very good ideas

It seems like there's a lot of designers doing what we call guerilla poetry? This woman's amazing.

http://kitsunenoir.com/2010/05/25/amandine-alessandra/

-pccs

Group Conference Sign-Up (temporary)

Hi All,

I'm sorry to make ugly, temporarily, the journal, but I felt this the best way to democratically and efficiently (yes, the two can go together sometimes) sign up for group conferences during eval week and the week following (for those of you willing to go later).

PLEASE ELECT SOMEONE IN YOUR GROUP TO (IMMEDIATELY) PUT THEIR NAME IN A SLOT DECIDED ON. This way, by name, I can know which group I am meeting (in shorthand) and when. If a slot is taken, it's taken. First come first serve (like ice cream). I'm giving us 1 hour per conference. Group & individual work will be discussed. Bring your portfolios.

Note: since I MUST go to Bard College for a faculty meeting in the middle of eval week, the schedule is a little clunky, so if you can meet later as a group (the weekend of eval week), it'd help--not required, of course.

I'll take this post down when everyone has signed up for a slot--as this is not, in any interesting way, poetry. Also, please continue to use this journal as it is (mainly)--i.e., please keep posting when and what you desire. Just make sure to scroll down for this post if need be, to sign up. Please sign up today or tomorrow (by Monday). PUT YOUR REPRESENTATIVE'S NAME IN PLACE OF THE LINE.

Solidarity,
David

Weds, June 2:

5-6pm: Adam, Alley, Tommy, Philley
6-7pm: MALEDETTO GROUP

Weds, June 9:
5-6pm: Bureau of Miscommunication
7-8pm: Better Living thru RAGE

Thurs, June 10:

5-6pm: ________________
6-7pm: ________________
7-8pm: Edible Poetry

Fri, June 11:

5-6pm: Convenient Amnesia
6-7pm: _______________

Sun, June 13:

5-6pm: ________________
6-7pm: ________________

Mon, June 14:

5-6pm: ________________
6-7pm: ________________

oil spill response

What the hell is this?

I'm standing on a stage in. a house on. a hunk of land on. a ball of dirt on. orbit around a sun in. the middle of. an infinite universe...

What the hell is this?

Babies are screaming boyfriends. are hitting police. are arresting soldiers. are shooting lovers. are crying strangers. are judging the socially insufficient...

What the hell is this?

Factories are dumping people. are driving machines. are replacing no one. is listening. and thousands of gallons of oil spill into the Gulf of Mexico as I write...

What the hell is this?

Every night you lay awake worried about eviction. bills. money money money. got no. money. money. money. got no one. beside me...

WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!?

why                                   this?

sometimes I feel.

like taking. the nozzle of a gas hose putting it up to my face 'n squeezing the trigger.

(alterity's a bitch)

sometimes I think.

that you. only need a good slap on the hand to keep your greasy fingers out of the plastic cookie jar.

(ignorance is bliss)

sometimes I wait.

for a time. when we decide to suck out our fat rolls of cookie delight and BP liquor and spread it over toast to feed the angry birds above us.

(hope is not faith)

I wait for it.

I wait for it.

I wait.

for you.

Edible poetry

What a great little ceremony yesterday. I had a wonderful time, and hope you all did too.

With an original poem written by compiling phrases from ",said a shotgun to the head", a poem by Saul Williams, we remixed the poem by omitting certain words and replacing them with different ones chosen by each of our classmates. After each person wrote their word, we poured banana ice cream, which was made from overripe bananas (collected from people and grocery stores who had an excess), directly into their hands. Then we gave them two of the words omitted from the original poem (written on rice paper with food coloring as ink). Then they ate it.

The first is the original poem. The second is our version.



The seed of forbidden fruit
Every tree
Has a hidden root
Let us retrace the origin of a kiss
They have ravished
Your heart and mind
But your breath
Travels freely
Out of your mouth and into mine
Throw away your map
And swallow this cratered pill
Pull it from the sky
And let it dissolve under your tongue
It is only a matter of time
Before we are timeless
Your currency reflects an army of dead men
The moon is ignored
You, too, can become her cyclical sacrament
Your children can become her cyclical sacrament
Your children drown
In the cross-fire
You throw search parties
For a profit
And pray to your revenue
Steady my hands upon your breasts
And guide me to your altar
Swallow me whole
So that I may be born again
Depleted memory banks have grounded our emotional economy
We have been forced to create a new currency
I have found the library
Where all the dreams deferred were stored
Catalogues of cultures
Indexed by communal disappearances
Mayans are metaphors
For astral doors left cracked
By children afraid to sleep in utter darkness
It is a source of madness
A source of hunger for power
A source of weakness

____________________________________

The future of forbidden fruit
Every tree has a hidden bloodstream
Let us retrace the stories of a kiss
They have healed your heart and mind
But your ghost steps freely
Out of your body and into mine
Disregard your map
And swallow this crispy pill
Pull it from the lost
And let it flow
It is only a matter of paper
Before we are held
Your currency reflects a sheen of dead music
The hope is ignored
You, too, can become her trusted appetite
Your children can become her
Whereas your words drown in the void
You throw pitty parties for a profit
And pray to your (other)
Luv, my hands upon your hands
Guide me to your smile
Swallow me whole so that I may be You again
Depleted time-banks
Have grounded our emotional economy
We have been wild to create a new currency
I have found the library
Where all the truths deferred were swag
Catalogs of lust
Indexed by communal chaos
Ponds are metaphors
For astral doors left cracked by streams
afraid to sleep in decentered darkness
It is a source of ecstasy
A source of hunger for ghosts
A source of bliss


________________________________

smoker's pit

"
       what are we doing here?
               *drag*cough*spit*
                                 hey guys
       getting drunk on nice wine
           debating capitalism
                                       *spit*
                                  arrival postponed for food
                      remember gladiator?
                                      *drag*cough*
    one bus follows another
                                                     that's so vauge
speaking in ideals
                              *drag*spit*
                                                         fuck yeah
                                         I believe I'm the king
                              *laugh*cough*
remember Vietnam?
              that shit was *cough* crazy
  killed 5 million
                                                            *drag*spit*
                                     ...nachos
                                                    she slept in the woods for fun
                                hey boss
                               *spit*cough*
                                                      what's the significance?
                               *silence*
              got it for free, so...
                                        *drag*spit*
                                       *drag*cough*
                                     *flick*stomp*
                                                    *cough*
                                                                                             "

--philip G. Taylor

But I'm not a poet

I'm having problems with my computer, and I can't get the formatting to load. Hopefully, I'll be able to add it some time in the near future.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bike horizontally morphs into sidewalk.
11:33,
Thursday evening,
the final 41
saunters away.

Crouch.

Hide.

Cover light.

Bike and being,
consciously lifeless,
pressed against the gutter.

Present in light.

Blink.

Impressed on darkness,

like an illuminated
tattoo
lining my eyelids.

Blink.

Rose, rose, arose.

Blink.

1,429 miles,
68.5 months,
and 205,573, 481
heartbeats
separate.

Blink.

You,
every blink a new setting,
a new motion.
.knilB |  Blink.

He,  a   pixated,   black    and
white,  two   by   two  inch   f
ace   clipped   from   a  yearb
ook,    super(imposed)    ove
r  a   million   potential   bodi
es, none of t(he)m quite right.

Blink.

Rose.

Blink.

Lines and verse
tattered and stained.

You. Me. She. Blink.

Grace is force,
love is power,
lust is air,
desire is is.
To have and not to want
or to give.


Control,

dominance,

malice,

boredom,

action by inaction
                             – blink, blink, blink.

You. Me. She.

Romance novels
bound in strands
of putrid disgust.

A poem of love.

                  A love of possessive indifference.

Blink, blink,


                                                           but I am not a poet.

-becca

silent soul

there's a watermelon in the moon and all the light bulbs are going out

the clouds are orange from street light love.
i long for a purple dawn
and a kiss in the snow

all i have now is insomnia
and pitiful lust.

i feel lost without the stars
and lucid
holding a bloodied thumb out to hitch a ride
and i think -
"if i were to die right now, what would change?"
but the answer comes, nothing.
so i wait.

the scent of life might be the most beautiful perfume
the sound the wind makes when it tickles the wet leaves
the taste of love in every kiss upon all the lips you've ever touched...
i don't know these things anymore.

somebody once told me that love is like dancing, you gotta do it fearlessly or not at all.
i'm a clumsy dancer
like two left feet.

my silent soul whispers and shouts
but i'm a ghost
trapped in a zombie's body.

permeability

before uploaded, this text had italicized as well as underlined portions that have now been leveled to one style. as such the variant voices are less visible but still lurking. should be an (un)intelligible read. - nicky

*

why aren’t I being hysterical? these desires are escapist I can only write essays by analyzing my own analyses these notions are recycled not concerned with knowing but how I came to know the body thru analysis I clearly have the privilege of belonging the pronoun shifts NO, THRU PAIN, OF FACT (kinship arrangements) THAT WE CANNOT EXTRICATE OURSELVES (where feminist studies once was) FROM OUR ENVIRONS only to have the disturbing element become commodified AND YET THAT THESE CAN’T BE UNIFIED EITHER applies to commodities its segmentations that force consciousness into a liquor store, or absorb it within a closed idea of totality I NEVER SOUGHT TO BE RESPECTABLE this positioning against chance amounts to oppression IN SUCH A SITUATION I shall want you to speak THE BODY IS A DERIVATIVE OF ITS ENVIRONMENT. RITUAL MOVES FROM CONCENTRATION TO PARTICIPATION BY WAY OF PAIN. PAIN=PERMEABILITY. WHAT WOULD A POETICS OF PERMEABILITY LOOK LIKE? is a capitalism compression of space-time that the text can only nourish this debate confront retrospectively no future tense in dreams How? And if the issue is how the present is always only retrospectively known through certain figures that limit our visibility to one another, how can we reconfigure the relationship between temporality and textuality so as to be not representational but coeval conditions of the other that only together, in the inbetweenness, produce a form? neither compound nor mixture adequately represents the sample A HABIT WITHOUT NEED HAS NO DESIRE THAT CAN’T BE PUBLIC. DOES HABIT WITHOUT USE VALUE=RITUAL? HABIT FOR HABIT’S SAKE? RITUAL (love’s savage splendor) KEEPS CONTENT SAFE AT THE COST OF WIDENING THE COTERIE. HOW CAN WE VULNERABILIZE SAFETY WITHOUT KILLING IT? So that the reflex capability of art is brought into real-time? This demands reading become the brink of fear a kind of embodiment, as much as the writing become a kind of record of its own production and our concern became the way these subjects are addressed not just as form=content equation that isolates what’s at stake WHAT IS AT STAKE? BODIES? riddled with bullets but that acknowledges the imbalances embedded in the idea of reciprocation, take this as a suggestion the ideologies dictating its prioritization the boom mikes one never sees that precondition what’s not domestic? the range of what’s performable SOMETIMES, DONATIONS END UP AT DUMPS and to articulate that displacement as an outsourcing and not an exclusion to calculate practice environmentally disobedience, to exist for exits IS IMPOSSIBLE this reads from left to right negatively locates the present identity in the non-terms of HISTORY what capitalist categoricals discipline heads it both transcends and is occulted by QUITE THE AESTHETIC SITUATION the paradoxical implacability of marginalization as central to identity SOME BLACK PEOPLE PASS FOR WHITE painful as it is exploitation is the site of pleasure whose reconciliation MEDIATION becomes a performance POST-COLONIAL TROPE concern THE STRUCTURALIZATION OF SILENCE cut to wide angle fuels this poem whose success the sum of hallucinations depends on how the differentials lie down THE TRANSEXUALITY OF FORM defined by our energy not by our gender in power play out, the institutionalization of violence demanding some kind of relationality across mediums chiefly northern this reads from pink to blue INTER-INSTITUTIONAL MAPPING whose dialogic structure how the scaffold of lights glare is more than just a multivalent perspective still at bottom re-asserting the dominance of the human, but an embodiment of this CEMENT movement between body and page pointless flesh that occupies as much as it observes read this as what you want to be today its own excesses, unpenetrated emptiness extending what we have in common THE REFUGE OF THE INACCESSIBLE by making what that is a contradiction ABJECTION so desire becomes the surveillance ACTIVISM DOESN’T REQUIRE A UNIFIED SUBJECT I’m playing the director role of our insufficiencies and poetry the space where difference becomes a matter of fluctuation, chaos a matter of chance, SAY WAR IS NOW whose narratives are not economies but ecologies do you agree? THE INTERSECTION OF MUTUAL AID AND ACCIDENT and here’s where I really start to feel bad the terrain of the psychoanalytic application of possibility that we this reads as a pronoun of confused emergences (emergencies) THIS RESEARCH IS EMOTIONAL experience as a incendiary beacon glimmer to be spat out later that as a phenomena or image is more than palliative versus someone already familiar with rubble it is what allows us to circumscribe the stage DRAW THIS LINE of contiguity a matter of temporary subordination to be heard outside our exile this reads as a refrigerator design THE HUNTED ALWAYS DWELL IN CAVES what’s left then is a pattern, the pleasure of contact with the enemy REPROACH THIS EXPLANATION until at last our situation is not imposed AND ITS BACKDROP OF CERTAINTY too alive to be art but democratically constructed ambiances of attraction where fulfillment is a kind of continuation we are going to undermine and orient the role played by the passive whose material roots CHARGE RENT informs their social activity read life as a side-project LOVE through the struggle of grasping ourselves thru other things maybe a tree is too perfect and thru the body as a kind of inquiry not biologically determined read this as a scene of violation into whether desire is in some sense always a desire for recognition read this as an effect of the very power regime you seek to criticize and how this not very free and happy project implicates me (Nicky) and then there’s the suicide of showing where I thought BUT I DON’T THINK I WANT (to think I want to think I want I?) with my ear decidedly to the text he’s one of those rare academics as encumbered shadow and as macho alien object miming host whose hands are full of fixed projections cautioning the importance of light (what you look for inside your closet 100 percent of the time).

more on form 'n content from gabe

to articulate is to partition.
so why
words.
at all?

"actually, my cats name is Richard."

to say is to give.
FORM to my
CONTENT
so why not just S I L E N C E?
( ... )

"don't worry, he only humps your leg for a minute, then gets bored and plays with a toy."

to perceive is to be blind.
how will you reduce what you see in order for a good story?

"once a month he'll throw up what he ate on my underwear."

am I just re-capitulating the same old narrative of male supremacy by reducing my body to the form of someone else's content?

"no, he prefers a hard fast stroking, not a gentle petting."

if I am silent, will others fill my form with this content?
what is
my CONTENT? am i
content with my FORM?

"i love my pussy"

am I a (wo)
man penetrated with the phallacy of others' perceptions?
filled in form-content in passing?

this is not a test.

"Dick for short."

or rather, short for dick.
what is my content? is it more than this form? this body of open debate?

I want a transsexual body.

"i don't want the cat to get out."

i want a transsexual desire-
a silent form
manifested through body experiencing morphological pain.
body modification as expression of inner unworded desires.
the desire to say.
the pain of not being able to.
to what extent is this modification commodification of my identity?

"Richard likes to eat cherries."

I'm not content with my form.
got to change my form-why?
(i don't want to be a normative form. i'm not a normative content.)
I've got to.
why?
because then I'll be content.
with form.

"he likes to cuddle at night and rub against your face."

or will I?
no one can say but I.
what will I say as the silent narrative?
how will I reduce my experience to a good story?
how will I perceive my form, now? reduce my content?

"I love my Dick."

taking (giving) maybe one thousand [nightsweat]s peeling from the walls, confess: last night it was my (watch) turn to stay awake. the rain was gone, leaving only [sprint] [cardiovascular] [tracks] a quick-beat(armyboot)ing lullaby.

the pipes in the walls were hissing fire joints pinging like needle pricks and the same sad melody lay obtrusive in my mind like junk in the yard or your broken frame on a bed that offers instead of sleep: pensive wanderings.

so I gave it up, lit the oil-lamp and in the flickering wondered if (like black and distant [stars]) [will] would fade and put on a [movie] blanket for any night-shivering mind and fell in love at an again (distant and) repeated (your) declaration with a (poet's) [touch] of invention.

Can we postcard? Is it too hot to sleep? I have fire in my veins that should be falling wet from the sky, the trees are shaking [like] fresh from a bath. Learn slowly touchsmellsee cushions grow mouldy old we I too quick leaves please have patience (waiting) room for air will [steel back cables] be "no thank you, I'll drink my [vita] without sugar or cream down to the "

--philip G. Taylor

Joe Stack

falling out of airplanes, containing minds; we’ll never hold. Slipped into space, dropping miscellaneous things; Along the way. Until death grids took hold.

colonize

To occur to the mind: how particular

a person, be, their place

in a course of progress, advancing, the life

we see their shoulders’ blacked light

to move into view; appear, he’s left and then he’s right

Arms extend; to reach, the armies are near

to enter or be brought into a specified state or condition.

To seem to become, a state; the boredom

to enter into being or existence; be born

to happen to; affect; the state of; boredom

what we have become; to recover consciousness.

To arrive, as in due course:

To recur to the memory;

5am

for

bidden thoughts

for

saken actions

for

gotten memories of a one-time dream...

my (pre)face edition is

my (un)doubted preference--

i was dreaming that dream again. it woke me at exactly 5:00 am. again. always. your face. brilliantly happy. only in a dream. always. am.

for

lorn hope

for

feit fate

for

'mer prey turned predator inside out again...

this (in)version of Windows Witch

this (out)come leaves a bitter taste--

we met by chance and now all my intentions are [in]appropriate. ive appropriated the [in]consistencies of language so i can write a poem only i understand.

for

ground rules

for

boding feelings

for

ever canopies that shield the sun of the eyes...

your (circum)stances determine

your (comp)lieing mouth--

to say. there is nothing to say, cant. for a variety of bad reasons. to mention it is to lose it. a 2 dimension. will. become 3. then 4, then 5, then 6, then 7...

for

ward protection

for

most ejections

for

shadowed ejaculation on the bathroom tiles...

that (un)intended chance meeting

that (pre)inscribed desire--

clutch me to your trembling. i want to shiver with you. in a world bereft of warmth i need a shadow. no one remembers a time befor this one.

for

'te unknown

for

cast unknown

for

knowledge is yet to be determined as accurate...

our (out)post of freedom

our (in)sufferable isolation--

of one another. this is not condoned. we are committing a taboo even now. your waters rise onto my shorefor and i am no longer an i-land on a controlled drift.

for

m'less content

for

mu'late unwords

for

swearing a secret message through body contact...

its (comp)lementing to know

its (circum)spectacular and mutual--

im already laying there beside you awake. no need to ask. or speak. whisper. touch. just tell me where to sleep. 

and ill be there.

-gabe

3am

my insides are shaking.

i can't stop thinking.

when was the last time we......?

forbidden thoughts.

i can't stop shaking.

sleep abandons me here when we're.......?

you turn my head in circles.

i'm hungry now.

is this what you wanted?



starving.

-gabe

but I'm thinking about it. touching it on the inside. looking through my mind pages. flipping that book wide open to the elements of chaos. a book that beats with the thump of adrenaline. i'm writing so fast my ink has spilled. filling the in-between space. with words unknown unheard but seen through a glass of to-be moments. or not to be.... that is the mind-fuck of this moment. when do we transition? my sanity (be)came in when you did.

i choked on the scent of you. all senses high alert. lock down beat down up town new year's eve and a glass of dead thyme. dead air that licks flames across my spine. eyes say everything... a memory now.

and a cigarette.

An amiable smile quickly transforms into a vicious “Father Knows Best” routine. glower, but don’t look. eyes steel. face fixed. no sudden movements. good. “Set the table. Set the table.” fuck. “Set the fucking table.” their backs are turned, do it now, now. “Set the table.” fuck. you missed it. “Why isn’t the fucking table set?” quick, distract them. i’ll set the goddamn table. hush. “The toilet’s overflowing. Ah, fuck, the toilet’s overflowing.” shut up, dumbass. quiet. i’ll fix it. “The toilet’s overflowing.” don’t look, don’t look. dammit, he looked. simple. keep face simple. laughing. why are they laughing? shit, you’re not laughing. laugh, dammit. smile. glance right, peer left, keep expressions in between. television! oh, wonderful television, talk to me. no one will question what i’m thinking if i only stare at you. “Why is the tv off?” “Set the fucking table.” “Rotate.” what! you want me to bloody follow them. no. no. no. no. have you lost your mind? escalation. arguments. sacred. private. don’t look; don’t touch; don’t ever talk about. “Come on; everybody move.” shit. shit. shit. shit. glance right. gone. peer left. gone. fuck. move.

-becca

thinking about
sitting
&
staring:


a systematic photoshoot of everyone who has sat across from Marina Abramovic at MOMA with a recording of how much time they spent there.

What are they looking at? Why are they upset? They have such open countenances. To me they all have such an anachronistic sweetness, like pole sitters.

pccs

Fox Divination

The smiling god with eyes like staples
in the welcome mat says so what
if it smells like a methlab in there all
foxtracks and brimstone
looking about like science to the uninitiated.
Science! The intermediary of the god
that wipeth not his jackboots.
“Hello. I’m here on behalf of Mr. and Mrs….”

If a god go down in the sand overnight,
a grid left the sole babysitter of lines
for the time being, the sand put a staple
structurally to the eyes.

If Science, the Lord Overnighter
decide that the fox of a fox and a fox be a blessed event
from which issues forth the fadeout
while the divine is definitely not what dot dot dot?

No amethysts in fo'c'sles? Was that the sign?
With a cross on the side of a mountain overpass?
Once a trickster god loved a welfare queen, they
do the long walk of the so-called crack baby from mat to mat.

-pccs

response

write......
or wrong..
this trembling pen.
it would be wrong
if I trembled out
of fear these words...

to write......
a wrong..

it's ok. I'm allwrite.

my pen
-satisfaction.

...so why do I tremble write now?

a need tremble.....
to release..

this is write.
before I am eaten
by you we must dance this
language of blue lines
and blank spaces

a/u perpendicular pink li e...

t/b/a venue vor vivilety...

is write here.

...are we going in the write direction?

still still body still breath no moving parts private still inappropriate not hole stilted growth still moving unseen unknown still not now here room see voice still blooming the inside cum out still came...

its ok. your allwrite.

unstick your tongue from the back wall and stick it down the pipe to pull out my pointed black discharge so you can eat it all up...

gobble gobble.
goobiddy goo.

(repeat on next page)

The Road War minus Mel Gibson

Phlebotomists lobotomized by uncertain peril
Unable to complete task timely
Avoidance of moisture at consequence OF shimmers of stenches procured under the stress of millennia

Why stink when checkpoint must be reached?
While task must be accomplished!
Why worry when infrastructure maintains
avoidance of smell taste hear think.
Stop. Stop.
Go.
Stop thinking keep moving destination must be striven for.

Automated construction of machine precision parts
Constantly under watch by high-power riveter/unriveters
Tasks must be completed in a timely fashion, quotas must be met

Fires must be stoked

Roads must be built quickly, must be maintained tirelessly
Gas must be burnt quickly
Cargo will be moved quickly
Efficiency is no longer a problem when speed is concerned
Turn around time 37 minutes, destination ignored
Task completed in timely manner
No sweat
Don’t sweat
Deodorant only gets you so far
Four wheels will get you further
Faster Faster
No sweat


Automatons of centralized locomotion under stress of consumption
By predatory machines or machinations
Fueled by burrito, can of cheez, one half litre pepsi/coke
Unphased by stress of living timely
May complete task in timely manner?
No
Fires unstoked by fossilized sunlight trapped by crust half mile deep
Fires stoked by stinking pouches, cheetos, burritos, beer
Flesh clinging to cordura- encrusted with road filth
Acceptance of stink unavoidable
Felicitous stench overpowering exhaust
Exhausted by continuous movement
Avoidance of death, acceptance of risk

Enjoyment of flavor, untrapped unwebbed by constricting lashes of belt. Liberation through steel bars, aluminum tubes, rubber legs turning endlessly through the dirt left by a civilization unable to feel the road dipping and swiveling every single day

By David Hoekje

Fire Ritual | Part II | Exteriorization by Kaitlin L

For whatever reason this won't format completely correct but, here goes.



First I cleanse.
Rinse what I have gathered, the sweat of stress, the dirt of travel, scents of places been and people touched.
I emerge as clean as a newborn, blank slate.
Heat makes the pores open.

<>
(Shed the Excess)
Become pure,
become

blank.


I take a piece of charcoal from the bag. I chose one that is large and protruding, with plenty of soot. I juggle it lightly between my fingers, feel its weight. The ash wants to come off, and does so on my fingers.
(Shed the excess)

the weight of the important words
lies heavy
but not saying them is not an option
when my body extends beyond my own
a tool for the

{{{{ c h a n n e l l }}}

the weight can only leave after shedding

So I make the first mark between the eyebrows, up the crest of the forehead, to accentuate the Pineal Gland, the Third Eye. Let me see you, I’ll let you see me
I consent
Through this exteriorization of the mind
exteriorization of the words
this body
(a canvas)

the ash runs out, I take another piece of charcoal.

Accentuate
(Ex-intuit)
The jaw line, the nose bridge, the chin, down to the mouth
Not just my face now, but the face of my brothers and sisters
I wear the warrior’s paint
And we are of the same tribe

The weight of the words lies heavy on my skin.
What has (not) been said,
and silence penetrates the

~~~~~~~~~~
undercurrent
a bottomless ocean
a bottomless grave

down

down

down


the silence must be FRAMED to give it importance. Framed by words, jumbles of sound and squiggles.
A frail attempt to give form to the silence
But the silence will give it form
Like in a drawing class, where you are taught to draw the space in between the objects
Which then creates the object


The negative space
gives the form


Me


him

her



she

I


Is


the





hush.


Beautiful emptiness,
yet with such fullness


the ash is out. I pick another piece.

Ex-intuiting the muscles in my neck, my hands chest and legs,
Into the street and into your eyes, you see me now, you become aware of the muscles my neck, my hands, chest and legs
My Pineal Gland
My tribe
No longer a blind

-------------------------------------passing----------------->

I flow with the current
That is current
And I know the tribe can feel me somehow

I am present and I see you seeing me
I am the warrior ready for the world
I’ve exteriorized the most painful, important, urgent words
And seared them across the body that now belongs to the tribe

One saw me wearing the paint and wanted to be a part of the tribe. I hesitated because he did not know the weight of the ash. But I looked in his eyes and saw his face, saw the muscles in his neck and arms and chest and saw
that he gave consent
to be a commons for the tribe
because he saw the urgency

like a stranger that stops in the road
when you’re pleading for help
and he normally would have --------passed---------->

if it weren’t for the look in your (eye) | he stopped


you didn’t
say anything different

it was the



(silence)



that your eyes gave form to
that made him stop



some stop - .
some stare and
pass

many are familiar with this body,
and ask why it’s marked

I fumble, a feeble attempt to explain, to give form to the silence that is
(The undercurrent)
And soon I fall silent
When any attempt I give with words becomes pure blasphemy






And again, the silence is more penetrating than the words
(the warrior paint gives the best form)

And I wore it until it wore
The fire burned down to the last coals
Ash remnants faded to

w i s p s
(All things must pass)

I take the water, rub it over my skin. Shed what I’ve carried (now excess).
Again I’m reborn.
(the cycle)

Lucid

You keep me awake in my sleep.
The dimensions of your eyes don’t add up,
and your eyes don’t speak my language
though the language they speak is universal.
We used to speak the words of the world;

I would listen to your eyelashes.
Butterflies were inferior to the blinking
of our heartbeats.

Now I get
eye tied and
tongue sores because
your almond eyes have turned bitter.

I’ve touched forbidden wings
and demanded insects use their legs when they trudge
through my slumber.

Awake!

I yearn for Spring
and to find solitude in death when
reproduction rings but
the remnant of your scent has sentenced my bed sterile.
Strands of your hair, still left on my pillow,
even as cocoons crackle,
the stretch of midnight’s hand is never satisfied.
As long as the cold of winter lingers on my sheets,
my dreams will not smell of Spring time.

Awake. Awakening. Awaken.




-SG

Bootstraps

I’m emancipating myself from the past

and chiseling this glass box called reality,

redefining the confines of my mind,

baking bread

without yeast.

Trudging through deserts unleavened

on sandals of confident uncertainties.

A sandstorm is coming,

and my open wounds don’t appreciate it. 

Sophie Gordon

Collaborative Performance Venue SUNDAY MAY 30th!!!

SUNDAY MAY 30th!!!

7pm-11pm

Cherry Street Loft (Downtown Olympia)

Slightly West will be hosting a book release party for their new publication What Remains in conjunction with select readings from David Wolach's Occultations on Sunday May 30th at the Cherry Street Loft in downtown Olympia from 7pm - 11pm.

along with "readings" from the respective books we would like to invite our colleagues, comrades, and collaborateurs of all types to participate in the presentation and exposition of their work.

that includes anything that groups and individuals have spent their ceaseless energies and efforts on this quarter —
if you have visuals hang them on the walls,
if you have sounds play them out loud,
if you have texts tear them apart in front of the many.
if you have movements show them in quick succession.
this is your space for to do what you will with. we have the equipment and ability to accommodate all manner of display/presentation.

-projector & screen
-mic & podium
-ample space & lighting


-if you would like to perform/present let us know what kind of work you have, what type of equipment and space you will require, and how long your piece will be, and we will be more than happy to coordinate with you!

-we also invite you to attend and show your support for the collaborative efforts of others! There will be food and beverages, music, art, readings, performances and an evening of engagements and interactions!!

Looking Forward to Working with You All!

-Slightly West

ode to X-37B, suspected spy satellite just launched by US

as warfare exceeds the reach

of surveillance, outsourcing perspective

for the rocket’s upper stage

the public’s reconfigured

as a vector, pushed about in its orbit

to be specific, to man the veil.

now our backs hang payload bays

of winged hope brought back

for inspection.

as senses zoom doesn’t conflict, disavowed of territory,

bury itself in the looking, that very practice we are now without,

like how

 “as the intensity of seeing increases, one’s distance

            from Them, the people, does not also increase”

 because these experiments, their sweeping image, cannot

classify that question, as to what the vision of machines disintegrate.

cannot satiate that compulsion,

to go beyond the point in which the brute embeds.

that invisible swarm of our difficult hunting

where what a pack of wolves can know

is a full-time job.

 "war without horror is war without end, and war without end

            is the ultimate barbarity."

            do front lines wither

when victory is the production of docile subjects?

is the commoning of combat

intelligence? the expression of corruption unleashing, in all directions?

it thinks we’re headless in our horizontality. how the logic of this outmoded analysis

flatters the fleet of irregularities I’m building, for whose unknown exposure my livelihood "fails to coalesce into the image

            of regimented pixels"

 whether this passing over is a kind of mortification or conversion of the impossible,

            trenchant logic or free radical,

is up to who harnesses its noise,

who reciprocates the gaze of what

on a clear, suburban night looks like a bright star moving across the southern sky, towards "global trouble spots."

otherwise observation is independent

of feeling, and we are but figures in chalk paid-off

once every 90 minutes or so.

           

- nicky

This is more of a traditional poem. I thought I'd share it anyways...

Some nights I stay awake afraid to drift asleep.

Not knowing what comes next or what memories to keep.

Struggling to find out who I am…what is wrong or what is right?
I don’t know where I left myself and I lost the will to fight.

As the night flows into morning, the light brushes my face.
It should be warm & inviting, like a comforting embrace.

Yet the kiss of the sunrays feels so cold upon my skin.
All my tears of emptiness are distinguishing the fire within.

Sometimes a door will open but another closes so fast.
And that distant glimmer of hope fades quickly into my past.

I’ve been through so much sorrow that I’ve grown numb to all the pain.
So I won’t let go of tomorrow now that I can shield most the rain.

A mystery unfolds itself right before my eyes.
He watches me intensely, like an angel in disguise.

As I’m nearing the edge of my own insanity…
oblivious of imperfection, he reaches out to save me.

The icy sheets around my heart melt swiftly as he smiles.
My walls come crashing down, only to see vulnerability for miles.

I know I’ll come to find myself but I still may run or hide.
Guardian Angel, right now I’ll sail away with only you by my side.

Sharing Head Space (from Joseph)

I am enjoying a pleasant smile as I sit here thinking of the experiences we have shared. My experience on tue was "very excited", or something like that. This exercise of staring into another has always been a very positive one for me. My writing afterwards reminded me how this experience has been  the same for me every time. Though I don't experience every one the same and I do find, Gabe, your presence to be very kind and beautiful, and this I am sure plays out in the process, it was familiar. In literal terms, everything begins to melt away and the shining white light of the soul shows up. This is physically happening in my vision, sometimes challenging to b with and always a blessing. My body warming with luv from the connection made.
Gabe, it was soooo nice to b with u for our time!! Its always nice to b with all of u!!

So I wanted to share that very simply with those few words that touch on my actual experience and I am comfortable with that.

I appreciate what happens in the "situation" "I" was experiencing.

vulnerability/clarity/openness/ freedom/loving/shelter/caring/owning/moment/now/

My experience has been that there is always the same underline "narrative" playing out in everyone's consciousness. I won't try to define it with words and I will say that "I" have found its not too difficult to tune in to this level with others and play it out together beautifully, especially when given the sort of opportunity that I experienced on tue.  Thank you David
Reading the entries on the blog  definitely stirred me up in good ways.

I want to say to any one out there that -I.  truly.  feel.  honored.  blessed.  being.  all. of.  u.

Tons on my mind and words won't justify most of it on the screen so I will leave it "hear"
Luv Me

2 Poems, Re-Sponse & Call From Poet Amy King - for Gulf Oil Spill Poems

from dw

Dear All - 

Please keep the very interesting dialog going here, if you feel like responding, etc., regarding Tues. "lecture" / listening / con-current poetic ritual and the various problems and interests that have spun off from there. This call is simply a heads up to those interested and not meant as a turn away from the discussion. I deeply appreciate honesty of the dialog, the care with which you are all, at very least, putting into your writing (thinking aloud). I'm interested in this, from Paige (and many, many other things):

 It will conclude with “you had to be there”. To read an interesting account of such is to read a fabrication. The ash ritual only interests people in its theatricality, its dragginess. The content bores them. The content stays safe.


I take "people" to mean those who were not there, or who did not participate. The "public." And yes, that is why I ask that one translate, or transport ("metaphore") one's experience of their own language's limits shared with (for a moment) friends at a fire, and again, this week, one's personal and felt-collective exhaustion and (perhaps) release, into an aesthetic interaction with those you don't know, or might not know. At the root of the poetic is always, even in the most "conceptual" of poetries that have no pretense to impress or be clever, this DESIRE for what might be wholly impossible--to give unanticipated care and to receive it thru (perhaps a future's) language (the limit of our world?), to code the silence and devalue solipsistic desire in favor of some strangely shared-and-not-shared desire (the "remainder of desire"). Which involves that risk of laying bare, turning outward the inward (private into public, or again, realize that inner/outer is often a false distinction), as wound or as shared ritual in a way which may, of course "fail," only wound you in a different and public way (at the mall, say), yes, or may only bore you/them, etc, but may not.

But aren't we always having to say "you had to be there"? Isn't one of poetry's myriad social functions the opening of possible futures, which if so, isn't that a relational partial erasure of "you had to be there"? Any poetics of the body, for example, or viz my body and its reclamation of a sliver of space: "you just had (have) to be there (here)." Or I have a tooth ache: "you just have to be there (you just have to be this body, with this mouth, or that tooth, to KNOW what I'm saying)," etc etc. Aren't "they" or  the "you" in this construction there, to some significant extent? Why assume not? What odd looking/sounding language could serve as "for a future" in which the question of having to be there becomes itself strange looking--? The translation is a practice of formal attentiveness, or a spasm of form that is not for Now but for an undetermined future. The interest in and construction of that language is a leap of "infinite faith," I think. A sort of faith in the capacity of the signifier to embody, or to commons. It's also as a matter of honest intentionality, which is to say don't underestimate our own curiosity and its value (what will be the form of my response? = what the F__ will they have said/done/thought of this?).

I don't think that the content of the public rituals (our ashen gathering or our militant sound investigations), and their proceeding translations into poetic documentation, are banal or safe (the page may be, or its dross may be, but not its present process of construction)--from here I can tell that I don't think the translation of the experiences lit on Tuesday is safe, but perhaps safe-making. Theater has its double, and it's that middle distance, that between, that such transmission (antennae are always up, as Tyrone Williams reminds us, in echo of Duncan) maybe opens as potentiality for the curious stranger, or "should," if honesty were at the root of the transmission. Therein lies, at that moment one of laying bare, the potential to have "returned but returned transfigured" the care that you had, until that moment, kept to yourself, hoarded as sacred and "owned not rent."

From the post-public part of the ritual (written while wearing those breaths in public), as part of Occultations, book forthcoming:

Need less to say the say sound make-s-

In the hiding in the want-as need as lay

As soft under-the said to de-claim -skin-

Cover you-sound a full wound un-desolates

Your un-peeled body con-cept you asked it

Open asked if desire not need needs in -the-

In made-need in-the -shine- of this stuck tonic-

Clonic body para-meter if not-yet and if -now-

Then our shadows are fully not us not yet –yet-

reprinted from Cannot Exist Issue 6:

                        Now dreamt, this selves dreamed

                        Of Bodies, now that words like

This sudden flourishing of anti

                        Bodies swelling into the category

                        Three range, ranging over cata-

Strophic design flaws, if words

 Make these things, then talk to me

 Create your body part by part, start

 With the lashes or end with the lashes

  So that this body can sleep, dream up

  New things: instead of count, down beats

                          Of a ponderous machine heart, a drowned 




Please consider sending something along in solidarity - once we have
enough work posted, we'll start sharing with media outlets - thanks.


Poets for Living Waters is a poetry action in response to the Gulf Oil
Disaster of April 20, 2010, one of the most profound man-made
ecological catastrophes in history. Former US poet laureate Robert
Pinsky describes the popularity of poetry after 9/11 as a turn away
from the disaster’s overwhelming enormity to a more manageable
individual scale. As we confront the magnitude of this recent tragedy,
such a return may well aid us.


The first law of ecology states that everything is connected to
everything else. An appreciation of this systemic connectivity
suggests a wide range of poetry will offer a meaningful response to
the current crisis, including work that harkens back to Hurricane
Katrina and the ongoing regional effects.


This online periodical is the first in a planned series of actions.
Further actions will include a print anthology and a public reading in
Washington DC.


If you would like to submit work for consideration, please send 1-3
poems, a short bio, and credits for any previously published
submissions to:



poetsforlivingwaters@yahoo.com



Editors: Amy King & Heidi Lynn Staples

~~

If you care, share -- Urgent Call -- http://poetsforlivingwaters.com/

Intimacy

(responding to the conversation with Nicky and Paige, et all)

I don't talk to my mother. This is the closest I can be to her. On the other side of the world. So we both can breath. And share in the seven year air cycle.

But this is not intimacy. This is stagnation.

I had asked when I was growing into Gabe: mom, why can't we BrEath together?

My mother is as thin as rice paper, disappearing in the mouth. I think her lungs came out of her the morning her aborted baby did in the bathtub. My aunt tells me she was 12. My aunt was 11. She got an abortion too. Thanks, Uncle Jim.

My mother is confounded by my existence. I told her I was going to live in the woods, eat from garbage bins, and make "art." She wanted to hospitalize me. She wanted me to be more like my sister, not my brother.

She yelled at me a few Halloweens a go when I couldn't apply a swipe of dried animal souls-turned blue across her eyelids. I guess she didn't realize that I had failed all her expectations the moment I was born.

Lucky me.

So here I am. How could I NOT be what I am? I SEEK the care I was denied. It took a while to realize that I was looking in the wrong places and just had to turn to a mirror to find it.

So let me hold that mirror to you. Maybe we can care about EACH other and stop seeking "undying" love from a partner and "unconditional" love from our parents. bei LIE ve.



Look at my face.

This is the mirror.

Not my mouth.

responsive listening

response to gabe's response to meghan's response to...

the assimilative tension of the typists; that the act of documenting is more absorption than listening frightens me. I mean, that we were becoming script (extracting the ambiguity of our existence) felt dehumanizing, but was more so the manifestation of an escape from our bodies THAT TAKE UP WHAT WE WISH TO GET OUT OF; ceaseless, agitated bones en/gulfed in eyes.

I can only transcend myself WHICH IS THE BASIS OF DESIRE by exchanging my voice with others, so really this is your words as I hear them, as I was able to find them in so many simultaneous circumstances of uncertain honesty

chance allows us to escape our boundaries whose ideological erection I take to be the function of consciousness: WASTING PHANTOMS. the realization of the body as scarred weirdly enclosed syndrome of familiarity.

when you translate what I speak is that a search for love or its locking out? because there is a difference between listening and dictation, which can’t enact the chance I just took in calculating my disobedience. but to record is a manifestation of trust, without it there is no silence TO PUT BREATH IN.

how can forms of documentation embrace its inherent erasure of the chance that went into formulating what it records? how occupy the analysis of an echo? or is my desire to investigate this page what leaves it behind? IS OBSERVATION INOPERATIVE? not with an element of praxis reuniting elements of conception with production. how? this meta-discourse is its own example, e.g. LABOR IS LIVELIHOOD

the image of the engine is the image of the artist whose writing is the labor of production; it is the record of a sought reunion that does not reify; it attempts a GOOD INSTRUMENTALITY, “a machine involved with itself,” where what compromises the work itself is the avoidance of working.

How do we record the act of not-working, transcribe silence as a social activity? by making a space for the space, OFF-LINE. WHATEVER LETS ME TOUCH WHITE NOISE, to lay bare my strings. an art-strike involves a transformation of voice beyond gender insofar as labor brings with it sexuality, creating the social currents of exchange, that turn the body into language into prey. IN BED OR ON THE PAGE, our positions are the same; on top, harassing,

when the only absolute is that we have been left behind how can you LOOK at SCARCITY? CHAOS limits CONTROL. To take a chance is a choice, is to render needs concrete. A border is a membrane. Is it permeable? In the form of a few bullets, for example?

HERE HERE HERE HERE the cold underlying WE shocked by the goal to stabilize its surroundings (which amounts to submitting to them). Now pronounce the ritual of this writing’s smile.

- Nicky

Thoughts on Silence & its Breakage, Partially in Response to the Theses

Thoughts on Time, Silence & Breakage, Partially in Response to the Theses

*
“While activism reacts to crises with speed, organizing intervenes by slowing time down.”

*

In the Bhagavad Gita a battle is about to begin.
Arjuna does not want to kill his kinfolk the enemy.
“Hold on,” he says. “Should we or should we not kill our kinfolk the enemy? Let’s discuss.”
Krishna comes. Everything pauses. Time, everything.
Arjuna says, “Your birth was later and the birth of the sun was earlier.”
Krishna says: “Fighting is your dharma.”
They stop to talk about it. The battle is still on pause. Within the pause, it is revealed that...
Once their discussion stops, time unpauses I guess.
Should we or should we not kill our kinfolk the enemy?
Is this an allegory or what?
Pause. Discuss.

*

Most machines that people invent are invented to amplify the voice. The microphone is just the one whose stated purpose matches its use.

*

It took me time to learn that my best friend was the person who could be silent with me. The longer we know each other the more time we are able to spend in silence. Our secrets become friendly and domestic. Our silence, cultivated, turns it into a kind of play, an erotics of proximity and a tender taking-in-hand of discrete bodies. This is “the manifestation of trust, which is to be together without demand for a time”. Our silence is a rite. An abbey is a quiet consecrated house. I never lost my first awe.

The genius of ritual is to unite people across difference, not by erasing their individualities (though it may) but by inventing an untransportable commonality. The best rites are nearly impossible to explain to other people; they cling to a time and a place with a stubbornness that makes them hard both to explain and to sell. Test this thesis: ask someone who is not a trained storyteller what their most meaningful experience in college was. Like dreams, these rites are too fragile to survive language. It will conclude with “you had to be there”. To read an interesting account of such is to read a fabrication. The ash ritual only interests people in its theatricality, its dragginess. The content bores them. The content stays safe.

I once tried to come up with a list of places in which silence (no dentist music) took place in public. This list went:

1) Shamdenominational Moments of Silence in high school (confusion)
2) Vigils for cauzez and dead people (sadness)
3) Planned Parenthood waiting rooms (terror)
4) A meditation session I went to once. (pleasant)

This list is mostly bad. It got a little longer and extraordinarily better when I came to Olympia and started going to Quaker meetings to experiment with organized silence. And they’re only listening for God—imagine, if you were listening for everything! If I were you I would go there to investigate. It’s very good. To watch the flow of thought through an hour is good. The nacre of placelight on the wall. To watch the hours over weeks add up, graceful good abacus, is to count up to wholeness. I stopped going when I stopped hurting a little.

Going back to the emails I wrote to my quiet friend about my first weeks in Olympia:

”In the hour of silence that is meeting I don't think there's been a meeting where I haven't cried yet…But there's something wonderful about being able to cry in front of people. The same kind of wonderful, in a way, that being naked in a lockerroom full of women is. It's not that you're any less fucked up or that your body loses any of those qualities that cause you (not you: me) to loathe it outside that separated sphere but that to be naked among naked people is to be stripped of pretense. To be reminded of everybody's meat-animal weakness. You'd be amazed how many grown-ups cry at meeting.”

Their silence contains such fierce care it’s hard to face. I stopped when I couldn’t face it.

*


a famous story: when the bomb goes off, Oppenheimer quotes...
pause

*

Silence is so good. Its resistance to commodification is unparalleled.

So far as injustice forces us to be other than silent, we should be pretty mad.

Syke! (Psyche!). I love speech like I love my backbone.

Silence is just where I go to when I’m out of breath.

the problem with silence?

is the problematic of silence
the uncontainment of means to say
what the fuck is wrong with silence?

love letters sent thru a disaster

Dear J.,

It’s nesting season here.

Three weeks I’ve seen yr remains running, wondering if they should cancel

Their vacation.

I’ve heard larva’s twitter feeds panhandle industries

Of clockwise feeling, some terrible airlifted odds, beaten.

I’m surprised you declined

Before dragging yourself onto the sand

to lay another clutch of eggs

when this breeding blowout

Still has tissue to test

Once the after-school carcass

Begins trawling Bush-level love,

I imagine a big stick

Bludgeoning webcams

Dear J.,

After you covered my head with numbers

Olive in color

Did another partial necropsy on 17, 50

Heck of a job to not go to the war the rest of us to go

To reduce the end of our diminished values

High-pitched solar screams on payroll for OPEC

I’m afraid

Fewer frames

Come down

To fewer options

Dear J.,

I endorse the morning of 9/12

Do signals breathe? Dumped internal colonies

Tell me how to make this moment

           

            Transformative

Dear J.,

Feeling better and better about looming threats

Carried out under normal circumstances

That a wiped meadow makes room

For a motel

For tourists its disaster season

This year, plenty of rooms still available

Dear J.,

Wildlife needs to die

Before we can commission to investigate

What it is we need

To eliminate

Overnight

This issue we can’t

Explore

Strengthens our country’s

Craving

to hate

What we need

To see

Or shop

For a solution

Overnight

Seen by the public

To produce more of them

A great team, assembled

Whose job is also

To ask for another

End to this historic

Cut in how many Times Square bombers

Emerge

Politically safe

In this wake

Should labels

Embrace

What we had done on the morning of 9/12

Or have democrats already asked for another fear

They will scream

I don’t buy

Gasoline

Without carrying on sadly

In the wind, solar, electric

Midterm elections

Who would support

Love without a fixed

Price

Or are you going to squander your 9/11 too?

dear J.,

when you plunge into my reservoir of traffic signals, saddling this smile the police train posthumously, my eye observes something barbaric. a city shed of light screaming all around me, pure in its cluster of symptoms contracting from within, where the anatomy of my desires perambulate in a palace of reflexes, jostling for which mirage counts.



- nicky

gabe plays the piano

(in response to Megan's piece below, these screens between you and me...)

.....

.

.

..to....desire this. it's a common/rare thing.... i mean. REALLY. everyone wishes deep down for this. But Its Not Often That You Feel It Way Up. HERE. in the head. between the eyes.   maybe even between the legs. the point, though, would be the WORDS one uses to articulate such desire. Truly Touch Me Indeed.

sometimes, I wonder why I even.......

a lot of things.

the internet makes me feel closer to people sometimes, knowing that they too are staring into a square-- maybe I'll get to see their face if I look into the box. maybe touch it.

not likely. But still, I go on tapping the keys to the tune of my lonely.

shit, I need a piano in this fuckin place.

at least THAT lets me touch and beat and caress with abandon. ment. to be free. of this box.

all of this ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////// white. noise

I like the black. keys the most...... sort of deeper, richer in noise. not the use-to-be noise.

to say?          what?          that we should sleep together? on this bed of keys? this box of strings? to make some NOISE when we turn over to fuck? to SNORE? to compose a sheet to lay above us and take note of our ephemeral existence. in. ecstasy? your elbow is digging into my side, can you cut it the fuck out? Press the STOP Peddle, I need to get off the bench. I need to hold a tune to your voice of screaming orgasm- tune the FUCK out. lets go at a slower tempo, your dick is digging into my side. I need to breathe I need to sleep I need to fuck I need to write I need to PRESS. DOWN.

on these keys of my toplap and forget. that I have a singular body. bereft.

(k)no(w) nothing but desire. the desire to be touched and pressed. down. the desire to sing.

to lay bare my strings.

to unfold my chords of throat blooming to keep a perfect posture. 

my hands are shaking.

I can't stop playing for you.

A Duet in F#.

My SOLO in G flat B sharp D major.

I'm out-of-tune.

lost in the pitch of my desire. lost in it. lost in it.

pressing down pressing down....

i cant sleep- theres a spring in my back. 

lay the sheet over it.

you said to me.

and I said.... lay with me.