corrections for "dali's ex-llama wife"

okay. so I'm glad that I put out a zine, and I have been giving it away mostly. what I don't like is that there are a bunch of discrepancies and errors. the most glaring ones:

spell bound - previous version; I like the one in the zine better.

bend to my breeze - the lines on the bottom of the first two pages of this poem were cut off, and I've changed the line "as I beamed at you" to "as I blew through you" since making the zine.

freedom isn't free - this one isn't on here. the bottom was cut off on the first page of this poem for most of the copies. the last two lines are "how does the "enemy" have the same guns/ as our daughters and sons?"

moebius, cast, expanded - misplaced "sometimes I can't decide if humanity should be saved" in the zine. the online version is how it's meant to be.

it's possible that I will do a second edition with corrections. right now, however I am working on some other things. more about them later.

moebius notes

so I gave an impromptu reading last night at 2640's Mini Zine Fest Oh Eight, and I think that it went rather well, considering a few things that I guess I wouldn't have figured out without giving said reading.

first of all, I should not do my showier pieces when I am not possessed by them. the last time I performed, I was my writing, and I do believe it showed. I have pieces that need a lot of passion in their presentation, and to do anything less, I'm finding, really detracts from them. I don't feel that it's because the words aren't good enough on their own, more because they need to be expressed in a fashion that the audience will pay attention to them enthusiastically enough to understand what I am trying to express.

"moebius, cast, expanded" is admittedly one of my favorite pieces right now, so it's not ludicrous that I immediately decided to do that one when asked to read. however, this is not a piece to be read; it's one that needs to be presented. I did alright, but I just feel like it was butchered when calling to mind the rapturous sermon I made of it at Sensarium. I have done this poem a bit since I've finalized it, and I think it's time to put it away for awhile. also, I need to remember that I have plenty of other writing that is more suitable for readings, or new situations. trying to do a piece that requires a lot of focus and energy when I am not sure about the audience has led to a feeling of slight disappointment, because I know how much more effective it would be in a different situation.

something that had worked for me during Sensarium was having a short opening piece. I said hello to get used to the mic, and did a relatively easy, sensual poem to warm up to the energy level needed for "moebius..." what was pretty cool that night is that I knew I was going to nail it, I was totally absorbed by it.

so what do I do when I'm not? this is not the only work that I have where I need that dedication to pull off what I know I can accomplish performance-wise, and I know that not every gig will be one where I will have that. not that I'm not into those events, it's more that the vibe is different. I have a habit of reading memorized pieces when I'm not sure of myself, so that I have a prop. I trip up because I waffle between recitation and reading, and then I don't look up because there is a part of me that is scared to see how the audience is doing. it's so different when I just go from memory and feed off of what I see on others' faces.

I've decided to try selecting pieces that don't call for that level of showiness. I have some that actually fare well with an honest reading, and some that work well with only moderate amounts of ham. I call to mind when I read at Load of Fun recently, and had no idea what I was going to read. I went with angry, funny stuff, stuff that I think does well with my voice every now and then, because I can show how much of an exaggeration of my emotions these pieces are, and seem less... cruel. yeah, cruel. when I am upset about something, oh, the venom my words become so that I can deal with the actual situation with some grace. it's cathartic to do so, and makes me feel a little more sane because I have tangible evidence of how irrational someone can be when in a fit of rage. also, I like it when people laugh at me, I like the rant, and I like the cleansed feeling after purging myself of it.

as you can tell, I take these things rather seriously. I find that I am concerned with my writing on many levels, and now that I am reading and performing more, how I sound and how I interact with the audience is very important to me. I don't want to feel caught off guard when asked to read, and I'm glad that I am figuring out what does and does not work. I haven't been putting as much effort into the selection of pieces for more mellow gigs, and now I am finding that I need to remedy that. this is good.

the Zine Fest was a good experience for me, though I was tired and maybe a little underwhelmed by my own participation. I sold one of mine, which was my goal, exchanged for another zine, and gave some away, which I always end up doing. I got another chance to have a captive audience, and though I don't think I blew anyone's mind (there was a pretty entertaining zinester who read his stuff as part of a performance art heavy on audience participation... I will update with his name later when I remember it... anyway, he got a very good response.), I did get a couple of compliments from strangers. good enough for me.

p.s. - soon I will be posting some revisions to said zine, because I just don't feel like fixing it right now.

gone fishing

I haven't been writing that much of late, and though I have plenty of old pieces that I could be posting, I feel that I need to be a bit more reserved with what I publish here. not because I don't want to share my work, but because I am becoming more interested in being a little more than self-published. a lot of the literary contests, magazines, anthologies, etc., will not consider previously published work, and a good amount consider posting to one's blog as publishing... I mean, that makes a lot of sense, I think; hell, to make this post, I will have to click my mouse over the graphic of a rectangle with the word "publish" embedded in it.

I do want to keep up with this blog, though. over the past year or so, I have accumulated several different ones, and this one means a bit to me, if only because it sparingly represents my art. I will be updating with a few more visuals if my lousy computer (shhhh, baby, don't listen to what mama is saying, she loves you, don't crap out....) permits me. I will be promoting my performances a bit more here, and critiquing them; I recently did one that I don't believe I ever promoted here, which is a shame because I came off the stage feeling as if I nailed it; a new thing for me to feel whilst performing my own work.

I have published a zine, of which I should be making a second, revised edition and actually peddling. I gave most of the first run away, happily, but I feel that I'd like to at least break even for one pressing. I'm sure a lot of artists can relate to the fact that I really don't want the issue of money to encroach upon my art, but it is a beautiful little dream of mine to think that perhaps one day, I will be free to only be working on it, and still be able to meet my needs. not to say that I don't enjoy the work that I do right now, but I would like to switch things around a little. full-time art, then work on some after-school programs to fulfill my desire to warp children's minds, I mean, give them something to enrich themselves.

I don't know if anyone reading this notices, but I tend to edit my pieces after they've already been posted. that is something that originally had me thinking that I should perhaps at least give myself a waiting period before publishing them here. I'll probably start going through the poems that I have already posted here, and critique them a bit; that's a mode that I'm in right now... edit edit edit. I invite you, dear reader, to help me out. any constructive, relevant criticism, or praise, is welcome. I might not apply it, as is my prerogative, but it helps to have external insight.

also, I will start posting my craft stuff here, since I do consider that art as well. since I will be taking down my craft blogs, I will start moving the posts over here, which should be interesting. I'm going to miss those blogs, if only for their names: "stranded in surreality," and "apocalypse crafting." they both have different meanings for me, and now will be relegated to tags for future posts here. I know that there are those that might disagree about the art/craft connection, but it's not like I ever present myself such that I expect complete agreement anyway. if you don't give a shit about those projects, it'll be easy enough to ignore those postings. yes, I will be doing some tagging of my own here.

well, that is all for now. have a happy day!

taking space

why did you need
to make so tangible
a reminder?
if I was left
with only a memory
to call upon at will
perhaps I wouldn't
feel so vandalized

I could make a statement
by undoing your handiwork
but that would be admitting
that I feel a bit sullied
that I was a bit taken
that you were able to stain me
even if in such a small small way

it wasn't personal
nor is it irreparable
it's just a reminder
of you being here
and a knowledge
that you probably won't be again

you're used to your self-given name
you can take it for granted
but it's new to me
and I still have to get used to it
I'm not taking it so seriously
but I still have to get used to it
and not deny it's meaning to me
but perhaps reinterpret it
in this newer context

it was so casual for you
and yes, for me too
but having you evaporate
as quickly as the ink dried
made the suddenness of your absence
bely what could've been at the least
rather innocuous

was I already a wall closing in on you?
if so, did you need to tag me?
I was here first.
your youth was an asset
when I was grabbing your ass
and you were rising to meet me
but now
it's an insult
a mark on my pride
rather easily covered
but still there
to remind me
how childish
children
with their crayons
can be

moebius, cast, expanded

with my feet
I patch the streets
of this frayed city,
with my eyes
I spin strands
of words to embroider
the beauty of its decay
on the fabric of my mind.

I'm menstruating and
as my womb wanes,
I contemplate what else
needs help to reincarnate.
sometimes I can't decide
if humanity should be saved.

listen to the noises created by voices
raised in contempt of what's become
of this over-complicated world.
when do the idle sounds
morph into ideas with more
than curled fingers,
and expand into the corporeal
as more than a raised fist,
but perhaps as an extended hand?

proverbial, we sit in the pot,
the water will get hot,
we'll argue about the temperature,
but get out we will not.
decisively childless,
I can't help but mother
Earth and her offspring,
but damn if we aren't the asshole teens
of creation.

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play;
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake;
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel,
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
again return.)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy
my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth,
and the Earth is dirt;
so commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten,
what will become of my memory?
what will be forgotten?
sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean.

I've been selfish with my language arts,
using audiences as my confessional,
and here I am again with more sins;
but Father Reader and or Listener,
I want to go deeper than my last lover
when I call myself out.
let me do the verbs I use
or I curse myself with hypocrisy.

there's hope in the message
that I feverishly relate.
here's some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push, when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe,
and so are you.

let me do more
than hear you
if this propaganda
is well received;
language and art
can be good magic
if well conceived.
take my words,
my eggs,
you supply the seed;
together, we'll become pregnant
and propagate,
with nothing but good deeds.
blind optimism, yes, this may be,
but to affect change we must first believe
that we create our own reality,
that everything is within our own ability,

if we start with small things,
and then proceed.

rich

my mind feels like small hands
unable to hold the many coins
spewing from the mouth
of the universe's muse machine
my words an inadequate pail
and now I prepare myself for
the waking world having not slept
I want to fling the coins into the air
to be caught by passers-by
and share them with friends

this kiss off

eyes slip over me
like an oil spill
and render me
slippery when wetted
by drunken perception

what are you playing at?
this is not a game, player

to save you from my womanhood
you push me onto others
unsure how my standards
would manifest themselves on you
my clit throbs with the possibility
that someone could love me for my politics

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass

"all of which you love will blow away" - graffiti found on overpass.

blow away like what? leaves? an ill-fitted hat? cocaine in a drafty room? I don't understand how this is profound but it strikes me as unreasonably sad and I wonder at what compelled the author to share this with the general automobile-driving masses. aren't they trapped enough in those metal coffins?

"all of which you love will blow away"

or is it that love is free and as such it can't be contained, comprised of tiny, complete particles too light to comply with gravity, only heavy in large quantities where self-importance is either exaggerated or underrated by putting too much stock in another.

"all of which you love will blow away"

maybe it's comically sexual, like all those who love you will blow away. yeah, blow away, honey, yeah, just like that.

a single confusing line: "all of which you love will blow away"

really. I don't get it. it makes me wonder at the missives I've left on walls from a compulsion to share with a captive audience -- in a bathroom, a warehouse wall, not an overpass, haven't done that yet. maybe my message was just as simply confusing, maybe it made sense at the time.

what would I share with those that see an overpass? I'm not so sure, probably something political because I'm like that.

it's bad magic, sometimes, words. simple phrases that I don't understand possess me, and so I invent my own meaning. I guess that's the point. so yeah,

I want to be blown away.

yeah.

moebius, cast

human existence
can be summed up
in many ways,
reduced to mathematical
child's play:
a mere twist in a ring
results in endless
cycling.

creating infinity
for its own sake,
sometimes life
feels like the same mistake:
the same lesson unlearned,
a stationary wheel
vehemently turned.

(whence you came,
peripheral,
again return

to convenience)

when this spell is finally cast,
no one will know how clumsy my occult is.
do you know how unclean I am?
I am of the Earth
and the Earth is dirt,

so

commit me unto her.

when my skull is empty
and all the soft parts have gone rotten
what will become of my memory,
what will be forgotten?

sometimes I live dirty;
right now, I clean...

so

here's a message
I'd like to relate
some words on which
to meditate:

I am inhalation,
the approximation
of what's there
when nothing is left;
I am exhalation,
the personification
of divine breath.
I am the new moon,
eager to be full;
I am the voice inside,
the one that signals
when to push,
when to pull.
I am above, beneath,
between and through;
I am the universe
and so are you.

in my circle

I taste the bass of drums and heat
flames mouth encouragement to my feet
enveloped in friendship and a chaos beat
words and rhythm, hot and sweet

the smell of your heart beating
startles my sensibility
blue and red I sing your arms to feed me
carry my voice with you
that I might remember its taste
when your eyes shuffle to greet me
still honest in the morning

open letter to Mayor Sheila Dixon

Dear Mayor,

It is very inconsiderate and gimmicky to rush a reconstruction of the roads right by your campaign office because elections are upon us, especially since there are RESIDENTS who like to sleep at night. Seriously, a jackhammer ALL NIGHT LONG? Can I stay at your house, and bring some friends (i.e. everyone living in the vicinity), because I haven't gotten any sleep for the past several weeks and I'm a bit cranky.

Thanks,

fre

P.S. - I'm glad that you have a sign chained on the corner so that I would know that it was your idea; I don't want to misplace my rage. I have resisted the urge to scream at the night workers, because they are just doing their job, they didn't decide to work there. Maybe you could make them fix 295 as it's coming into the city, but, you know, work on the part where people live DURING THE DAY.

vacation no vacation

empty room noise frustration siren application application empty heart full frustration vacation no vacation full empty application room siren noise frustration get the hell away for a little while didn't work.

something for which to strive

once I have an RV just address all mail to my license plate number knowing that I won't be fearful when pulled over by the 5-0, they'll just be delivering the post.

everything makes so much sense after no sleep and before coffee.

I'm a poet, so this is a fucking poem because I say so; prove me otherwise.

geometrically.

nightmares are inspiring, that's for damn sure.

bend to my breeze?

trying to be tall
I witness a young tree
choosing to grow high
between bricks
with shallow city roots

not quite you
I envision you
a bit
more grounded now

I've seen you
deciduous
you're in your tender spring again
all potential
green and excited
uncertain how you'll grow
but budding nevertheless

I can't help but
be all
around you
sometimes
I want you,
shade
it's hot
and I want you
to have me,
air

kisses
not too long ago
you were all decay
and frozen
pieces of seasons past
uncertain how you were
ever a growing thing

you were
when I met you
I wanted to sun myself
a bit with you
a playful desire
decadent
a passing fancy of impulse

as I beamed at you
you started to fade
I barely noticed
or minded
you were all warm color
I caught pieces of you
and carried them with me
satisfied because I was free
to roam

I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always

breezy I focused my attention
on you when you were
nothing but bare branches
did my movement
make you cold?

even in winter
you were sometimes kindling
rubbing limbs
startled flame
I was
occasional lips
I was
highlighted observer
I was
fascinated hopeful
I am

a shiver, a way of knowing
we once knew warmth
sometimes we huddled
sometimes I flitted away

your sunshine returned
how delightful
when you share your swelling
you shall be fruitful again
I wonder at your tender shooting
and what is intended for me
so much
precarious
so much
blooming
what is intended for me?
not so much?
precarious blooming
what will you be pruning?
will it be me?

I don't want you as a cut
blossom captured
temporary
property
I wouldn't bear
to watch

you wither knowing
you'd never return to me
I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always

breezy
I am
always
wanting
to watch

you grow

will you ever want
to weather with another
or follow
some one's meandering
breeze?
are you too fragile
for my affection
could you dare bloom
for me?

I pose this not
as an expectation
for anything but
a wish
for you
to be
whatever it is that
you are becoming
for I am
my own
entity

need
my own
freedom
to change
and be
come more
myself

I am
occasional hips
I am
fascinated
observant
I am
hopeful lover
I am
always restless
I am
always returning
I am
always
breezy
I am always
hopeful
lover
I am
always

zealot, or "you made me do it."

I was a Christian soldier
onward with the Bible tracks
thumping thumping thumping
on doors
on holidays stolen from pagans
I became a dissident
once baptized in an over-chlorinated pool
that I was not allowed to swim in without
a color t-shirt
lest I Jezebel an Elder
or uncle
thumping thumping thumping
I was holier than thou
until I was reduced to a hole in the ground
surrounded by safety cones
of disputed chastity
I memorized each line
and got lost between them
fantasizing about Sarah - did she taste like salt?
maybe I could die
thumping thumping thumping

I fled to the enemy
I wept when I lost Jesus
but did not dare compete with Mary
mother, or Magdalene
but I had to go,
or his friends would get me

not waiting

in the time
between the last cigarette
and the motion of a startled cat nestling
I nap because
a nap is not waiting

beach glass

the shore had been growing
for some time,
and while I was busy
squishing my toes
in the wet sand
where you pulled back
your ocean,

I didn't notice the wave.

I'm flooded with the notion
that you secretly like to drown,
and though I've been
sucked into the rip-tide
I know eventually,
I'll be able to ride the wave
back to where I want to be.

and you will no longer crack
the empty bottle
my heart once was for you
when you treated it like trash.

you won't seep inside.

my heart may be broken right now
but to you, it will become
a most peculiar assortment
of stones.
and each time you wash over me
the pieces will lose more
of their shine for you;

the subtle abrasiveness
you've been carrying with you
like many grains of sand
will provide the etching needed
to dull the pain
and smooth the jagged edges
with which I want to cut you,
but can't.

though left on the shore
created by your distance,
the stones will no longer resemble
something rejected:

I'll be left with jewels,
and they will not be for you.
I will polish them
until they shine for me.

eventually,

my
broken
heart

will
be

the
best
gift

you've
ever
given

me.

(from April 2006)

untitled

she almost hears a sound when she reconnects to the universe in which she is most comfortable. it's a juicy noise, cerebral and sensual, thrilling in a contemplative way. beauty is expressed in the pure logic of chaos; there is math in the curves of her body.

so ass on the pier,
she assesses the current,
wanting to feel the earth move.
vice replaces good advice,
opening her up to
constructive criticism
and even more to prove.

the rain gives the humidity life and the air becomes an entity that leaves a trace.

(from 05 August 2006)

analysis

tangled in my reality
is my perception
of my messy room
somewhere far
enough from here
to be a chaos
I can define
but not successfully
analyze

like my room
my heart has become
cluttered
my life a chaos
I can define
but not successfully
analyze

(from 26 July 2006)