the past

A SUBJECT OF THE AVANT GUARD

i read this at the second Beatific Beatnic. good times

i am obsessive.
i fall, i fall, and i ever fall
and i love the fucking pit.

i know my graces
they're bashful
except for the intimate
and intimate deliverance, i'm talking abstract
but i'm talking abstract reality.

that my shattered mind keeps me earthbound
but that the voices of my psycho-activity
remind me i'm cosmic.

that i don't want to be part of the past, MAN
I WANT TO BE A SUBJECT OF THE AVANT GUARD

that sometimes
i pretend i'm a sailor
and that when my fantasies get too fantastical
i pretend i'm a sailor's wife.

that i believe in TANTRA
in the same way that i believe in love
that LOVE
is love is love is love is good.

that sometimes i'm shy and
sometimes i'm so shy i can't even read peoples eye colour.

that i'm poor in pocket, heavily medicated in conformity
and would only marry a hipcat rich in mind

show me your soul, SINNER,
and sin most beautifully
like the children of Kerouac's "BOURGEOIS BOHEMIAN MATERIALISM"

he didn't dig his own creation
he! god as the archetype
and HE because god comes in genders:
JACK,
retire under the mushroom.
do things that please you.
buy a drink;
drink.
be rad, be bad, GIVE ME YOUR BODY
see visions and believe everything that is most undeniably
unbelievable.

and jack,
if you succeed
i will have to follow
and,
jaaaaack!
if i succeed
it'd become a revolution
cos by then the whole world would have caught on
that love
is love is
love
is love is
good.

phases, all phases, people enjoy the ride of each personal era you WILL get over it you will fall to the new

I know it's aged me
already
already breaking--NOW,
from HERE, where
can my mind take me?

I know I'm myself.
though sometimes I feel unkind.

I know it's just an in-between era;
the Golden Age is coming up--
where ever I'm living, it's Utopia
when ever I'm living, I know it's Utopia.

4 grams

Another one out of the journal i carried with me this summer in BC. I probably shouldn't say, but this one's about a heavy shroom trip i undertook at this beautiful beach-coast line, overlooking the gulf islands, Canadian and American. it was an absolutely gorgeous place when i saw it i told Manda that was where the shrooms were going down. and they WENT DOWN it was one of the most inwardly moving trips i've ever had. we sat up on these rocks and dropped at noon, by sun-down the tide had risen 8-9 feet and i kept on having to climb up the rocks to not be immersed in the OCEAN. it did catch me a couple times, though. i got soaked because i was too deep in thought and getting awfully sunburnt. at the peak of the trip a tiny, baby crab scuttled up to me on the rock, came close to idle and scuttled away--i wept.

psychedelic passion i've got
to get you in my pocket
got to get you weeping at the peak
bringing in the tide; the tide
came so close that day
because the ocean wanted to be with me.


the tide
got me
and got
in my mouth.


it's a sinful expression--
too holy,
too above me though i know
i'm absolutely capable of it,
of conceiving it and of
being wanted so cosmically
the UNIVERSE comes to meet me.


what life have i lived to have my soul
make me
the
ME
i know now?


in my gut, i feel temptation.
in the gut of my broken mind
i
encourage
temptation.


i appease invading desires because
i miss my soul.
i miss my wonderful memory:
it's simplistic, it's an
immaculate energy and it truly feels
all encompassing


a bit of nothingness, a bit of enlightenment.


a bit of taoist tantra.


my skin changed it's colour in the hot sun
i stayed there tied to Open Earth
and thought myself pretty
without seeing myself or remembering
what the mirror has ever said
i thought myself pretty--
my skin took to a natural golden-pink
and i felt so fastened to this land simply
because i was thinking like the ancient people.
and SIMPLY
beginning to look like them


i could see nothing man-made
from that day since i wonder always
how magestic life on this continent would be
without the intrusion of modern "civilization"
but just the land
just the natural mother like she should be.
i understand why those people worshiped the elements
of nature and spiritual nature.

i was static in body
but certainly not in mind: i was
everywhere in mind and Everywhere deeper.
i was unforgetting and patient
i was reaching dimensions:
i shut my eyes in this gorgeous place
to shelter myself
to be Nothing and enlightened
to keep myself closer to that place
to GIVE IN to earth
to the real ride of Anything

Victoria you're bright but impersonal

The dinosaurs in front of the Empress

And Darth Vader playing electric violin

Taking a moments break

To move his head

With our direction

I am wandering the streets of this new city

it’s peaceful and bright:

with ourselves in bold body and out-of-mind MINDS:

we make somewhat of a show of ourselves.

We smoke a stick called Cosmic.

When my appearance takes on

A new portfolio

As the world appears to me

Different and

It’s a mutual exchange

I WILL take the dirt road

I don’t need luxury

I WILL drink to the foolish adventure

(I guess) I really don’t need that foolish friend

I’m taking the notice: this world is breathless

this world gives only breath and keeps none to herself

like mother and I anticipate the divine of motherhood.

I create my own circumstance

Every time my confidence talks to strangers

There is a star that warms me from the

Inside out, and you can easily

Catch my glow.

I WANT the alternative life

I know it’s a drifting sacrifice

I know I’ll own nothing tangible;

The stories will be told, not held.

im starting to: last thoughts

i stare at my undone bed with its missed-matched sheets of India, leopard, and bright; it's a beautiful put-together life. it's my comfort at this place and it tells it all next to the neutral wall. I'm leaving it behind only 'cos i can't take it with me.

for the worship of the roaming people

I started digging through notebooks, found this one written in a one-stream of consciousness on the second half of an "idea" page. it's dated end of august

in other news I NOW OWN EVERY BEATLES ALBUM. oh baby. I finally have the white album; it caused me a moan. I don't even remember moaning much with boys, jesus, they aint no white album.

look at the godhead it's wearing thrift clothing
it's ballin' the goodlife & style be religion--
i've got to find me something to Worship.
i've got to find me Faith--i don't see it on the streets,
i don't feel it at home.

look at the unknowns, they're a gorgeous secret
they're dictating from the underground
i've got to meet them all
i've got to find me Faith

look at me thinking of my death
i'm warm and it's cold
i'm grossed out at all the luxury i have to deal with
i want it; it don't suit me.
i've got to find me Faith.

I AM a student of Earth, she is a fix

IMMEDIATE GLOW: the fixture in my head meat
wrecks the artful plain
hopping from thoughtpad to thoughtpad
like i'm a creature of this pond
eating dry cereal with no plate simply scattered in front of me
like i'm a creature

the story's building
the story's building

hey! early morning,
i fiddle with the planets then have a snack
ordinary pleasure--i mean,
this dimension
the thoughtsult universe gots nothing to with it
LIKE my bloodclot species:
a cosmic infantry attack strategy
in the war of the Creators--one of them decided
Earth could act as a distraction,
spiritually,
being the equivalent of a psychedelic trip

Baby, i'm a sinner.

in my ideal i'm even a megalomaniac
though i certainly don't live by ideal.

THE STRAP ON

picture came from my jane-phase, poem from last night

I envision a man with a strap-on piece

About his thighs

But it’s not in imitation of sex

It’s a building.

And he’s sticking-it to this country

Not because she likes it

Because he’s a rapist,

Sadist,

And metal craving oil—

Son of man! The bitch

Is getting stuck.

I dig the bitch, she’s green.

And I, this night:

Sit on green blanket

Middle of my personal outer-space—

Bedroom floor, perfectly,

Among and in-between

My luggage packed and boxes

Of things

For my next, new veracity.

I picnic here with notepad.

I AM green blanket

Laying as the floor for cosmic park

For these quiet moments I get it

But I only understand

In silence.

I try to break thru

By word-thing.

I am green and unsure

If it’ll ever

Really work.

I don't know why I'm wet, I just wanna write--

the tune does persist me
question after nauseating question
I; here
drip to the slip of my mind

yesterday i believed in extraterrestrials
now it's mellow knowledge--
like them drooling at my window PAIN
and me absolutely drooling back:
dimentia meltdown
(i feel it behind my eyes
it numbs,
though bitterly,
and reaches my throat,
now taste)

everything is made up of matter--now,
what's the matter with you? the
matter of fact is,
fact has no matter. LANGUAGE,
you spell.
you needer of writer:
like the things you can only understand
when put to paper
and
what defines things?

i'd like to hear my voice
but my ears are busy
so my minds collaborate
and the nonsense noise you hear
is also
senseless

there is an eye
above us all
because
our minds are at the top
and it's the most selfish organ
even moreso than sex. i am watched
by my own consciousness
this head
absorbs
everything, it's aware-- i think
that's why my human
likes touch as best. it's a
body sensation--HAH,
sight,
what would you do
down there?

if individuals have qualities i say
there is a dimension of Quality
where Love can fall for Lust
who are related to Temptation
and Wealth can get
fucked
up the ass.

(how would you survive off the stuff?)

it's another high, you know,
that place of thought
which brings you a level brighter
in aura and existence
like a spiritual raise and you feel good
being a thing of earth; thing,
like already mentioned before and THING
as in:
definition.

my ass.

there are cliffs in astro-space, too
they are slave-like, like
the cotton pickers LIKE i once overheard
a group of hipster-young afro-americans talking about
being the descendants of slaves and this group
did quiet at times though not when i came around
because that night i was waitress at
middle-society-fancy-show and certainly
in their bidding and far out in my politeness.

anyway,
my favorite song
of the album just begun: goodbye!

CosmicCoincidence_2:22

This just happened, i put it to narrative as quick as i could.

This is emotional—I find this unreal, it’s really

And very much

Inspiring.

I was sketching, listening, thinking:

Sketching to keep my hands occupied,

Listening to documentary after documentary of the things of earth

And thinking, getting deeply,

Of what reality really is and of the extreme potential, thinking

Of the greater scheme of things, that man

Really hides from man

And how mankind works, how man-eats-man and wants

Only certain things

And, yes, I was thinking of politics because my mind

Is beginning with its world and I’m thinking not only thinking but

Believing in things that used to genuinely consume me—topics that had me

Obsessed—topics I forbad enter my mind for a short while

Like multi-dementia and the spirituality of everything and One

And I was really thinking heavy

These thoughts and theories of greater depths—things

I know I’m capable of understanding as the individual

Things I know WE are capable of understanding universally (putting it that way

we really could travel thru outer space)

And things I know I’m capable of knowing though I have not yet

Had these thoughts conceived (also applicable to us as a whole).

It wasn’t that I was absorbing from these programs information that was truly profound

It was the way it was all letting me think, it was the kind of thoughts it all provoked.

The phone rings.

I look at the clock for a suggestion of who it may be—2:22 PM.

I answer HELLO.

It’s a representative from a culinary institute I was considering in order to gain

The necessary papers to properly work and address myself as “professional chef”

I often still think of this possibility, perhaps one day when I’m full of commitment I’ll

Actually study this interest. I ask him (he has a very pleasing voice)

If they have any campus’s in Vancouver—

No.

Though the way he stops I sense I’ve touched something. Immediately

His voice brightens and immediately

Topic of school is abolished.

His pleasant voice turns excited, intensifying my enjoyment for this awkward

Stranger-to-stranger encounter.

OH MY.

He speaks with my name (it must have been down on paper somewhere in front of him)

He speaks quickly to get all his thoughts out—how wonderful a place where I’m going is, that

He doesn’t know me but he knows I’ll love it out there

He mentions the spirituality I was just considering in my head before his phone call

In fact he mentions many things I was just considering in my MIND before his phone call

he kept speaking of the mountains and the beautiful land and how things just wait for you out there.

He says: I’m so happy for you. He gives me his story how he sold everything he had to roadtrip

Out WEST, just where I’m going, how he went there to stay and, simply, he is

Just as intensely wondered to be speaking to me as I am him.

I say my plan is awful-similar to his story. I hear his smile.

Everything he says relates to me absolutely. I smile and wonder if he can hear me.

I feel the rise of personal power.

This unknown person gives me more confidence than close friends.

He begins again something about the mountains, cutting himself off and says instead only:

Maybe you’ll meet something up there.

It’s like my mind explodes at that comment.

It’s like this man I’ve never met and only spoken to for the past century of several minutes

Knew what I was thinking and knew even, that I was thinking about cosmic

coincidence.

I swear I’m moved.

Though I don’t quite let him in on it. I say: WOW,

Random phone call!

And he laughs with spirit.

that morning i rewrote this a million times in my head before i got it down to paper

i was OUT but all up in HERE and huffin'
my puff-puff off the fag-drag of Ciggy
(i'm in my cradle getting fed disease)
and the blue birds were playing above me
and the coloured folk were singin' their
dulcet noise
and i danced to the songs
of nature. now,
puff-puff
...
puff
puff...
my drags are done; back
inside.

the Creation of an Awkward Situation by the Monster of Words

______________________the

slaughterhaus is skinning instruments

the slaughterhaus is high—-------baby, them kites

are lookin’ up at me.

the slaughterhaus is playing symphonies, and, yes!

my dreams do absorb into yours when you sleep close by.

when we’re helpless, absolutely,

and vulnerable, completely, to any extraterrestrial communo

my stomach:

they’re all there—-------all the regulars all

the messy brawlers and their talking button-up

vests. ______________________all

the holy terrors of early-morning recollection, but

these people call it late-night.

they’re there—-----speaking with lies and smiles like

they believe themselves, just because of the way

they said it.

i’m leaving to avoid all this____________________.

ancient hair

In the ancient times girls of nobility were adored by their opposites, and also the the young men of the KINGDOM just because their hair was soft and their hair was always soft because their maidens constantly combed it with their delicate hands.

the foreigner and the witch

When i worked in the cafe i often spent my entire shift writing what was going on around me down. i have a lot of poems about the random creeps that came in. in this case, i started writing about a very close friend of mine (loooooove you to death, g!) and as i was in thought of her, one of the regulars came in and obviously sent my mind spinning. hahah, this blog stuff is a lot of fun...

The most beautiful girl I know

says to me: I like your touch,

I like that you can touch that

you don’t stiffen at contact that

I know you mean it when you give me

your embrace.

The most beautiful girl I know

said that to me.

I was taken back and inward;

I touched her in gentle thanks

This girl likes

as an addiction

to touch.

This girl caresses openly

in conversation

even to the acquaintance, showing always

a welcoming nature with

the added tangible of touch

and that in my evolution of comfort

with touch I have mostly learned from her

and that she is credible for it all

the most beautiful girl I know and----

a psycho lunatic comes into the café.

she overtakes my gorgeous thought and asks

how much I could sell her

and individual

piece

of lettuce for.

I sigh in helpless irritation.

This most asinine interruption: the same

psycho-bitch who asked once if she

could bring home salt

wrapped in a napkin

from the shaker on her table; the same

bitch bloody idiot

who once came in once with “no money”

and said it would “please her”

to buy a bagel for dinner

with the money

in my tipcup.

The most beautiful girl in the world

and this is my note of thanks

With decrepit intrusion of an

awkward misfortunate creature

I move back to the good thought:

I love your touch and love even more

that you love mine.

i ate jam on my icecream. 2 yr old poem

Like

When you’re there And

Its spur of the inspiration and

Your soul is hangin’ out, raw,

Satisfied,

And the jaunt is ON and

It’s consuming

Like

Candy

Asking me to put more tongue into it and

Lick ruins feast—

My soul

Goes into recluse and

There is no telling

There is no telling

Eternity is left

Eternity can be reached but

Purposely

Is

Not

themotherfuckload

Muet thuh sea Zuhn-queer!

Ich fahst brechen waden smohk!

Nosh groov fohr Tidan!

Carricare instrumentum sweyen Byoot!

Ich mania mahynd,

Sexen Aage ahrt grohs.

Meut thuh sea Zuhn-queer!

Ahy breyk mahy fahst with smohk!

Fohr korhs meel!

Mahy mahyd ehs ien revolht,

Thuh wey hiz wey ehs,

Thair ehs noh charitea.

curious

not my usual kind of poem...

I sit in a curious cross-legged position

I’ve acquired the flexibility for the lotus

But sometimes I sit this way instead

Because

It

Hurts

Oftentimes there’s nothing I’d rather do

Then give my body mild discomfort

To remain in observation of my distant surroundings

But to feel the tension in my limbs

Grow deeper

And deeper

In somatic annoyance

Although there is a slight painful consequence

I very much take joy in this simple past time

When my body returns to its normal state of neutrality

I reflect and imagine myself in worse tortures,

Actual tortures,

And become quite happy

That my carnal punishment is only self afflicted.

the grey day random post

old photo for an old poem

Here are the words

Stretched like plain canvas

Confined to the slow funeral

Of grey day dawning:

I believe in Nothing the

Evergreen truth the starry blue

Setting and a child learning.

I believe in space-word-contrast the

Shame surprise that Nothing exists and

That something in arousal

Is a brilliantine thrill

I believe in the earthbound sense

But to creation the senseless is

Real tangible, touching and sexing

Like air & water colliding, touching

Like being moved, sexing like

Thinking and holding your own thought:

I hold me in my own hands.

this one's about sess

holy fuck

and I imagine

a holy fuck like

passion & desire & thinking

it’s never gonna

happen again & hating

the person you’re

making love to for hurting

you for knowing you’re

going to leave them

somehow

for some estranged

unintended fucking reason

and feeling the cosmic

in your pelvis

like creation was born you

almighty rotations like

dying hope

and nothing but

dying hope

as if you found the

supernatural in nature &

getting bent is the only

way to pray

like passion & heat &

knowing the slow will go

by fast knowing the enjoyment

after the climax

and knotting myself into

your body; glory

for the infatuate.

I’ve got to get the new.

I’m crying and laughing at the same time,

I’m suffering elation—

am I exhausted?

Will I be out of ruined breath and disease fantastic

When at your station I’ve began

With the dreamcast plastic picture

Of my ruined mind?

NOW I’ve got to be hidden—love

Is something I don’t talk about.

I love love

But I am not brave.

I only want to climb the mountain,

I only want to keep the puddle of youth at my bidding—

As the undone buttons of my favorite top,

At my bedside? In a pilljar?

I evil wink at you.

I bait my master at will,

I calmly despise when I despise, and

I’m heavy.

When I pass you do you think of me

As much as I do you?

Because I do think of you, I’m thinking of you right now

I’m imagining who you are

But not failing to ignore developing characteristics.

You are not rattling

Like the harbor snake.

You are not rattling

Like any snake—like

The wet treat,

The potion I’ve smuggled off the witch,

The gigantic waterfalls just outside my bedroom window

(I swear they’re there).

I’ve got a fetish!

I’ve got an undone collar

I’ve got Buddha waking up beside me asking me for mushrooms.

Babydoll,

I like it when your hair gets greasy.

It’s not about

The anticipation

Of you singing in the shower

It’s because

Your hair

Is greasy.

I’ve got to get the new!

I’m going into the forest now

I’ve seen the endblues enlightenment

I’ve been killed each time I’ve been put to bed—like

I’m a baby in the crib I had to save up to buy

Like I’m a baby in the crib I just happened to fall asleep in.

I’m going into the sky now

I can see everything but myself

And not knowing

What I look like

Is extreme.

I think of myself but I only feel concept.

I think of you and I think of home

And I’m frightened.

I grieve the death of this era;

I have funerals for myself at every passing—

Kinda like ending this book and writing a new one,

Not closing a chapter.

Kinda like

I’m filled of books

And kinda like

I’m crying

And laughing

At the same time.

since we're on the topic of morning...

another older piece. one of the first poems i wrote when i got my typewriter^.^

Good morning elated mourning:

I personate waste.

Sound it, look it

Embody its every caricature

Entirely materialize it

The taction of wake impaired—

Like my mind’s still on the pillow

To rouse in the evening—

Delirium.

I imagine counter possibilities

Cleanliness, hunger,

A closet of infantry dispatch proxies

Like my mind can stay on the pillow.

My body isn’t working though she’ll

Never fail in performing

The worst:

Caffeine, cigarettes.

I desire self-inducing vomit,

Make myself retch to parch and quit;

Hibernate at least.

Gorge on a million food-things

Go to sleep

To actually sleep—

To rise in years cadaverous sickly.

Get me out of these quarters

If appearance could resist

The internal

Like dirt happiness the façade of

Truthful happiness

Like my pungent face a liar

Like simulated energy in obligation

With keeping this machine in labour.

Explode the noon hour:

The mirror

Has its poker face on.

The mirror

Is emancipated from its inner workings

And reflects with logic but

Without circumspect

Without matching its environment

I envy its extreme advantage

Over my feelings.

Reflection finds me,

I do not match nature

The sunny, most pretty of day-goings

I light another one,

Maybe I will go outside today

Afterall.

in the morning, let's cook!

a more recent one but i don't suppose i'll be posting in order anyway:

In the morning, let’s cook.

Let’s tiptoe thru our nightmares

In subtle conversation

Let’s fall in reverse

And shoot into space

With crave wanting of the scare

With desire intensely

Of getting back to bed.

Let’s sink into the animal

Let’s play rope-and-collect

And I distress:

Rope you,

Suckle this

As the rhythm-and-constant

I want mutual initiation.

In the morning, let’s cook.

Evening, child,

Is fornicator talk.

Evening is foreplay,

And,

Child,

I assure you

The quiet ones dream best

The quiet ones are good

As good is morning

And Dollface!

Let’s discover morning sanctuary

As a place that roams and finds

The static you

As a place that gets you hooked

And gives you the fix:

Radiate all day, child,

Pass along the good.

Child!

Pass

Along

The good.

On this morning, let’s cook.

Let’s light this whole place up with SHINE

All the flowers will grow

With all the windows shut.

composition 001

it's ONLY fitting that i start with this one:

Sheen the gig of Earth

Humanjazz this sound swingin’ jivin’ creation

It swings me it jives me crazy insane like asinine scripture

Like the pen moving and I didn’t even know my mind was working

Argot eventfuls because

This language spits nature

And nature doesn’t even fit into it; Sheen this gorgeous place!

With suffering vasculities not in my veins but

In the veins of dusty existence

When all the words are infinite

These speaktouchs rattle me shaking groundless orbit

Boldsome starring giant: shied since the meridian high

[intermission]

And taking my cigarette out on a Buddha statue

And then the smoke gets in my eyes and makes them

Shiver and in pain I release their seas and see such

Brilliance the stars of daytime

And when the ashes burn too long without

My deliverance they tree like woodland fire

And blow, not suck, ember invigorates

But I blew in your direction, sorry.

So sheen the gig for its loud

Its glowing things I wish grew words of

But this dimension is host with purlieu

I adore its limits for the plain

It causes deep stirrings

That I simply cannot express.