Hyperborean. A gilded background of human love Bound to be beautiful and bound to a fool. Exalt your own essence, discover and conserve the deeply embedded ego. Zen apologia denies you correctly. Incense that smells like blood and curls like nightmares in the dark. While she remains a virgin she is the bride of all her brothers, this Hindu Pandava of a modern era. A special superstition about the quality of lineage and the mystic power of kinship giving into breaking rights and birthing gods. Lamia and her band of she-monsters hunting children in the dead of sleep, dancing immortal dances in immortal rings of intricacy. Dance is a language, universal like a golden bough reborn, failed for words and surging in primal intentions. Carrion-eater where the monstrous is a mark of holiness and the navel-stone is a universal manifestation of an unbalance not worth correcting.

I feel like I have been gone for far too long, I am sorry. . . abandoning the whole of the suicidegirls world for far too too long. .. but with hope there will be a new set and one shortly after that. . .

He is peering out my window,
Attentive to the dawn and
Careful not to disturb the still,
Guarding the last moments
Of chill that creep in
Between his kitten paws.

a good friend of mine just died in an army hospital in germany and all she could tell me about before she died was the horrible nightmares she was having while awake. the screaming and the crying, the morphine shots to try and make her sleep. . . .she is the second person i know that has died in this war. . . .at least he died instantly. . . . ..

Warm me with your pity
And soothe me in your thoughts
Rinse me in waves of savage blood
And rub out these battlefield memories

In nights of silent agony
I have been waiting for the echo


Of a thousand injured soldiers
And a thousand dying children

Hours of darkness
Hours of light
Spent mourning the faceless
And killing the named

Wrap your wings around
Saint of the fallen proud
Come remind me of living
And wash away the dead.

I spent way too much of my last month in bars watching people. . . .and this is what I learned. . . .

The faithless are standing round the end of the bar, searching for the end of the world in the bottom of a drink, at the bottom of a glass. . .doing anything for the limelight… get on top of the truth, quick like, fast like, sly like a fox. . . . acting like there is nowhere else to spend your life except in the newest moment, meet them for the first time a thousand times over. . . mingle, sip, and toss around a few bucks, like a racetrack, lap after lap. . . .here you come again, rolling out the red carpet, dipping, tipping my hat to the hero of a thousand faceless creatures, solid, together, holy in the blank moment at an atheist party.

Thanks to Brian Kelly at Body Accents in Palm Desert. . . .

i think it is time for a road trip

Savannah, Georgia anyone? Good food, old buildings, lots of miles between me and my home. . . . .



Coolness hangs in the air,
In a way
That makes me think, of birth and new orders of life

As the sun rises,
This morning cannot last forever,
And the planet sighs;

Knowing that she must now give up her dead.





Definately time to hit the road. . . and take another set of pictures for this site. . .yea that is what i will do this week

Montage




To the world




From the world, piece by piece, created in my living room. . .who are you that keeps waking me from my dreams, the nightmares I have grappled with and finally overtaken, now guiding me into years, before I am dead people need to hear these things, does anyone else out there know what I know, are you reading what I am reading? There is a sage sitting next to you and they don't know that I know, they never will, they are a fool, like me




There are moments I need again. . . alone. . . with unjudging people. . .i think you call them friends. . . I hope I know someone willing to fit that. . . I do not want you to shut me down after I leave, please talk to me, tell me I am wrong, tell me that you know the truth and that you will let it out when you are near me. . . in moments of quiet, where we do not talk for minutes, drinking something warm from cardboard cups, looking at each other and away, nothing meant just a glimpse. . . I want to grab your face and look deep, you think I have caught you doing something. . .never the case, I want to read into your mind, that place you want to keep safest of all, furthest from me. . .its no good

Heaviness seeps out with every panting breath as she gingerly wipes blood from off her face. A splatter of crimson on a pale dusty brown. Calm and collected she is making herself, as eyes filled with tears survey the desert around her. A certain deadly shade of blue is birthing from the shades of pink and orange, and the sun has dyed the mountains around her a dark indigo, something akin to the abyssal realms of deep seas undiscovered and like the deep, these mountains are closing in on her.
Her hand comes to rest from off a knee and she sits, comparing the characters of her hand, the red of the blood, the blue of the bruises, the gashes in the skin, to that of the land which surrounds her. A moment goes by and the colors of the world no longer resemble that of her body. She stands. A coyote is howling, yelping to her pups, and in the distance they answer. Their cries of mournful knowledge send a whisper down her spine.
Her limbs are weak and tightening from the strain, the struggle. Gathering the pieces of what she owns, a hunting knife, a segment of chain, a chainmail glove, a baseball bat, she stuffs them into a surplus army bag. Her breathing has regained a sense of normalcy as she is starting to walk away. She stops a moment and pulls a pack of cigarettes from her back pocket. A lighter is stored within and comes out with a nonfiltered cigarette. She turns back to face from where she came and cups the cigarette from the wind to light it. A long drag, holds it awhile a counts using her cigarette as a pointer, one. . two. . .three bodies. She exhales and adjusts the bag on her shoulder for the long walk back to her truck. As she turns to walk away, her hand drips with the last of the blood from the fight, and there is a beauty in the splatter of crimson on a pale dusty brown.

. I want to be

politically active but don't have the presence of mind to get started. . .

it seems there can be no wrong and no right, correct viewpoint when it comes to politics. .everyone is fighting for something, someone is on top, someone is underneath punching their way through a thinly leaking membrane until the universe is so fucked up and unorganized that all the people with all the power keep all the power, there is never a real underdog that wins, they are all playing the part all of the time. . .

we need a giant from no where to slay all the metaphorical slander that has overwrought this system, there was never an intention that went astray so much as this system of government, strong central idiocy. .can anyone agree . . . disagree, argue with me. . .

knock me out

kick me down and prove a point

I am waiting. . .

Fight back

Against me

And then against the system. . . .strengthen against one another and then strengthen together against a corruption the has overrun all of this country. . . .

With lips like plagues, from the inside absent we can rot the monster out, burn the monster out. . . .

The elections are coming. . .are you voting or protesting?