Friday, September 23, 2011

Manifestation of Visualization

A gift from heaven
Appears at the door
In an oblong tube
Encased in excitement
For what's inside
The smell of parchment and ink
Like sweet onions
Tickles my nose
As i pull the precious paper
From its sheath
Like prying a pearl
From its protective shell
I have grasped a world
Beyond my own
One i may never know
But can peek inside
As i peel apart
Each layer of heaven
To glimpse a better view
Of what may lie beyond
My manifestation of visualization

Ritual Trespass

Traversing through abandoned warehouse
Camera and paint in hand
While pigeons nest in rafters above
Territory inhabited by hobos and vagrants
Home to those seeking shelter
From rain and snow
A storage space for piss and shit
And old beer cans rusted batteries a lonely sock
Condoms strewn about the rotting floorboards
A home for passing lovers
Who have lain quietly together
In the cold dark nights to keep warm
These buildings hold decaying stories
Untold yet long remembered
By the few who dare to brave
Such weathered conditions
Unknown to most
A sanctuary decorated with
The finest art written in
Bright twisting hieroglyphs
Undecipherable to the general eye
A modern day temple of doom
Broken windows floors that creak and moan
Dirty cloth- someone's bed
A backpack covered in newspaper
Dates back to the year of our lord 2009
Haphazardly nestled in a dark corner
I dare not disturb what has come before
Respecting all that has been
I light a candle as humble offering
While preparing mixed paints
To add my mark
To the lonely walls that cry
Leaking tears onto the floor
As if to cleanse them of their filth
Mixing water with dirt it becomes
A cake of mud for the bugs to eat
I am honored to stand and see
Such tender movement of the
Walls which water naturally
Spraying paint as homage
To the tears of this building
Lost amid the wreckage
Of a city's forgotten memory
I kneel and pray these walls
One day may topple with dignity
A memorial to all who have come before
My ritual trespass a small devotion

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Slaughter Shapes


Black lined fingers waving wildly in air
I succumb to the science of most sacred sleep
While you place needle on record
Life's lonely lullaby lulling me gently
Laying quietly
Imagining deeply


Flowing color pounding like rain
Technicolor raindrops oozing
Wetting hair and face
Becoming limp
Bending back brilliant celestial clouds
To get a glimpse of heaven
Summer's selection

If only for a moment

I can see angles painting folklore
Knitting the fabric of lightning
Taking hard risks with thunder
Scissoring the sun into glorious
Singing out spackled rafters
In the attic of a mind that can not rest

Screaming voices

Communicating in a colored tongue of
Misunderstood pink and purple
Cross-breeding black into
Stigmatized stationary slaughter shapes
Melting together faces that bleed rainbows
Our world the angles playground
The meta of souls on fire


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Memories of myself: Age 3


My soul is waiting to become radioactive
Trying to walk through walls
Stuck in-between glass windows
Belly up like a beetle
Moving legs frantically in air
My metamorphosis- Cockroach

I await a time when feeling free
And being free are one
Until then I sit behind glass bars
Watching seeds blow in summer wind
Sucking up sun rays glorifying Horus
Daughter of Isis I and eye see me
Becoming we and I want home
I want us together on the other side

They put a bracelet on my wrist 
And told me I was queen of shit 
So I ate the chocolate cake
I produced out my rectum
And drank the water which flowed
From a tender urethra and they
Called me majesty and sought to learn
The knowledge I had acquired through
White padded isolation rooms

Stuck inside a marshmallow 
I must chew my way out
I must be freed by the angels
Who peel back firefly skies
Unravelling roads less traveled
A vision of heaven in the cold night
Underground railroads bringing together
I am free

Phone Camera


Danger!: High Voltage Within
As I exit this realm I am reborn
On a rolling metal cloud
Combusting with a thunderous roar
Into the wild depth of the end of transmission
I am transmitted into heavens gate undetected

I am the serpent slithering on silver belly
Into the belly of the beast
Unquestioned and unnamed
As the steam is released with mighty force 
I am passing through as cargo
En route as the computer voice speaks of
Defect detectors in code: ".0015"

Cross checking the answers to an exam
I have yet to register for
I wonder am I safe
Will this adventure end in peril
I must phone home

Alls well that ends well 
As the breaks are released
I feel a rumble through my bones
As teeth chatter in my skull
The cradle rocks and I am nursed by the stars
Sucking soul food I am a soul lost

Looking for mother
I am orphaned alone run away
Prodigal Daughter
Chased by a past that haunts
Slave master father
Jewish temptress mother

I am running from my inheritance
Heritage Heritic Past Present Future
I am seeking I am searching I am soulful
And waiting
Watching Wormholes expand
Tricking hour eyes into celebrating
Time eternal moving ever forward to
Decrease disorder in order

Treating time as Father Mother Sister Brother
Hour eyes see through time
Exploring fact and fiction
Without friction
I am reborn

Monday, July 18, 2011



BECAUSE us girls crave art records books and fanzines that speak to US that WE feel included in and can understand in our own ways.
BECAUSE we wanna make it easier for girls to see/hear each other's work so that we can share strategies and criticize-applaud each other.
BECAUSE we must take over the means of production in order to create our own moanings.
BECAUSE viewing our work as being connected to our girlfriends-politics-real lives is essential if we are gonna figure out how we are doing impacts, reflects, perpetuates, or DISRUPTS the status quo.
BECAUSE we recognize fantasies of Instant Macho Gun Revolution as impractical lies meant to keep us simply dreaming instead of becoming our dreams AND THUS seek to create revolution in our own lives every single day by envisioning and creating alternatives to the bullshit christian capitalist way of doing things.
BECAUSE we want and need to encourage and be encouraged in the face of all our own insecurities, in the face of beergutboyrock that tells us we can't play our instruments, in the face of "authorities" who say our bands/zines/etc are the worst in the US and
BECAUSE we don't wanna assimilate to someone else's (boy) standards of what is or isn't.
BECAUSE we are unwilling to falter under claims that we are reactionary "reverse sexists" AND NOT THE TRUEPUNKROCKSOULCRUSADERS THAT WE KNOW we really are.
BECAUSE we know that life is much more than physical survival and are patently aware that the punk rock "you can do anything" idea is crucial to the coming angry grrrl rock revolution which seeks to save the psychic and cultural lives of girls and women everywhere, according to their own terms, not ours.
BECAUSE we are interested in creating non-heirarchical ways of being AND making music, friends, and scenes based on communication + understanding, instead of competition + good/bad categorizations.
BECAUSE doing/reading/seeing/hearing cool things that validate and challenge us can help us gain the strength and sense of community that we need in order to figure out how bullshit like racism, able-bodieism, ageism, speciesism, classism, thinism, sexism, anti-semitism and heterosexism figures in our own lives.
BECAUSE we see fostering and supporting girl scenes and girl artists of all kinds as integral to this process.
BECAUSE we hate capitalism in all its forms and see our main goal as sharing information and staying alive, instead of making profits off being cool according to traditional standards.
BECAUSE we are angry at a society that tells us Girl = Dumb, Girl = Bad, Girl = Weak.
BECAUSE we are unwilling to let our real and valid anger be diffused and/or turned against us via the internalization of sexism as witnessed in girl/girl jealousism and self defeating girltype behaviors.
BECAUSE I believe with my wholeheartmindbody that girls constitute a revolutionary soul force that can, and will change the world for real.
 "The Riot Grrrl Movement began in the early 1990s by Washington State band Bikini Kill and lead singer Kathleen Hanna.The riot grrrl manifesto was published 1991 in the BIKINI KILL ZINE 2"

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Love Letters from a 'Fucking Cunt'

     My Love,

                  I wish I knew how to better articulate my feelings. Unfortunately I am always assuming you know everything I am thinking and feeling and the words that come pouring out of my mouth are like thousands of pounds of garbage filling a landfill much too fast. I am creating an island of trash for me myself and I to inhabit. I am filling my island with stories of which you are already a part, a silver statue of junk that will someday combust due to flying too close to the sun. When all is engulfed in flames I will be the one putting out the fire and saving relics from a forgotten era alive in the present moment. There is magic everywhere and I am not sure if people are blind or just too dumb to see that as all is passing, the trash on the road is composed of folklore too tired to speak, so instead of thriving becomes entombed in the casket of the displaced streets, a time capsule of Atlantis that abides not within the metal carcass of a decaying space ship, but rather within my very own arms where I will tenderly keep all that has found its way to my embrace safe, carrying it with me till death do us part. I  am addicted to lost treasure. I have married myself to trash and the stories it tells. I am in love with forgotten lives because all I want to do is remember. 
               I love you. 

I want my ideals and fantasies to come true, which is why I am happiest when I allow myself to imagine, inspired by the road and driven by a persistence toward carrying out my dreams which I have found become real when I get 'lost.' In order to get my head straight, reflect on all I have thus far collected and to free myself from what had become a burden of obligation, I felt it was necessary to retreat from civilization to the very essence of nature and creation, which was the woods.  
               I was living by a lake that I could not leave because in the morning as the sun rose it broke my heart to see the reflection of fire on water, like a million sparkling flames that rippled with the breeze while wild trout would leap up from the brilliant surface, birthed by the lake, dancing in the air, snapping up mosquitos and plunging back into the water, breaking the sparkling surface to reveal the dark abyss of the lake's endless bottom. I would swim out into the lake's middle each morning until an overwhelming sense of fear would shake through me as I would franticly realize I had swum too far out where the water was cold and dark, when all I had wanted was to reach warmth and light. Getting back to the shore I would lay out on the mossy forest floor and imagine myself growing into the dirt and leaves and sucking up all the elements of the earth, becoming like a tree I would try and feel myself growing up old and wise and strong with a mossy tree beard and a birds nest for a hat. I made paper boats out of the newspaper I had been collecting from each town I would visit (it always amazed me how much the news would change from town to town) and place nuts and twigs and pieces of my hair in them and send them off to sail before becoming soaked with water and pulled down to an inevitable watery grave. I imagined the nuts and twigs and hair becoming part of a primordial soup which I imagined to be the lake, where my delicate strands of DNA could safely co-mingle with the fish and trees and water and air, a part of me going on to live forever there. I embraced the idea of myself as infinity and fearlessly walked the forest making friends with birds and foxes knowing they were all an extension of myself through the perception of sight and sound. I felt wonderfully alone but never lonely. I felt at home and at peace. 
             You too have also been home to me and I am trying to find my way back in the dark. I am exploring new ways to reach you. I am discovering new forms to take to try and get there. I am learning how to stay safe. I am trying to speak different languages. I am disguising myself in funny costumes in order to surprise you. I am trying, with reckless abandon, to build a nest on a cliff that I know has already crumbled, the preservation of memory now my sole concern. When called a 'fucking cunt,' I can only hope to one day be that again to someone who cares enough about love to remember with me what it was once like to become alive. I am hoping that someone is you...
              I know I can't follow you but I can sure as hell try and blaze my own way to try and find.....


-July 16, 2011

i am free to be loved 
i am free to be hated
i am free to be
i am free!

Displace Displaced Displasia

No Free Lunch

Friday, July 8, 2011

"By believing passionately in something that still does not exist, we create it. The nonexistent is whatever we have not sufficiently desired." -Kafka

Free Our Shapes Sounds Symbols Letters Colors...

Mind Matter Sprouts Substance

 Every thought I have fostered has been germinating through centuries of forgotten peoples populating the earth's freak show to create a circus within the present. A precarious juggling act, Atlas shrugged, and what is dropped today shall be picked up for tomorrow's primordial soup. The future sparkles within the rays of earth's sunshine, spitting up glass mirrors, windows to jump through....


Toward eyes so bright
 Beacons in the dark
Like a fly circling shit
I am drawn to light
Drawn to my negative
Glowing silver in the dark

My tongue is coming in
And my voice a foreign sound
Taste buds blooming inside
A rotting cavern of decomposing words

Mouth of shit 
Stench so strong it tears down walls
Revealing food for thought

Sweet, sweet energy divine 
Let me be so lucky 
As to lick your skin
Realizing your sticky-sweet
Sugar soaked skin
Tastes of salt and vinegar

Stinging my tongue like acid
I retreat in search of alkaline
To sustain my blood

Blood red as wine
Flesh of my flesh
Why dost thou betray me

Bitting the apple - not the first sin 
But lusting for the scarlet gem 
Hung upon the tree of life
Smelling the fruit pulled from limbs
Ripe and ready to burst
You thirst

And with the bite of life comes the prick of death

Mourning the son while birthing the moon
 Crying lakes of fiery tears 
Spitting flame and bleeding poison out your veins
Placing band-aids on wounds in need of stitches
Your pipes so rusted they bleed gold

Diamonds are rocks that blind from rainbow-rays
And now all that is seen is black
A coal mine covered in soot
Blood diamonds exchanged for caged birds that sing

A world coated in darkness, how, you ask,
Were you to know to run when everyone was 
Stuck in hot tar sidewalks 

Asphalt and plastic
Concrete and glass
Metal machine monsters
Without home

Desolate disturbed despair 

I can not sleep among the wreckage of Atlantis
A lost city of forgotten dreams
Sparkling within the crystal globe
Of glittering guts and glory

Glory hallelujah!
The Saints are marching in
Machine gun marching in
Father Son and Holy Ghost

Gunning them down
Women and children
Gunning them down

While they blow bubbles 
And bake bread, burping
Their babies until they turn blue

Mouse on house let all the rats in
Until the city was over-run with vermin
And I am sick
I am sick
Dope sick

Breathing combustible carbon
You like to equate with power
Throwing up neon lights
In patterns of blue yellow green purple and red
And orange

Code orange, to liberate hate,
Throwing up orange out my eyes ears nose
Mouth fingers and toes
Till it soaks my heart and filters through
My mind toward the unknown dimension
Of time eternal

Infinite jest
I will never know the jokers face for he is 
Forever changing
Peeling off masks to reveal
A mirrored reflection of myself

Don't Look Back

Heaven and hell on earth
The Saints are marching in!

Into the sparkle of glittering eyes 
Darkness and light
Cockroaches trailing through shit to pave the way
A field of orange blossoms left behind

Heaven or hell on earth

You decide....

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Bertolt Brecht

"Art is not a mirror held up to reality, but a hammer with which to shape it"