nothing is obvious

The Deep End

The deep end, the deep end–
where the tide is nonexistent nothing pulls me back in
Nothing stops me from descent
12 feet, 20 years
it continues and continues
but I’ll never touch the bottom and I’ll never breathe human air again
I’ve transformed, transcended; malleable bones and blood and skin

Water has engulfed me
I succame but did not die
Constant drowning is an endless high.

Constant drowning is an endless high
My boredom underwater is a frequent lie
my most frequent sigh is
Diluted by a liquefied existence
this living within
a half empty cup.

I hope you find something that is going to make you happy.
I hope you find something that is going to make you happy.
I hope you find something that is going to make you happy.

Because I am simply floating in an aqua sky
& There is nothing as fluid
As erasing your mind


My family is submerged
My mother is the calm
My father was the storm
And my sister is the flood

I remain
as fog.


deadbeat d

she got me

she got me

i am in love with an image

only the surface

and sometimes all it is

but i believe

i’m being fucking ridiculous

i mean,

i don’t even know how to be a proper lesbian

look at me,



Screen shot 2012-12-10 at 12.12.32 AM


Explicitly Diane

Blue Moon glued to the bruised night sky. I am high off a low, I am sticky off the glow of a fire. I am full from a somber sweat. I am hovering over permanence that can’t be met. And now the dissolve resolves, finding myself revolving around a circuit board that is communicating at a distance that I can not and will not fathom to correct proportionate. Girl says, “I really really want to know–want to–want to–” and she frantically, over-enthusiasically spills this out as her cup spills liquid down and it lands slick on the floor and maybe I watch it pour through the air in slow, drawn-out, dramatic motion and now the notion in my stomach lurches and there’s the thick marker out-line of a person before me, opening her mouth to say it again, “I feel like I know you who you are.” Her eyes are so fucking dark. It dawns on me that I’m looking in a mirror, framed in black, my image talks back bitter and it says, “You know nothing about who I am.” Yet neither side of the glass knows who it’s really looking at, only what it’s looking past. The body is exact. She becomes a virtual calamity that tries to calm me but I’m getting more bitter with the way she has become the definition of latency. Girl says the level is real, and all I can wrap my mind around is the question of whether she’s talking about balance or height. The scales have her fascination floating on one side. Amusing as it seems I picture her serenely tranced out on vyvanse, whispering in her mind that everything is fine and maybe I’m the ideal muse that entertains her unwind but it’s wound me up and I despise her wisdom because I find it nonexistent. Still, I convince myself she’s there, her mind is some where, and I should care for, search for, travel for, climb the water tower ladder that pours down soft rain on ideal Sunday mornings. Couldn’t I say this about anybody? No, I’ve watched her slide from the room, a doll so detached from her independence that she has to follow a tiny, hollow body through the crowd, to pave the way down soulless lagoons. I can imagine more potential, but the outcome always seems to swirl in the same direction. Still, I am stuck on those dots she lined up for me. Still, she bursts with positivity. Still, it sears my skin and I most likely end up mean. So maybe I am mean, but I mean, what can you expect from me when the cycle you continue to draw out is so vacant from reality? I carve her out because I feel she’s inadvertently done it to me, she doesn’t understand how sick she looks when she is spinning, but all she has to do is look at me. I keep closing in as the drumming begins, then fades, blares, then dissipates. Subtle and stirring, but who here is evolving? Girl continues dancing strange, and she lets her hair fall over her face, and she and I are doing exactly the same so maybe we’re made to rotate the chain of inspiration by inflicting brief instances of electricity. Yet perhaps, pitifully, this is only, only me. This thought, and the ground pouds me to pulp under a gravitational swoon. Blacked out and the loudest we talk is through the silence of satellite drone.


Protected: Flowers

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And slowly I realized that what I was feeling was a need that I didn’t want, a want that I couldn’t comprehend; words that spill out of my mouth in desperation, reflection that makes me realize I have no need for human interaction yet still pose for the sole purpose of figuring out some sort of impossible equation about what I am and what everything else may be in relevant comparison. Does it compare to the despair I feel when I realize the ecstasy of deep cool dark earth, the middle point of black, center between sunset and sun rise. I’ve turned over in my restless sleep a thousand times to find myself dead when I awake, un-prepared to take on another standard, monotonous, routine, the grind of life that wittles us down to toothpicks that scrape away the shit caught between the teeth of a god who disposes of us to a field of poppy seeds that will never sprout–planted in soil made of steel and glue and electrical wiring. We’ve risen up a thousand robotic souls that find an attachment to our cellular children, our mobile filing cabinets, our fourth dimensions that allow us to erase time by wasting it staring at a screen that burns our eyes as it glows in the dark and we can’t tear ourselves away from the awe of a pseudo-world we take for granted but let us grant this trending word a thousand “likes” and let us rip out our hearts to make way for the digital age that has encaged us in the whirring, ringing, humming sounds of the eternal machine. We are permanent and perpetual through our erased images and words that are stored in the trashcan for billions of years to come, just in case. Us as humans have become the ghosts of information computations without body, blood, or brain. Dots across an ever-growing expanse crushed into a pin-head without even the slightest pin-prick of feeling. And the only way you can escape that un-death would be to cease before your own birth. To never exist in the first place.

We have achieved immortality through the microchip database.

Speed Dating

I wanna go to the beach/I wanna go camping/I wanna go home/I wanna see the west coast/I wanna go on rollercoasters/I wanna rollerskate/I wanna make a movie/I wanna write a book/I wanna have an art show/I wanna grow flowers/I wanna buy a gun/I wanna shoot pigeons/I wanna take a plane/I wanna take a stroll/I wanna eat ice cream/I wanna sip bourbon/I wanna be infamous/I wanna be unknown/I wanna burn everything/I wanna rewind/I wanna move to Thailand/I wanna climb mountains/I wanna be barefoot/I wanna swim underground/I wanna dance to hip-hop/I wanna steal a nice car/I wanna speak french/I wanna trek the Sudan/I wanna make you think/I wanna change the outcome of an atom/I wanna see the earth end/I wanna fade to black/I wanna laugh, I wanna laugh, I wanna —

v = Ho D

She recently learned how to bite her tongue. Yet still. She slips when there is someone around who witnesses too much. The worst bits of self must be shoved under the rug, and She and Her take turns cleaning up once a month. It takes a week, and it’s never really done. As the girl jars away idiosyncrasies to shelves in dusty basements, Girl does so with conscious hopes that someone may be perceptive enough to notice those formaldehyde oddities. Someone maybe does. Girl smiles with one corner of her mouth and turns around to flip a switch and then back. In the moment the light floods on, the Other stands there with a look of utter shock. Girl says, creasing her brow, “I know there are bodies, but can’t you see I’m growing gardens out of graves?” She cocks her head and thinks, Has having two closets encouraged me to hoard more skeletons than I can keep? She walks away, ashamed with no shame, blaming her lips for divulging her brain. Now this living being enters the room and tries to slip into her bed. They nod their head eagerly, in want of approval as they tell her, “Prove to me you’re human.” Girl rolls her eyes, muttering something about pigeons and pennies, as someone whispers in the next room: “She’s insane.” Ultra-sensitive hearing causes Girl’s head to tilt back as she laughs, “You’re fucking right I am!” She looks back at the shape of flesh and questions why they remain. At this point Flesh says, “You’re right, I’m not dealing with this,” and Flesh slinks away leaving a trail of expectations. God another mess to clean up, Girl exhales. She begins stripping sheets and she turns on hot water, but suddenly Flesh is back, saying, “Can’t I stay for a while?” Girl is laying on the floor with her arm over her face, awkward angles somehow turn into grace. She sits up and begins lighting the candles that circle the floor, she has dreams about running through doors, she screams while she smiles and then disappears to the dark. Girl emerges from a bleach-ridden room. Someone asks if she wants water and then offers her a kiss. She takes it, she takes it. Now try to rewind while barreling ahead. Trying to trip anyone, but eventually twisting her own ankles instead. Girl drifts into the the ocean, and floats a glittering beacon, a song. Past universes. Past blackness there is something darker, still darker. Can the sublime still occur, they ask, and She replies, “Only at that same grand length you’re viewing me.” Beauty is an enigma that withdraws farther and farther.

The Journal of Theoretical Biology

We  find out these subtle things about each other through grape vines, phone lines, typed words. Distantly heard, you soak it in with a grain of salt, but others lick their hands greedily, swallow a lime, and then repeat. Blurring what is said, in fact. You stand here, directly facing an open mouth but the words don’t stick. What was said? The story comes out twelve different ways to five other people. Now you’ve moved on to another one, another experience that you’re warping for fun. What you’re dealing with is that dimension where time fades and the imprint remains visible only sparsely until it completely dissipates. Adjusting your eyes kills the scene. You try to conjure it back and the walls have changed a shade, the room has more or less people, the way a person looks is now alien because you can’t remember their eye color or what they wore today, they keep shifting through things until they’re standing naked and empty, or more likely, hovering, puzzle pieces missing in the strangest and most disconcerting places. So we begin to trust the pictures other people draw, knowing what they remember is what we haven’t, what you’ve noticed, they probably never even saw. We know details because we’re all believing made-up truths. There’s something about the way so-and-so composes themselves, they say, and you look across the room. A separate perspective has just interjected your own. Moving forward, it stays known and the idea maybe grows. Your opinion remains but sometimes all it takes is another set of eyes and a different type of tongue to project a vivid picture that once was blending into walls. Is this a good or bad thing, does anybody know? I started out in a world completely my own. Then I was pushed to see the differences between everything else, once I saw none of those lines I am now told are impossible to cross. We are melting together in a huge iron pot, calling it black because what started out a brilliant spectrum has now all blended together, pigments fading, dissolved, evaporating, replaced, muddled, confused, churning slowly darker and darker and burning holes. We are twenty-some and trying to maintain some origin but the truth is, darling, ship of Thesus, that bit of you has already completely gone. All we’re doing now is digging through the treasures we find in trashcans to replace broken bits of child souls.

Bent on Permanent Solitary


and yet away

Away from something

You can no longer see

Yet you still perceive it

Visible — invisible but

Discerned through that gap, a void

Present and ominous

Pulling out memories that you were trying to Forget

And the things we do try to remember



So we sit

In a room full of


Shelves full of collections

Trying to tell the story of ourselves

for Ourselves.

But as we look out the window the sky changes

Aware of the sun

Searching for the Moon

Laying beneath the ceiling of a room

that is Open and vast

Endless and yet

Confining for making us so tiny in retrospect.

I lay

and look up but the lights are out

and everything is dark

and the only thing left

is the glimmer of noise coming from outside,

Some beyond.

Just as I sat in an empty restaurant

with my black heels on

And watched the Sun rise


Knowing this is simply

How life goes

On and


As we, as you,

As I

Continue to roam.

Joan of Arc

I close my eyes and there is black behind my eyelids. Then it grows and I ask, how do you fade darkness into darkness? Instead, a bright white speck appears somewhere near the ceiling. My eyes open and I wonder if the feeling of these sunken-tired versus hyper-driven brainwaves is a fight I should leave to see who can win without my middle ground mediating.  Yet I fear surrender would cause my complete descent and lately I’ve seen too many friends become hazy until they wreck, She wreaks havoc from the backseat of a car going eighty–but at the same time, that was once me. Delusional and paranoid things stream from the girl’s mouth, and it procures feelings that pull me to the brink of climbing back with her and mimicking my own past. Still I’m playing the mother as she continues to scream obscenities. So I shake off a memory, and I pick up another can. I order bourbon on ice. I sit in an empty bar on a fucking Sunday night. By the time I’m home I’m rolling in bed, trying to sleep but unsure how exactly to position my neck. I think too much about hearing my own heartbeat if I’m laying on my left. Acknowledging I’m alive means accepting I have to die. Usually I try to steer clear of those eerie human truths, but ironically I can only keep them at bay through the overwhelming distraction of a society I detest. I twist my hair around my finger and try to wring out braincells that have led to this kind of over thinking. Pushing and pulling between knowledge is key and ignorance is bliss. What have I produced from it? I have unfinished and I have unfulfilled and I have lacking. I have twenty storage cells of procrastination and I keep jolting, saying, I have to understand that where I’m headed could be dangerously sloping. The rain is making the hard dirt turn into a muddy lake as I wade all the way from hell to home alone extremely late, extremely late at night. By the time I’m actually sleeping I’m moving so fast through dreams that I’m dashing around and out of worlds moments before they completely collapse. My fears hit just inches away from my toes–rockets bombing down from the grey and purple sky that I look up towards and wonder why I still survive. I gather those around me, but half of them are hiding in a strange circular basement with red walls. When I find them the room is steaming as everyone breathing steals each other’s air. They’re all sitting, anticipating the End to end but I can’t so I stand and scream that I will not wait around in a fucking hole in the ground while — And I’m jumping in a truck, cramming 30 people in the back, driving with nothing stopping me, trying to find my best friend. Furiously and futile, by a lake where the fire that keeps falling from the sky is reflected and then disrupted as it collides with water. I’m yelling hold on and I’m holding my breath as I dodge death. I’m tearing through time, leading souls as I wind through the world the only one who still powerfully persists when it seems in seconds there will be nothing and no one left. Every action of myself in sleep is one that I command.

I Found Myself In a Forty

She said, “I didn’t know that you liked me.”
He said, “No, I fucking love you.”
Yet the night is just another night where the children are drowning in drinks and swarming in friends so distant that you can’t understand the words spilling out of mouths thick with alcohol, thick with the fact that this is the only setting you know them in. It’s hard to see in the dark, you’re calling all these specks of humans dots of light, but really the fireflies are hard to find when they keep flashing on and off. You’re running around a black field with a jar once full of some sort of liquid you’ve just chugged away in hopes of holding a hand. Have you caught any moments of truth? Bottle it up and put it on a shelf. They all die out but you find yourself replacing the terrarium so often that maybe the comfort is simply in the habitat and not the life you stick inside. Hearts are faltering here, slamming against each other out of simple fear of falling over too many times with a bottle in our arms, with a can down our throats, with a moat full of blood outweighed by PBR. Cheap and almost fucking clear beer. It connects us, these small instances of hope found in a hoard. Crawling beneath floorboards only because you’re following someone else. Laughing the whole time because everyone seems to understand how to see in the dark, but the sad part is that it’s not enough to keep you from running into walls, falling down deep holes. The trenches consume us but we push forth through frothy media tunes. Bland enough, seen it so many times before. Our generation is turning around, pulling it out, setting it on a pedestal to call the subliminal our own explicit art. It’s all we have right now, so we’re cheering up by mentioning something about making the best of a world made completely of dirt. Smile again for a reason you can’t understand. Mourn when your phone goes dead. These are the reasons for our emotions, and it’s turning I, for one, emotionally dead. It caused me to lay in numerous beds. Friend said, you shouldn’t keep it up, they may spread truths and lies about you, but I said I have no regrets, I’m woven of double thread. The more I experience, the more I learn–what once started as yarn has turned to rope, nylon twisting around people’s throats when I find the scene too boring and want off this fucking boat. I’m jumping into the night sky without any hopes, but then I realize I’m sinking and the fear of reaching something I can touch when my dead weight iron heart pulls me down to the center of the Earth is the reason I keep exhaling as I stretch towards the side of the ship and have fifty arms pull me up. We know nothing about each other yet we know that in this kind of life you have to hold tight. At the end of the night, it’s all about fighting to stay alive after we’ve just committed mass suicide. Hands hanging by our sides, strolling through a wasteland of shit-faced twenty-somethings and singing the same fucking song about how we’re reasonably young. Whatever is wrong, you have to believe it’s alright. Now there’s a world full of monsters when the Sun rises, so whatever drink is in your hand you’re going to swallow like immortality is in your cup. Cheers to being fucked.

In a Tall Glass

No, lines do not fray and fall. They are held together, and the glue seeps and finally turns hard. The crust that remains of oozed out brains and soul chips away each day that I try to once again to taste my elbows. They say I’m absurd–no they say “She is Crazy.” To live up to these words, I’ve dug down. What you find in the pit of your stomach is the same shit that sits too long in the garbage disposal. Add the taste of dry heaving bent over the bathroom sink because the toilet’s clogged. Acidic tongues have a sheer cynical approach to the Sun, and that kind of spit causes grey and the feel and smell of cold rain. I heard about the umbrella blowing crooked, bent in a heavy wind, and now you can see it lying in a gutter grave, steel bones sticking out of slick and tattered plastic fabric. What were we talking about? I slide glitter over the tips of my fingers, in the hopes of getting a black-light glow at a party that will have LED lighted balloons. I ask the cyber god about when nail polish was invented, and he told me around the 17th century. Yet it wasn’t until after the 20’s held the invention of slick car paint that the trend became formaldehyde and acetone based, in the hopes of hiding these hideous natural bits of ourselves. Like waxing, which, I don’t. But society tells me to do so. Culture will encase my torso in enamel as I walk down a long aisle of tall shelves bending over to catch a glimpse of my tits from above. I yearn to hear you say that disappointment has struck. Yet, Darling, they say, what I have in my hand is a cup that’s half full, or maybe even slightly brimming! So I say, okay okay, but do you know what’s better? And I’m talking about my one ticket to hell coming in a tall glass. He grins slight and says, Yes, but you know what’s better? Two. He’ll start pouring or pulling out a drink for himself and I, I’ll watch the cap unwind and if I stick around I can see a sweet, clear video playing a long slow night out of the corner of my eye. So, to keep the sky dark for a bit longer, I’ll say thank you. I’ll say, you’re right, as I leave him in confusion double fisting 40’s, or whiskey, or, lives.

On a Black Road

Small on the seat of a red Chevy truck

–or maybe this time it was black

Driving straight down curving cracked roads

A little girl looks up to the left and stares at my face




But I am

Slipping composure.

Slowly, slowly.


I dissolve in my mind at the tone

Past moments lash forward harsh words

At my own words.

Sliding like burning rock

In through the ears

Searing down to my hands

They corrode this grey leather wheel


Yet her young eyes are wide in the face of the drive

To my right side

Does she notice the scene of a man dying inside?



As the sun shines high


Summer air

And the wind from the windows runs through her long hair

And the smell of the empty, infinite land

Breathes deep and clear

Does she notice?


A scene not all serene.


Amplified by dull and dirty seats

Stacked and bruising keys

Chipping, rusted paint

A small compartment with no backseat

Four windows full of fields dead from the heat

A stark line where the blue sky and yellow earth meet

The lull of dull radio

Stuck static rate

I am taking a little girl towards

My futile escape.


Dragging her down gradually





And no matter how many times

It is Erased and


The road remains black

And the sky becomes grey

And the fields pass us by



As I continue to show her how to remain

Driving away

Wearing away

From the problems.


He leans over, drunk
And heaves out a phrase like
How much I like you
And my forehead draws together
And then pulls apart
And my brows lift up and
My mouth maybe opens slight
As I am about to ask
But swept away I turn
into a bathroom
Small, to the left
With someone else
And white
Is spread out over the tank lid
Upon a magazine, perhaps
Sucked up and sunk in
We whirl and I think
Hit the light switch
Drop into each other
Drop into each other
Drop into each other
Stroll out.