The universe started. Things were done.
you look out your window trying to find likeness
you can only find images. Everywhere. And the colors are nice.
You march unto the arms of your father
as if soaring through the waves of God
You hold him shining infinite
You are one.
You are infinite spirit.
Ants work at your feet
Your aunt holds a cigarette
Smoke kind of looks beautiful out free in the air
You wonder if it ever existed inside someone?
The most beautiful day of your life
dust mites float in and around your space
on top of the big bed
the sun upon the sheets
dust fairies flying by
you wish you could be part of it
you are it.
Suddenly you can’t tell a photograph from a memory.
A speck from a giant
a day from the other
smoke from dust.
The sea breeze teaches you to be.
The universe is and things are getting done
You look out the window to escape
You want to float out shining through god
Be a speck of the sun
memory is a giant photograph
a day and another
on top of the big bed
the most beautiful fairy
spills the juice
all around is sea breeze
you wish you were part of it.
** God holds a cigarrette. **
You are it.
And the colors are nice.
my mom and I discuss lena dunham and then browse the mace bottles on amazon,
also a set of finger knives that look like a cat
I think ‘this is so gorgeous-symbolic’
I say ‘I am so buying a yoko ono t-shirt tomorrow’
my mom points to a graphic of the police-strength mace and says
‘is this pink okay?
do you want it to be pale or bright?’
people on amazon are reviewing the merits of the pink
if it is too light or too purple-ish
I imagine my hand a balanced object
held out to my attacker
roy lichtenstein quotes puffing from my clench:
‘yo, is this magenta too much?’
all I want out of my life is to have my back cracked and to poop a lot and to sometimes have sex
today at work a woman offered me free chicken
and I felt a sensation close to the reverberation
someone might experience if they heard a large sound through their leg
I am in bed now; this room is at fault for that
later you can fuck me in my town’s public garden
because, I know now: it’s fun to eat the bible
lack of control can control something quiet
I am looking back at myself and that self is looking back at its self
via my tangible self and the self that resides in my facebook profile picture
two of which are definitely equal selves and each of which serves a different purpose
my facebook profile picture self is a pixilated happy birthday banner which can be
sold at urban outfitters and has a disposition of reassurance
my tangible self drinks tang
in my room there is a conference badge hanging from a painting, books on writing,
messages from localized friends
all of these things have made me so average
paul rudd is at IHOP
explaining that his ex-girlfriend is ‘so goth-military’
while on a date with sarah jessica parker and his parents
sarah jessica parker is wearing a green bra
and you know what, I think I should be sarah jessica parker in this one
I’m taking hold of my boobs within the green bra,
keeping some pancakes between them
boobs can be useful like that
paul rudd’s parents buy me an extra pancake
they are nice about the boobs
and the pancakes, which they call ‘flapjacks’
When you run from a bee, you reduce its ability to sting you. Why are you running from bees? When a bee stings you, it dies. When it dies, it cannot sting a person who is allergic to bees. It is your responsibility to let the bee sting you. Sit in the bee garden and collect their small corpses in your lap. Let the bees sting you, you who are not allergic to bees. Just sit here in this garden, silently, and consider: is there a finite amount of sorrow in the world?
If you have truly let the bees sting you, you will feel pain, and you will feel it strongly. You will not feel catharsis. You will feel no reduction in guilt or shame. You will not feel closure. You will feel submerged in a deep sense of ambiguity. You will not be like a dog that cannot hold two conflicting viewpoints at once. You will be a wise dog. During your time in the bee garden, you will come to construct an operational definition of yourself.
America makes everything vulgar. It is a row of yelling houses. Confessions were once carried out in coffins in order to keep the flood of relief contained. In American bars and websites, you will come across neon signs flashing PLEASE TELL ME I CAN STOP HATING MYSELF. Well you can’t. Just sit there in the bee garden, quietly, and cry if you need to. Assume you’re always acting in bad faith. Do not be depressed, do not be happy. Suffer with intention. Convert to Christianity out of spite. Do something about yourself.
And yet every morning you awake from dreaming of a bee garden to find yourself inside of a mall where people are sleeping on yoga mats. They are screaming in their sleep. No matter how much golden light they pump into this mall, it is simply an aviary of shrieking birds. Your entire life will be conducted inside this mall. The ground is covered in shit. You drive around the mall aimlessly, forever. You keep your left turn signal on.
people tell me all the time
you could work @ party city
people beg me @ least once a week
wash away my iniquity, cleanse me of my sin
we have been talking for a long time abt nothing
you have said
LET ME IN! LET ME IN!
but you have not said it to me
you have said it to yr own self
i want to neck you this instant
under that bridge i will neck you @ once
dry hump me
but gentle, while you
sweat & chant
i am alone & i am thinking i am not alone
there is nothing to say
im here frowning, floating
biking, walking dogs
showering, you’ve been gone for a week
i am alone
clean in bed
always in bed
feeding shrimps out of my fried rice to the kitties
i ride my bike 10 miles
kinzie street bridge is beautiful at sunset
i sweat a lot
i swear a lot
i stopped making promises
there’s no point
i quit things then take them up again
i wash my sheets
everything is dull
none of my pants fit
fall is my favorite season but i feel nothing
clean clean clean clean
dont get rid of it
cats hit things
cats are hitters
this is the part where we start punching each other
so many bruises
it looks like i got beat up
dont invite him over again
please talk to me
i feel old
i think i saw you as a 50 year old woman
you were hot
you were a hot milf
do i look like a milf now
no i dont want to look like ive already had kids
i think i saw you as a baby
you were a hot baby
i think i saw colors for the first time
could you feel the colors
i dont know
is that a thing that happens
i dont know
look at the sky
i think i have to go to the bathroom
are those related