Blood Red & Sky Blue: A Love Story & Artistic Inquiry into the Nature of Everything

A poem based on a drawing.

Love & rage coiled complementarily

infinitely, aqua blue, blue rain
gushes from a blood red sky,
blood of the blue hypoxia heart
flows oxygenated from (vertically sliced) wrists
and dries, fuses us

together in the last moment, death
casts clouds over each of our cyclopean eyes
rolled back, we rot, they're blood-shot.
Blazing blood red, orange, and neon blue
emissions from flames can't cook the flesh
of my soul-body in death, Challenged to crawl

in exodus, on a burning-bush double-helix  vine
toward you, determined with crimson passion
to reach you, blue & dreary, your gaping
cyclopean, slate-blue eye questioning life while dead
in blood-black surf, blue glowing through white
frozen skin, buried below the beach-sand in the turf.
 
In death, you're still sentient, conscious & creating
entirely operable universes through Investigation
and thorough interrogation of all sources
of media, ideas, idealization of the
soot from soldered & squelched souls you're
sitting in, unknowingly. Totalities are created & destroyed
by the motion & intention of your single hand.

Stop.

In times of panic, calm down. Don’t howl out of a twisted frown. Conceal it & your black shrouded eyes with a socially acceptable glaze of ‘fine’. Don’t dig in the sand piles of Camus’ Beach.

When you’re emotionally overburdened: just don’t feel. Repeat mantras, “I’m happy, I’m happy, I’m happy” 1,000x to prevent intense jolts from molting your layers of defense.

Be as skeptical and resistant to all forms of love or affection as possible. Deny a caring creator, stomach-butterflies, and don’t get too comfortable. Keep walls erected, or risk feeling intense.

Don’t seek, don’t ask, don’t dwell, don’t care, don’t press against your comfortable square. Don’t pull anyone or anything close. Keep away from warmth or risk feeling & boiling.

Expect zilch. Expect zero, nothing positive or negative. Numbers lead to problems & panic mode.

Are you following these directions? Good.

React automatically as follows when asked about your state of being: “Good.” “Fine” is acceptable as well. Subdued facial expressions only.

You’re fine, good, when you stop trying to create, stop pondering & making moods. Stop. Don’t dream or hope. Ride the indifference train, motionless, avoid destinations scary or unexpected.

Drown impulses toward spontaneity in a bottle of mundane routine.

Smother catalysts for feelings & thoughts in any neutral diversion.

The Ugly Narcissist

My grossly underdeveloped clusterfuck of a subconscious
was perforated by a sanctimonious Narcissus:
mottled sheen, bottled scream—
I felt you in my uterus,
thing
& heard your heart
disintegrating.
& I could sleep, scream, sleep—
ugly dripping & purged off my limbs
soaks silk sheets
screams violet, spit flying.
The heart no longer beats
in my cunt continuum
overdrawn by dissent, I spurned,
now 25 years gone & spent, unearned.
Apparently, not a lesson learned. Judgment cast down from the ‘better-than’ saints, made of plaster. Unwanted advice from a fucked up disaster, criticize me on your stilted horse, hypocrite, your moral recourse: bullet-point list of my transgressions.
Fastidiously record everything I’ve done wrong
everything I will do wrong
everything I am wrong
the very essence of me: fucked,
& how you know you’re right
& advise me, compare me
& try to never, ever come across a mirror.

But you can't avoid it forever.

Ode to the Hood

I.

4-banger wheezing clunkily along
then a rust-eaten pick-up truck, filled w/ salvaged furniture
followed by a shiny black Expedition, bass rattles your brain & eyeballs.
Travel any way you can—
riding a stolen, black-spray painted bike
by foot, running (from authorities)
or walking, like I do, through this hood
on rugged, cracked concrete sidewalks
strewn w/—
fast food containers, crushed styrofoam like snow
socks, broken flip flops, (must have gone home barefoot)
chicken bones & ample glass shards
amber & green beer bottles
enough cigarette butts to build a house
spent condoms & lighters
dolls & toy trucks w/ missing parts
and of course piles of refuse too long gone, identity lost,
I could go on.

II.

In this hood, if you're white & female,
you travel in a pack, or as fast as you can
if on foot, project a black belt air
you're fortunate to get from here to there
without being offered—
$20 for a throw
a joint (laced w/ PCP), a crack pipe, a 'daddy',
& all your dreams to come true.
You form a callous overcoat,
but the gooey center is that
the piss & body odor & rotting
wafting off the decaying condemned homes
is the closest scent in memory
to the only 'hood you've known as home.
It reminds me of my family.

III.

Who I worked so hard to get away from,
who I worked so hard to 'do better' than—
Master's degree, professional career,
and enough self-help books, therapy
to keep me out of the ward,
moved to a new city, made a new life,
just to find that I moved back
to the ghetto
and it feels like home.
The only home I've ever known.

Cracka Wackles

Guest post written by my mom, "Muffinsmama".

What time? 1:30—

hot valet boy, big muscles
automatic door.
That’s a lot of people:
sign w/ 54 names/ how does anyone find anyone?
Crowded, how did that lady get so big?
Is that a skirt or tablecloth?
Geometric print carpet in blues & browns.
Cracka wackles.
Lump in my throat,
comb-over lady, Date of birth, please.
Germs everywhere/ don’t touch anything
could get the fucking black plague in here.
Crazy lady, stop looking at me:
I dont want to see the doctor, you shouldn’t make me.
I'm not a crack ho.
Cracka wackles.
I’m free to go.
Let my wheel chair go/let me go.
Japanese Hiroshima doctors.
Cracka wackles.

Christ, think of something else:

text Jessica,
fuck I miss him/ damn,
don’t think/ stop thinking.
*Dwang* - Larry's gonna have chemo shit, poor Larry.
Cheesburger.
I love him/no, you fucking don’t/just stop thinking about him.
Why do they put those fucking fake trees around. Fuck: at least dust it.
I wonder if I'm gonna lose my mind in here.

White haired lady,

graceful movements/ maybe she was a ballet dancer.
Bubble bubble hum, water runs.
*Dwang* - Mom, you should write a poem.
Fuck, I need hand sanitizer.
Yeah write a poem/ stop thinking about Him.

Black lady, 

almost asleep in her chair/mouth hanging open.

Cracka wackles.
Red & gold upholstery chairs:
I bet they are covered w/germs.
Ho's can’t make me see the doctor.
Get me outta here, I wanna go eat.
Cracka wackles.

Ashley Bear

I.

Bear trap snapped, crunched

her auburn ankle of fur,

bloody, vulnerable howls.

I was the only one around

but would I risk my own life

to save this sobbing, powerful beast,

this Bear of transformation, 

strength, introspection, knowledge, and dreams?

II.

Come, broken one, be worthless with me.

We’ll never try to validate the valueless

(ourselves).

We’re equals—both products of a

forsaken sacred marital union.

No arguments— in Zen with our nullity.

You won’t say, underhandedly, how my ass looks fat in these shorts

and I won’t complain about your missing bowtie.

Tucked in each other’s arms, my comrade, Ashley Bear,

we are secure.

You teach me how to talk to foreboding, verboden God

and a flighty, flakey Higher Self.

And I give life to your otherwise

cotton-stuffed state of Turiya.

Until:

III.

You were replaced by the embrace of a man,

the figurehead, transformed.

Not into a better version.

No, a carnivorous butterfly.

And I thought

they were so damn great

with their masculine charm,

endearing awkwardness

so I let them act as my Higher Self.

Conflicted.

IV.

I’ve gotta save her from the trap,

take the risk of her jaw snapping hard

for the path I’m following

is leading me to extinction

anyhow.

I’ve gotta get my Bear back.

I’ve gotta save the sobbing beast

to invoke the Bear in me.

Untitled

Monday.

Nine thousand degrees,

misanthrope lunch break, hiding in a greenhouse car,

a Venusian heat island. Life a mess, marked by clutter:

drink containers, paper & plastic bags,

used brake fluid, residue of too many weekends,

detached & running away from myself

chasing an imaginary rabbit lure

with meat surprise inside.

Temporary distractions:

because I can

because I shouldn’t

because I must.

The Nietzschean disarray

refuses to be what it isn't:

byproducts of chasing (emotionally unavailable) men (who won’t chase me),

rolling arbitrarily as a marble

from one moment of satisfaction

to the next.

OR—it’s evidence that I basically live in my car

avoiding stability.

I’m just

doing

what I’ve

always

done.

Written 05 Aug 2013

Oblivion: The Only Other Option

In itself

it was enough

to keep me going

for now

in this life

that never seems

like it's enough

in itself:

gentle pat

on my literary back,

cup of coffee

jolts awake lethargic mind,

smile from a man

that contained no lust,

book in the mail

to start and finish tonight,

photo of mischevious feline

cute ears as angry eyebrows,

graceful energy

of an old woman

whirling courageously toward death.

In itself

it was enough

to keep me going

on, again

in this life

that isn't enough

in itself:

remember it's an impermanent circus.

know that everyone is wrong

because we can never know who's right.

feel fearless and cynical about

the idea of death.

and, mostly, always stay aware

that although this life

doesn't seem enough

in itself,

it may be the only chance

to exist, ever.

and the only other option

could be

oblivion.