If you’re going to make this happen, you’re going to have to drive it home. That means no matter what people say, you remember to play and be humble. Never get too big for your britches. Never get too small. Don’t let anyone choke your voice out. Learn to listen. Let your pursuits always be of your own making? Always be of your own making. Let people in with caution. It is all terrifyingly personal. Art is that way.
I don’t really have night terrors
I used to have fucked up dreams
Now it’s when I wake up
Think about my own life
That’s when the terror sets in
Pounds of adrenaline
Pumping through a vegetable
With skeleton eyes
Fuck or fight mode
I fear I might die today
Have to cast it past myself again
Of whip of possession
Why is it always possession
Escaping into my notes
When so many brighter words fade
Without their due
This is far too much for what
Black gloves do stain my arms
And bruise and cuff
And it is not enough
To describe the circumstances of
It does not do to dwell
On what is legal
Justice loves us
Not enough and
Everyone is potentially
So lock it up
Where it’s safe enough
They snuff us out
If we get too loud
The quota was meant for us
I am from the desert were Hopi face the burning sun and painted sands and are turned away to call upon the west-land fates. The desert faces the south sea and wastes away! Waste awaayyya awaayyya awaayyya.
A tale of the Hopi revisited: Coyote, foolish beast of the southwest has found Skeleton Man seated wily in his place and they do some things very strange. Coyote is watchsssssshhhhhhhing watching him waste away, he sings, “Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” His eyes have gone south rolled away and came back into his cranium again just the same. His eyes go south, out of sight to see so many things and come back wanting for the south again he is bones away from his southern star. “I like that song you were singing,” Coyote says, “I can do that as well and will roll my eyes south like that. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!” Her eyes have gone and they have not come back. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! Rolled out of her head and gone south. Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey! She has placed yellow gourds in her sockets. Holy yellow vegetable eyes of gourds. She returns home to her children and they scatter in fear across the earth, never to come back to her again with her unholy eyes of gourds. Cursing Skeleton Man, cursed Coyote curses the skies at night. OOOOWWWoooooo! Hiiiiii aaayyyyaaa hiiiiiyyahaahey!
My soul is the most beautiful thing on paper
My soul wants a lover
My soul wants a lover I don’t have to fuck
Jesus Christ, I don’t want to fuck
My soulmate is not here on paper
My soulmate is not a lover I have to fuck
Jesus Christ, get over yourself
I don’t want to fuck
My soul, baby child
Does not want to fuck your lover
My soul, man
Is not your cadaver to touch
Is not your cadaver to cut
My soul is not here for more lovers to fuck
Can I say it any louder?
It is the most beautiful thing on paper!
My soul is in tatters and blown
By all the dicks to suck
I am glad my soulmate is not here
To see me cry
To crave my cunt
My soul is a lover I don’t have to touch
Hey you, my soul
My soul is beautiful
And fucked enough
Keep your open roses to yourself
I want to consume your shape
The vignette of the light behind you
A sizable man
I like your shape and
The cartoonish wisp of your hair
I want to consume your hair
And wear it on mine
I want to consume your outline
And if you let me stick around
That’s what I’d do
And what you’d do, too
Because we labor over love
But truly live to consume
I like the shape of you
I want to eat your hair
She's had enough She's had enough She's begging, "Please" Please She's put her hand up It's enough To take down that cup of Don't say nothing Choke down what's in it Don't say nothing Enough to be free Of those walls and scrub Enough For a city window in the moonlight At that night hour He steps off He's had enough He's calling into the darkness, "Please" Mercy Saint Mary! Unholy! At that night hour Battering hands of dark are more kind to me In the morning I've had enough She's my captivity, and he Oh darling! I would set you free! He, I hear you calling And I would see you free Bulletproof walls I cannot get to you She's begging, "Please" To lead walls Through double panes He's calling into the darkness I looked into the darkness For someone to set me free Set my voice free Oh, Mercy! Unholy! Can you hear me calling? Calling rape in the morning Calling chemical lobotomy Oh, darling! Does no one love you? Would no one see you free? Hands of darkness are enough for me Double-pane moonlight I do not need
This selection of prose is brought to you via my experience in Peace Health St, Joseph Medical Center in Washington state. Forced injections, inhumane treatment, and abuse of patients is rampant among this country’s Mental Health facilities. Institutions broken apart within the last few decades have been moved into Behavioral Health Units within hospitals, where medieval practices and shock therapies have been largely abandoned. Patients now have the right to refuse shock therapy, but it is available upon request. What is now common practice equates to imprisonment with a chemical lobotomy: forcing highly addictive and volatile medications into captive’s bodies. I was held down by groups of people, stripped (even had my clothes cut off), and was given mystery shots on the inside of my thighs near my genitals. I thought I was going to be killed each time. I was taken in and released with the diagnosis of PTSD. Go figure.
Warning: Sleep deprivation may cause hallucination. I was nearing 17; standing in the bathroom at the end of the hall. I had been up for days and likely had not eaten a thing. I was nearing the euphoria a piece of string cheese must feel as it is peeled off for consumption. Unsuspecting, I turned from the mirror to look over my left shoulder and down the darkened hallway. At the end of the tunnel where the last smoky bit of light lingered, the shade of a massive dog stood facing me: starved, lanky, masculine with the pointed ears of a pinscher. Just the one at first – two at a stare. Feminine twin to the first, the second lay on its side at the other’s back haunch. I locked eyes with the space for sockets on the first. I wanted to see it. Animus came forward and in less than four bounds was at the doorway, suspended. The creatures vanished from the gloom. All that remained was null. I would not start or turn away from what could be no more than a drug-fueled mirage.
Those hounds of hell.
Those phantoms black.
One goes forward.
One stays back.
Whatever I eat I have no hunger Just gut pain Dilated and constricted all over Taking and it just keeps going I keep smoking High or low Can't get it out I can't get it out It's starving me out I am in pain! And the dialogues just keep Scrolls of them rolling Noises from the bathroom No one's home Distant triggers from real surroundings Bringers back to life The orchestra Eyes prune in sockets Can't close 'em What do I need To be so goddamn awake for anyway? Water want nothing I am rabid
The guy upstairs. He listens and writes. I listen to the rain on a tarp. He writes in the dim moonlight. Writes about monsters and falling pillars. Dreams ’em up. Spits ’em out into wax figures. Makes stop-motion movies with ’em. Spits ’em out. Frame-by-frame. Makes this typewriter noise with his throat when he does. Real guttural. His characters got piano teeth keys. Piano key teeth. They play Monk in the morning and Chopin at night. They don’t talk. So they’re silent movies, you see. He projects ’em from the roof when nobody’s watchin’. Onto the moon when it’s full. Full moon night. Sometimes it’s warm and clear. And there’s a halo around the moon. Projects it in threes. Prisms. The whole town gets out on rooftops and watches. Sometimes it’s cold and rainy. Ice freezes the blankets. The air. The guy, he gets up and climbs real high. Up into the mountains. The trees. Projects the movies into the clouds. As close as he can get to ’em. For only him to see. And the crows. The crows watch in murders. They especially like the horrors. Piano keys play only minors. To the guy, “Why the fuck?” might you ask, does he spit up those figures? What does he eat before and afterwards?
Traveling laymen fresh from occupation Occupy the living room ‘For a night or two’ Fourth party Extra graces Extractions of oil from the kitchen Resort to brooding Curses The paper-thin walls Divide us Musical chair My bedroom door I’m out first round The salesman Bottled up and stickered with praise Grunge I hope Will aggravate these Wheels of conversation My attitude problem Talk of the saintly feeding of the world Says you Throw the recycling in the dumpster Yeah, I’ll separate that shit ‘What a wonderful town this is!’ The salesman ‘But the oil before I go! Wouldn’t you like a lifetime supply of snake oil? Cures all ails.’ Stratocaster Evening Oven On that bus Shake these snake charms I know that I can tell them I don’t trust them I know that I can tell the fertile poison Occupying Occupying my living room ‘We have learned nothing but to bottle displacement We are on islands' Bridges greasy for the burnin' The salesman ‘Has hid a bite in this house for safe keeping! And will be back somewhat soon to take residence!’