sharper than the peaks;
they are valleys of dread, half past, half future.
When the peak rises it almost feels good,
violent fulfillment between wringing respites.
After a dinner of Chinese duck we walk home together
and sip rum on couches in the common room
before changing shoes and heading back out
to Liz's apartment for kimchi
and shots, and wintergreen Swedish snüs.
After, upper gums seething, we walk to a place
for dancing and three rounds of vodka,
the second with an olive, the third with lemon,
and dance very hard to decent music. I sweat
through my black linen, hold a man by the shoulder
for a twirl, look up to see it is not one
I meant to reach for, shy sleekly away...
Back in the familiar circle, I dance with
the right people, and avoid touching you
by keeping always at least one person between us.
When a pocket opens there, I float backward,
take a lap to get water and wipe the edges of my mouth.

26 March 2015

Four fingers on Mary's left hand, broken during a move, were restored in 1736 by Giuseppe Lirioni, and scholars are divided as to whether the restorer took liberties to make the gesture more "rhetorical."


#59: Pietà

Prompted to list three things that frighten: ok, the unknown (i.e. what will happen this afternoon and tomorrow, i.e. the future, because we do not control it even if we think what we do now may affect it). Another is my beloved doing near-harm to his body: leaning backward too far in a chair, wobbling; taking a knife to an edge of hard cheese and pulling it towards his chest, his hand slipping. Relax, he says, I've always done it this way; and I'm still here. Placing flakes of manchego onto his tongue and leaning back on two legs. The worst fear is of course the fear of not being worthy of art, though it seems that in order to work, one must set fire to that. In the Romance languages other than English, pomegranate is variants on 'grenade.' It does look like one, but which came first?
He leaves for class, hands in his pockets, his coarse hair hidden by a beanie. His parts are welded sturdily yet he has a boxer's leanness. I sit in the apartment in a shirt, work in a few hours, fine hair gathered in a bun. His collarbones run straight across and show up above where his shirt is buttoned, and most shirts hang lightly enough that one can discern the bones' continuing beneath out to the edges of his shoulders; they shine through, and his skin glows and sparks, he is that young. Any fine cotton shirt or loose linen betrays the brightness of what he is welded with. He is sharp and marble-soft, with a heart-rate like a hummingbird's. I was afraid the night he was up late from overdosing on caffeine and sat on the floor in the study quivering and emitting sobs of not being good enough for whatever task was at hand. I cradled what felt like a strip of phosphorus. I fed him water and clutched his boxer's torso against my very slow breathing, to regulate his racing heart.

05 March 2015

#58: u remind me

my chest aches with heat rash

i am not your first beloved

most of the time i am picking at my fingernails and doubting myself

i am sick

i bled on your bed

i hate other women

right before we met i was an other woman

but here i meant woman other than me of whom you were beloved

i know time doesn't move in only one direction, forward

she left you and therefore it may be you are still in love with her

i suppose it could be thus even if you had left her

but she left you

which happened something like eight months before we met

nine months before we starting sleeping together

my best friend from high school has still never had sex on her period

you are adoring which is good because i'm addicted to attention

which is why i hate her and the other her who was between the first her and me

mostly it makes me sad then it's clear i am possessive to an unhealthy degree

usher overacts with his face in all his music videos

but his dancing is pretty hot and he can still croon

there he goes caressing a naked shoulder half through with a 2001 moonwalk

he even has the leather jacket against the sunset

with the parked gull-wing swung up and what looks like projects framing either side

and the whirling leather sounds and the scraping of his kicks as he works it all out

16 February 2015

I can do no wrong

I do no wrong

1234 I can do no wrong

12345 I can do no wrong

#57: blood haiku

new moon
looking over her shoulder
into the mirror's ocean

you grow as big
and as small
in a given month

you fill a sky
& later fully vanish
phases visible, uninteresting

inhospitable chamber
dumb and hungry

pink urine
a sweet spasm
as vision sharpens

#56: Poem

After dinner
one hand facing the icicles
I am a pessimist
and was like that before I arrived

you give a long silence
for looking out
This view doesn't help
curling your neck to affix some eyes to me

10 February 2015

Pisces Moon Sign tries to avoid the mundane details of life. They are curious, almost to the point of recklessness.

04 February 2015

you wait
until night
falls to
dig your
car out
with sand
and salt

26 January 2015

Admire me is the sub-text of so much of our looking —Jeanette Winterson

25 January 2015

#55: 4 octets

"No longer was she merely the dancing-girl... who masters the mind of a king... ; incarnation of world-old Vice, the goddess of immortal Hysteria, the Curse of Beauty supreme... a monstrous Beast of the Apocalypse, indifferent, irresponsible..." —Huysmans of Moreau's depiction

Anyway, the question wasn't so much What as When. —CM Burroughs

Curved loops around another for your benefit;
so you would watch;
not touching anywhere below
anything that might innervate;

you and another stationed at a wall.
..    .
.  .
in perfect staring, struck, & we weren't bored.

Granted full fixity; a locked-down
treading bassline.
Eyes the extent:

where's no mystery What, just When when when when when.
Observed post-absolution, girls head to heaven
after this: after they play a good one:
beat rippled. come here get dirty.

Got high on you getting off watching.
I know
what kind of man you are.
You told me.

Legs growing greedier,
looser, bound to give.
come here so I can
[make sure you smell like]


ours met by rolling all the way back
"and her severed head / remained
on the surface of the ice" —Herod to Pilate

16 January 2015

#54: problems poem

wet roads
[luis walks past
in a cruel to be kind way i forgive
freezing out there
waking in here

if i'm devil's-advocating your every move
maybe we should meet in different contexts
or stop meeting
not to show 'you're wrong, it's not interesting'
'these inquiries are unproductive on their faces'...
to be kind to preserve you i'd quit cruelly
i'd like an implications & effects spreadsheet
and more than a week to process traumae
[natalie, lurid orange, leaves the house]

luis sickens of his cohort too
and asks to infiltrate mine
which i'll aid but had caveated you might
find it insufferable in the same ways

not being cut out for stuff you had dreamed or been told you were out for
failure to foster an eagerness spry enough to take up discipline
generating theory instead of filtering what theories are generated to understand
recognition of basic futilities on most fronts that include
& exclude human and textual others
do you get where i'm going with this
how to move through this place, how, dignified? with
'i was a track star' and 'tight pants' and 'painting, called SARDINES'
and float, and be satisfied, and satisfy, or at least get
the 'three red setters' off the door. if you imagined them wolves, fine, but imagine dull-toothedly

from end comment of hart crane paper: ambitious, subtle, airtight.
i'm very interested to see what you'll do next
me: [does nothing]
[a jig] [a wallow] [a backwards glance pierces some veil & i'm back
where i wanted to be all along & it's no longer any good there either
chorus: time to wizen or at least adapt

i'd hoped god thought i was beyond prelims
but here we are
if it's some final round i'm flattered
i rarely make it to final rounds & go slack when flattered;
uncanny & i won't do anything about that
i hoard personal points at a reputation's expense
there's them apples
le[s]t [them/y] eat