the place where i go.

i will never be afraid again.
it steals things, you know. you know this.
i havent, yet, been where you were that night..
devastating...hopeless, dark things...hit so hard and heavy.

I pretend.
i pretend or very carefully introduce the idea that i can mask it. and detach from my social nature.
im easy, open and eager for them
am i just symptoms?
will they know, or have the perspective that i am crazy?
do they think im crazy JR?

the extreme chemical that "correct" that bad things.
they make stretching feelings in my reality.
the size of the universe used to infinitely terrify me.

but like my realization to allow bad days, as if we had a choice, to calmly happen and stay very far from feeling.       kind of like that.
because i dont want to be scared. i accept an idea that just like many human restrictions, our brain is only made and needed for what we need and encounter here. It, then, doenst seem so scary.

im not afraid and i know you arent either.
i am not cement still certain that i can overcome or prevent [it].

ive come to not take for granted, when the dark feelings happen, the absence of fear. 

because the worst has happened then.
and i will let it climax in horrible detail. not happy but stable.

I'm still not hurting about you. What is it like to be free?

I need someone to know. More importantly I need to know that someone feels and genuinely understands the depths of what words cannot explain.

I know now that words just don’t matter. Agony, torment, anguish, devastation, horrific. But I have to use them so you can associate some feeling to what has and is happening to me.

I was escorted like a criminal to a mental ward in a foreign place where they took my clothes, my shoes. And I was quietly in rooms with people talking to the walls and laughing followed by odd spurts of crying and mumbling.
And what quiet, pained thing I realized was that something in
Side of me belonged with them. Whatever brought them here
Brought me here. And no matter where they were born or how
Old they were or if they deserved this it felt like we were siblings.
A family of knowing.
And what makes me quiet. What utterly devastates me is that once my mind broke open I fell into an eternal, rapid spiral of agony that will never ever end.
And do not mistake it, it is not exactly the terror of psychosis, or of being afraid of dots ont eh ground or hiding in a bathtub in fear of nothing. It is this:
I will never perceive the way I did when I was
Five and nine and twelve. Or the way you do.
Or the way you do..
Rooms will never look the same. Fabrics will always appear different and I will forever be prisoner of my lucid dreams, sitting inside of them willing escape.
But there is this.
If in a moment of a day I feel calm,
I can sense the faintest twinge of
Nerves cascading down my spine
As if my brain were producing chemicals
Coercing a feeling of appropriate perception
And simply something invaluable.
Something that can only be bestowed
And not obtained.
I do not try to keep it in a box.
Or save it.
Or hide it from my fears.
Or anticipate its loss.
I very calmly sit beside myself under the sun and un-know.
I pretend I am naive and a young feeling caresses my cerebellum
And I become the shining glimmer of what I envision freedom is.
And some time passes as the dark things collide at me.
Fast and expected like a storm or war.
It is not a stolen thing.
It is not the keys you cannot find.
It cannot be avenged or created.
Or saturated in memory.
It is a fleeting moment of feeling.
Then I slowly collapsed into mysterious water and do not feel real.

drive.

the wheels correlate. over and over as my feet coerce their obeying circles.

and i am speaking with my mother about lines and dots and confusing things.

as i unmistakeleably loosing my easy mind.



and there it is.

my "personality", my soul, the soft heart i created begins to fade and flicker and

i am nothing.

chemicals singe and recreate something very real and i become the thing i feared

of homeless and rambling persons.

my vision recognizes no normal thing and dots on the ground become

terrifying.

and when i was two and five and seventeen never mattered.

because i am a thing.

that malfunctions at the sight and sound of environment.





i am afraid of dots on the ground and do not feel real.



what are dreams if i cannot differentiate them?

er

Videotape
the tree bodes and gapes.
all i can remember is sitting atop a table. and he beckons at the edges and at my feet.
he is underneath and in between.
and the sky is void again.
dry and grey and the branches stretch out to the sky.and the shadows stopped dancing in the light.
and his hands were there.
and his words were stressed and starvingand in the night i hear themwhen i try and sleep.they crescendo.
they climax into abrupt flocks of screaming.
and he falls into the groundi walk past it.
the thin, frail arms stretch towards me and break.
the bark begins to crumble off and i can see its skin.
underneath and in between.
and he falls into the place, where the ground and stone is cold with namesand you are my greatest company.
because he begins to mortaland weak and fall awayin the distance i cannot make it outthe things he must conveywhere it begins to tear away my lids
so that i cannot sleepstarring at the ceilingwith the God that i am pleading.because you are my greatest company.
and he grabs at me and tears away my clothes
and the tree black, it aches and bodes and gapesit knows.at the table
i stay and pale and fade
he said [in words like rain],

"this is where love was made."

[Insanity] noticed her.
but she would yell at it and give it bad looks.
It would send her drinks
though she unrequited in quite words about "dreaming"
and she would excuse him in dark liquid,
flowing steadily down her throat making it less heavy and arresting her mind.
until she slipped and spilled her thoughts on the floor, and they lay undone.
her thinking unpeeled as aroma blossomed her cerebellum into a calmer environment.
not her, but her [brain] exploded in surrender and
she didnt feel real.

go away.

silk

This day, she felt the words creep unto her pallet and softly caress the roof of her mouth until it broke the silence, breaking into abrupt flocks of laughter that landed at the ceiling sideways and simple.
And happy spread warm over her, in light making the blood in her nourish like never before; a comfort feeling and something about safe.
A sleeveless length of silk cascaded down her chest and stomach. The ivory fabric scooped down her back withdrawing from her braided lacks as if touching would singe it in comparison.
-is that no one addressed them, it seemed adolescent; we were junior high girls in a fight. But we had never met, or laughed, or exchanged stories about pets or favorite colors; we were un-named enemies.
[and I do believe it un-requited, one sided, “up-nosery”]

ratatat

ratatatat; a spiral exploded kneecap
stop the air depravity;
a roaring crash into his chest cavity
they turn up their mighty porcelain noses;
and it begins; the in between and sleep-like poses
and underneath the sheath of skin, their eyes begin to fade and flicker.
and with the condition of the room, the words
they spoke seemed to make him sicker, quicker.

the path is small, and blank, and tall.
i move in ballet, my feet end to tip.
and my body contorts to the shape it concedes.
i bend spine and bone, things i wont later need.
i am finding it quicker,
the door and the step.
the brass handle rotates,
and presents a new depth.
so i cascade down its halls
in its rooms, in its things
and i am hunting it viscously
where, in the ceiling, it hangs

because i only in between and sleep like poses
at night, in the dark things; i do not go
but somewhere i am resting, and person and whole
the endless places, the worlds i ache to show.
do you dream of things, like colored sounds
and if you do, at night
do the stars hold you captive, in the sound do you drown?
cause i keep covering my ears at the sight of sound
its the noise that keeps me
under the sky, above the ground.
cause i told God, i felt flat to the size of it
and he calmed and comfort me
cause the idea of size
is synthesized in it.
he said,
we may not beckon sun and ocean,
we cannot bleed infinite
but in his admirations
our souls expand with no limit.
"so even when they will not stay, underground; all the dead,
you'll take them away, the pain they put in my head?"

he said,
skin and bones cannot stretch,
your shoulders are frail
the tragedies you think to be
in my great eyes, fade and pale.
your vessel's too small
quiet now, overflow
your feeling's too big
start writing words you know
if you paint, the tragic will fall and age
and if you get it out, it will number and page.
if, in time, you write all the worlds
and there are no more left
ill help you to human
where dreams and sleep, you were utterly theft.

grown man

i stay you far away.
the truth, liquid, in un-day.
A roaring crash chest cavity
A dread of death anxiety.
I am blind and blood and suffering
With each drink you down, my agony.
I un-recognize your long black coats, and eyes.
You’ve unfamiliared you, when we sang of “spies”
you damage you, you damage me
I will be six feet, your company
I yell at it and give it rude glares
But it “creep”s and whispers the truth, it dares
where you hardly care
i am hard aware
but you dont lose sleep, do you?
i wish i didn't too.

amelie.

and although she sang in french sounds i could not understand, i could feel she sang about the moment we became. and as the feelings melted into one another, in the driver seat, in your lap, i felt your hands shaking and nerves about uncertain; that it was too good.

[much time and days and years about pain and starving inside.]


happy crashes at me. and as i am destroyed into hot pieces of ash and fire i become light that shines into the tips of your eyes and the corners of your brain. i coerce your laughter and am free.

sea thing.

Un-pigment


She had futile fists fighting. her stomach salted like sea.
[And he will wipe the sad and deepest things away until you think they aren’t so close anymore]
But this was before words crept unto the pallet; premeditated and empty.
When she spoke in was in sounds like rain.
[your fire and my light]
Her Melody had gone black.
The feeling of it burst in tree like branches throughout her chest as if lightening had raced down, reducing her [heart thing] into pieces of hot glass; aching and open like a searing volcano.

[much description of pain, and awful hurt; a very long time and some words about saving a pretty girl with scar and not feeling real.]

she abandoned the earth, the place she was. And descended into the most genuine depths of mysterious and dark water.

where, although she could not be loved, she could not be un-loved.

And in time, the nerves that once allotted memory and knowledge of time and experiences of tastes and sounds about rain, and the trickle of fingertips about her palm became dormant and inanimate.

And human rules faded off of her body.
She did not age.
Her hair grew out white over a mile in length; floating in silver tinsel up the ocean reaching towards the surface and the sun danced upon in.

And specs of light danced as luminated sky adornment on it, playing games “not to touch the shadow”.
The memory of amber darting through tree, sitting aside soccer morning sunrise drifted into the liquid and evaporated into the atmosphere; digested into shapes of stars and other lights that people look up to and wonder about.


it was a desperate reach into her acknowledgment, that the wind and the atmosphere would attempt to catch her eyes with a tsunami, a violent sky, or in aurora. And in its admirations, the sky would try and try its best to capture a rouge star for her. to burn and scar itself, just to plead its diligent devotion for her. and she was just as persevering in her unrequited interest.

as she would spend her nights laying a field, rearranging stars with her fingertips.

.insanity.

And If I turned crazy, I know you’d still love me. And you would invite my imaginary friends inside, to visit while my panic subsides. And my smiles would be endless, where your happiness bursts. And you would take care of me. Take care of me. Because your heart swells and you believe my spells. And my dreams are things you listen to and believe. Where I cannot tell a lie. And you are as beautiful as the moment I met you in my dreams. And you are with me everyday, in my ear. And you hold me in my sleep, even when the dreams are too deep. And ill cry of try and be brave, but you are close at my side Because of people that have died you are Where I cannot tell a lie.

face gush.

As always from anesthesia you wake up at someone talking about you.
Usually a doctor and your mom or dad, in this case it was my mom telling me how good my face looked.

Which was swollen and gushing.

I remember the night before I was dreading waking up from this.

And so it was like someone hit me in the face with a spiked bat to wake me up.

And I moaned. And a male nurse with a ponytail held a crescent shaped plastic bowl in front of me as a puked blood. Eleven times.

And when it didn’t get better.

They held me down, they pulled things out. They yelled. And I went to sleep.

puff, puff.

there are melted, rubber spirals aching on the bottoms of your sneakers from the fire you quiet; the habits our bodies silently endure.
And revenge plotted inside of you; hatred exponentially horded and feelings of inconsiderate carcinogen
that hi-jacks cells and coerce others to follow, blossoming and thefting tissue for its' solely aesthetic means; a useless group of blackened spots scattered like stars across your lungs.

And calculations of equality, appropriating time above and under groud; “a breath for a puff”.

The feeling of it quickly exploded in tree like branches throughout her chest as if lightening had raced down, reducing her [heart thing] into pieces of hot glass; aching and open like a searing volcano.

[much description of pain, and awful hurt;
a very long time
and some words about saving a pretty girl with scar and not feeling real.]

she abandoned the earth, the place she was. And descended into the most genuine depths of mysterious and dark water.

where, although she could not be loved, she could not be un-loved.

And in time, the nerves that once allotted memory and knowledge of time and experiences of tastes and sounds about rain, and the trickle of fingertips about her palm became dormant and inanimate.

And human rules faded off of her body.
She did not age and her hair grew out white over a mile in length; floating in silver tinsel up the ocean reaching towards the surface and the sun danced upon in.

And specs of light danced into glimmers on it, playing games “not to touch the shadow”.
The memory of amber darting through tree, sitting aside soccer morning sunrise drifted into the liquid and evaporated into the atmosphere; digested into shapes of stars and other lights that people look up to and wonder about.


it was a desperate reach into her acknowledgment, that the wind and the atmosphere would attempt to catch her eyes with a tsunami, a violent sky, or in aurora. And in its admirations, the sky would try and try its best to capture a rouge star for her. to burn and scar itself, just to plead its diligent devotion for her. and she was just as persevering in her unrequited interest.

as she would spend her nights laying a field, rearranging stars with her fingertips.

medic.

With new vibrance, she put forth her boasting left foot out into the place.
She assessed the color of the sky and began her brief minutes home.
It seemed as if it would end on a Monday. And she recalled to the windshield the remission of a great cancer that heavied her words and made a fool of her at seven and twelve and eighteen.
The woman studied a list of words followed by various three digit numbers.
[Most of the words foreign,
consisting of x’s and z’s,
that must translate to words about risk,
and time, and chance..]
the girl presented the idea that it was time. And that a plague had been masking her normality.
That she had been untruly accused, and furthermore, that erroneous tendencies had been assigned to her of no warrant..
That un asked for colors and flashes of light had fallen into her head at night accompanied by stories of tall universes folding into themselves and becoming one single cell.
That the list of words made hot, white noises crash into her skull.
That something would shake and twitch her at her greatest attempts at still.
And finally she explained that perhaps she had been, and she used this word eagerly, “normal” for years now. “maybe my head has fixed itself.”
The woman corrected the list on paper and begat her one so weak it almost paled in view and color.
With new vibrance, she put forth her boasting left foot out into the place.
And her pineal gland began to un-slumber.

HOMEsick.

I’m starting to get in trouble again..
I do not manage my 24 allotted hours well, they say.
My boldest, or my most unthinking, flare up?
I was visiting the memory of an empty, snow covered town when one of them oozed out of the snow.
She seeped up.
in heavy, draping ruby.
unhurriedly made her way towards the abandoned café terrace I loitered..
I did not offer peripheral awareness.

But an odd thing, as she arrived at the gate her crimson cloak became a small snow vest and she converted to a woman. A normal woman.

And she opened the gate. And she stood facing me, studying my bottomless gaze into the vacant street.
She took a moment to turn her face towards my interest, and again my face.
then sat down..
We, there, almost as friends.
Almost as if she knew. I took a packet of sprinkles and tore it into the hot, sweet beverage I knew I could not finish.
And in silence she explained that she carried understanding for the things I must have bore inside about here.
And in sounds like heavy sheets of glass collapsing she said,
“you cannot stay here.”
“I know.”
“Not other days.
Not times after now.
Not in seconds or years.
You cannot come here..”
And as each word reached me, I could feel the first time my mother had dropped me off at daycare, and how the recognition of truth arrived at me identically.
And she conceded me moments, and we waited for the memory to perform and parade its’ climax in notable detail.
[The little red-headed girl exploded out of the heavy metal door
and she fell into the street.
She made a laughing sound and smiled at me.]
My secret, my desperate denial. I would not tell.
The woman took me by the hand and blinked slowly,
“ you need to keep your eyes open so he can remove the tubes.”

i can rarely move. and i need to to be part of this place.
they explained at the window that i require circles and trinkets, and several other tangible items that make a person real.
That I hadn’t been born with it, but they couldn’t cut the malfunctioning part out..
i get up, and it gets down. and i remember that it gets up.
when i was three and five and six. when i was in my room.
drawing pictures of people i have never met..
writing your name down and talking to you.


that they like me when i show them how confident i was born.
here.
and how i smile and boast and say how silly words seem.
And they like the way I look.
and several other things about serious behavior and how our calm makes us real;
that they do not loose feeling in their limbs; awake.
They do not shake and scream while dreaming..
They do not hear words that come together about yellow trees and dry people,
Andveryfirmlytheytookcaretodescribethattheirdaysdonotfollowoneanotherbutaregentlyanddistinctlyseparate.

As if a line were drawn between sleep and sun.

Where I am only a few days old.

a sense maybe imminent for people that aren’t born. [and I imagine them wise and calm. And real]
and they hear the music I do that is not there.
And they can feel the vibrations of people that they have never met.
And know feelings and the waves of bumps across your arm from the way your mother stroked your hair.
[no matter how silent time had made it]


But opened in my book are words that have been read and re-read so numerous of times that the letters have been near faded by my eyes..

“and people came from all over the land: a woman who since birth counted her heartbeats and had run out of numbers, a man that got up at night to undo the things he had done while awake, a man that couldn’t sleep because the noise of the stars disturbed him, and several others with less serious ailments..”-Marquez

.ara batur.

I was running through a field.

Yellow strips of bang glided past my face as it became a memory destined to befall all of my childhood. It was all yellow. And as I defeat the grass it crunched and gave way to my galloping pace. A charge similar to that of a patriot; intentional and with feeling. And God crept beneath the tallest layers of the sky, where I could breathe him in the atmosphere. And the branches stretched and reached up, as if to touch him; beckoning..

And in that moment, I could not remember etched marble. I did not feel I was late, or out of time. There were enough numbers for all of the stars, and I could remember the sound of the room the night I dreamt about you.

diet coke vs. coke zero

Have you, yourself, found [yourself] face to face, at a McDonald's, wondering why on earth Coke A Cola would spend the money on having two different types of diet colas? or why haven't they phased out the old finally..

I, myself, have pleaded with the lady at Subway to disclose with me the difference and after many futile attempts i began to wonder: 

"am i stammering upon some ever-lasting gobstopper grounds? will Slugworth confront me in a dark alley and tell me to stop putting my nose where it doesnt belong?"

I pressed forward. 

i pulled together many different answers from the web and this is what i suppose is the best answer:

1. diet Coke is not made from the original formula Coke a Cola is made from, also artificial sweetener.

2. on an advertising hand, men are more likely to buy something "out there!" rather than a safe diet soda. Coke Zero sounds more neutral, thus more appealing to men. 

           b. also Coke Zero is, in fact, made from the original formula and is                  said to taste more like real Coke. (THIS, HOPEFULLY, MEANS THE              ORIGINAL FORMULA THAT SUPPOSEDLY HAD COCAINE, YA!)

you don't smoke cigarrettes.



you get scared when you guess things right.
but you do smoke cigarrettes. and youre thirsty all the time.



furthermore, you stood at the top of the playset starring at the top of a tree with its roots sticking out and naked and twisted about the ground. and as your lips twitched you wrote.



you wrote about age. and fast words.

pacing. running. ridiculously ill attentive.



does not play games that require time.

you change your clothes twice and day and have never felt safe.
and sometimes when you feel bored you feel that you need something.
and calls and lose your keys and phone and jokes.



and even when you sleep you cannot still.

but twitch and kick and lay wide awake motionless, certain that you can hear music that is not there.



It doesnt matter about the paralysis. or the shocks at night. or the cold feeling in the morning.
or the writing or guessing things and people. or the other thing.



your head lights up wrong colors. and when you go to shows you do not tap your foot.

but tell them. not fast and aching.

tell them about the beginning and the end.

and how there was a girl that rearranged the stars with her fingertips.

and how the ocean fell in love with her.

and how the sky would burn intself to calm her.

monsoon and bilateral winds.

and you dont stop talking to God in your head. and outloud.

and how there are no marks on your skin.

but guts.