Wednesday, January 18, 2017

Everybody is a liar. I think you get made into one after awhile of being used. It is either that or you are roadkill, I see. I saw it too, always, but

You realize that you are wearing a "kick me" sign when you let yourself be real; when you are being real....

   .....only you are asking to be trampled. Nobody is playing it real and everybody is playing. Bluffing. 

It was only .... i thought that basic goodness in people over ruled the greedy compulsion to take 

Because it is easy

Resisting requires confidence

I am that but my faith

Was part of what got devoured when my bones got spit out

I am deplete and wondering

       ....wandering how long before lights out in this forest that only offers vines that rip your flesh right off your bones, like vultures that leave nothing

     the mistake was ever needing love

it's important to not ever ever need because we need to know and believe we don't, not anyone, because the illusion that i live on an island is erroneous; every land mass is an island, some have more room to be crowded of fakes and frauds


        

Saturday, January 14, 2017

What point is there, really, to grieve over a love that was not real? Then, of course it wasn't love at all and so....

   what do you do with those hiccups you throw your life away for? those.... heart farts, misfired brain farts best left 

....best left 
And so she had come to see that her life, in actuality, was .....a modern version of Jane Eyre

However, not by design nor by preference by any stretch of the imagination 
     .....so if you really don't love me then I guess I have to go on

     without you 
Don't u c?

I tell him,

"I AM u but better?"

Thursday, January 12, 2017


He stood outside the door after knocking. When she opened the door she saw him waiting there. He wore wore a well-worn brown leather jacket and his dark hair fell like a waterfall when he turned to meet her eyes.

                          Interlude 

I never had any idea what I wanted. But I knew I didn't want what everybody else was talking about.

I was never like my peers in any respect so all that I ever wanted to do was to get away from everybody but this was not possible, I was more interesting to people because I never said much. This makes people ask a lot of questions; eventually. If you stick around. It is important to be aware when it is time to disappear.

This is why my language relies on obscurity. Being pinned down to one thing; one idea; one commitment-- it makes it hard for me to breath. I don't know exactly why but I know why. Not as a camouflage but eventually because it is easier to run away and become distracted by a shallow infatuation to spin your wheels long enough until.... the purpose to do this no longer matters.

It is arguable if rebounding through life allows for any emotional growth....

It is quite different to stop and watch the parade go by

....having gotten off

I find I don't miss the ride.  In all my relationships I see that it was always me who made it all great.

In the beginning. None of those things had ever actually been there. I always made it more than it was.

None of it was real to me, I always felt so numb inside, somehow, and I think it was from ....the abuse and the NDE  ....

..... there is no way to say it exactly

but I am somewhere else really;

I mean, that changes you forever, you know, and I was real young too.

But I think I was re-born that day, because, you know.... I came back. It is one of my theories of why I look so young,

like the clock was re-set, or something.

No, I really am somewhere else, and many places too but I never have stumbled off the road of

truth and purity since.... that day. I think I could come across as very weird ....if this is detected by someone in me; they mistake me for something they ascribe or think I may be their guardian angel. They see the angel in me but they see the hell in there too.

That hell I've been too

which scorched my path and charred it

....scarred it
     ...and
....scared it shitless

But I have always been like the Phoenix, and out of the ashes I rise, like Joan of Arc with faraway eyes. Am I dangerous?

      if you decide to make me that to you,

Only I seek only harmony.

It is easier to tell you through the language.....

-------------------------------------------------------


Chapter of: Electra begins in definition

There was so much about herself that was still such a mystery;

The very thing that she detested  in herself....






Graham was drawn to in her


It was also what lead to their first meeting.

Electra worked in the research department at a university library. She was an assistant to the comparative literature professor of whom that part of the university was dedicated to. Margaret Crabtree, the world renowned author and literary critic


Unfortunately for Electra, tough to work for. But as Professor Crabtree's health was much declining lately, the author had softened her firing-squad work approach quite a lot these last two years; spending much time abroad in her home country where the mild weather of the British isles had come to better suit her wants.

Which left Electra with a lot of breathing space. That is not to say she didn't have 'the Vatican' breathing down her neck all the time. 'The Vatican' was her pet name for the library's Librarian staff and the faculty that worked alongside with them; the political master minds that dealt with the clerical running of red taped salaries, firing and hiring, intoning new commandments for the mission's statement bible that masqueraded as The Manual.... and other myopically invented OCD tedious details in regards to periodicals and legal matters all under the surveillance as well as everyone's inconvenience by the university's enigmatic dean, Leopold Werkshafter. The entire clergy--that is to say--principality, were like the real thing, black crows in their dress-coded dictates with alphabetically memorized warnings, either waiting to be handed out, or having already done, forever inscribed in the archived memories and personal motherboards tucked inside the invisible, dusty, black-robed, mental scrolls.

Electra's most overwhelming project had been Margaret Crabtree. The product. The publishers had caught on about the lady's declining health and were trying to figure out how best to make the most of their golden goose whose golden eggs were running out (her published works and public appearances at colleges were to be soon an obsolete stamp), like the works themselves which were to be sealed and shelved, to await the highest bidder and, shipped off to, like the ship that took Tolkien, to some secret Atlantis.

This meant, in practical terms, Crabtree's books were going to be updated and re-printed with a few new editors notes and additional footnotes added by the author's words sited from literary journals as well as any other sources that had something useful to build a case for a republican; film director notes and comments, ironic events in the memories of anyone involved worthy of notation to foreshadow a possible memoir.

All the library's current editions were being returned to the publisher for replacements before the forthcoming new editions' production. This created a lot of physical work for Electra but it allowed her mind to go somewhere else, as it was want to do (unless snared by a halo fallen from the devil's loot bag).

She sat one day staring out the great big window of the library office, stomach growling awkwardly as she was bent over endless ledgers of Margaret's illegible squall.... Margaret had the very best view out of every other room in the entire library. Easily, the entire university as all the other buildings overlooked other buildings. This view only overlooked the rolling open landscape that dipped  and rose showing a bit of sky and sun when it was available. A rolling green hill right now was the view from the row of windows behind the heavy dark wood desk, all piled high with books and dust. There was a huge, great oak tree off to the left slightly at the dip and swell between the hills, like a clavicle or narrow valley. It was the perfect view to look upon as well in order to think during times of trouble or sorrow or perhaps best on those stolen lazy afternoons, hidden in the over large wingchair, by the dark wood chest and heavy art nouveau candelabra lamp.

This is where most of her best ideas came to her; fleeting moments where her thoughts fly out the windowpane to that shady/sunny green slope. In dreams she sometimes posted in her English style saddle on the back of Misty, the giant Arabian gray mare she used to ride, offspring of some forgotten winner in the Kentucky Derby. Misty jumped across the hoods of two cars in the parking lot of the equestrian academy she used to go to.... it was a well known story.... once..... Upon a time. Legend. Map & Mythsconceptions.

Jonathan had tried to get her in a contest and then he boasted when he won. He took someone else on the cruise and spent all the money in Italy, living on the streets of Verona, pretending he was Romeo.

Now he texts her to stop procrastinating and publish and finish her manuscripts because she wasn't really a writer if she wasn't officially published.

It is hard to say if it was the sudden inability to stop the projectile vomit from erupting from her stomach that caused her to run to the private bathroom ---which altered her lines of thinking..... because.... it was the nearest or.....







Monday, January 9, 2017

The Rockstar Muse (his official intro)

Visited by the Muse in dream wakefulness,


 Chapter on church street




Go down a little side street, you know the famous diner on the corner? You look inside and you see the counter and the three occupied stools. Hopper's?

Who's standing outside smoking a.... well, I'm not exactly sure, but you can tell by the bulge in his pants that he carries.

"So, why did you want to meet me?" I ask him now, but I stand outside the personal line. I keep my eye on that at all times. I look around now and feel a chill. It turned warm suddenly tonight and a fog has moved in. I look at him now adjusting his hat, (a Fedora)I see under it he is sweating as if he's just rocked a stadium and overdressed a bit.

He wears a trench coat.

He indicates the diner and he shakes his head once in the direction of the entrance,
"You want to go in?"

"Why?"

"I have some information for you."

"I'd rather you just gave it to me here.... and then we can both go..... like our separate ways."

"Well, I'm not able to let you leave with it."

"So you're blackmailing me?"

At which point, shouts and gunfire could be heard down the ruined Detroit suburban street.

"Come on," he says and closes the boundary line, forcing me to move. Instinctively, I move to where I gain the most open escape and in the strongest light. I feel for my folding knife hidden within the pocket of my wool, tweed P-Coat (houndstooth, shetland wool, my thrift store find for three bucks). Mr. Fedora was one step ahead as he had ushered me to the glass door of 'Hopper's Diner'. It made sense to be inside, but I say,

"You know, I don't want the possibility of this being overheard," I stop him, because there is no room for him to move past me --between the posts and the hostess stand-- as they are angled with a rope tie-off and a marble self-standing desk where you pay and buy gum.

"I thought of that," but his expression is sarcastic as he watches me for my reactions to him. It seemed as if he drew a line in the air with his finger and a pair of headphones fell out into his hand.

This, strangely, doesn't affect me. I didn't think it was odd at the time. I was more fascinated by the radiating mist of sparks that were near invisible unless angled right in the light.

In the light he looks much different. I realize now why he wears a fedora -- it seems to be covering up his golden wings. ? 

It must be a recent tattoo.

"I think your tattoo needs bacitracin, or something," I blurt out before I know what I am saying. 

He looks completly different in the light. 

Outside, I could almost have mistaken him for a modern day Rockford; smell the trailer's stale cold coffee in the decaying cup, still, in the overflowing garbage....

When I look at him now.... hmmm.... the scruff on his face that outlines his jaw and somehow emphasizes his dark, brooding brows are target deceptirs intended to trap the looker within whirlpools of ocean blue eyes. A wave beaches the narrator's step.
Instead, I say,
"Oh."

His eyes are actually electric. They pierce what they focus and shoot on and sizzle the brain with a direct current. He has a maniacal laugh when he says,
"Electectroshock therapy?"

Suddenly, everything is clear. Even my glasses which had fogged up upon entering the place of business. I think I can almost see clearer without them--though, suddenly.... too. He notices,

"That's just temporary, don't get too used to it. Im often called the Muse of Clarity, or did you forget that too?"

"What?"

"You know that on a stage of ridicules you would say anything, wouldn't you? Baby, why don't you fucking remember me, honey? Perfect place to hide the truth. Remember that: the truth is usually hiding right under your nose."

I touch the warped wood of the planter next to me and he raises one dark brow with a devil's wicked grin before he pinches me hard. I scream. Much louder than I'd have planned had it been my choice. Having been warned.

"Owwwh!" Is all that comes to mind to shout with as much indignation as I could pronounce in that one syllable. I use my eyes for what might have gone lacking.

"You wanted reassurance this wasn't a dream, baby? real? You want real? You wanted me to, so I pinched you."

"I didn't ask you to!"

"Well, not verbally."

"What? You can't read my thoughts! I never said 'please assure me this is real by pinching my ass Rockstar Muse!'."

Unwittingly, this has drawn some attention, he looks around and slides one finger down his narrow bridged nose with that hypnotic exaggerated stare, the code sign for: down low, so stfu!
"I forgot how excited you get, come on,P," he waves me to follow him, shaking open his trench coat, which appears to be leather and worn like a bathrobe. 

As he walks, you see his lean body silhouetted, as the gail of his walk allows his coat tails to ride the air pocket; black leather clad hips and legs, with busted, split open knees, both fully inked in electric blue, that match his bracelets and rings. He catches me staring, "they're enchanted, don't look too long...P" and with a wink he jerks his head in the direction of the booth in the isolated corner by the bathrooms. He shakes himself off like a shaggy dog, unaware he has just crunched me in.... what? Was it raining? Damn, showered  le temps est brouillarde, he hangs up his leather coat at the post mounted to the old-fashioned diner's booth (there's a brass double hook for the table-guests' coats) and reaches to take mine. But I make no move to remove mine. In fact, I'm cold and shrug deeper inside it, closing the top bottom, while tying my scarf closer too. 

He seems disappointed, but he says,
"you feel the cold, don't you? Let me get you a hot cocoa ...."

What else is there to do but wait? I don't know what any of this is about, but I am already here and so.... I might as well find out wat this character has to say to me. Right? It's a public place.... I use his time away to review his messages.....

Me: I am unaffected over trends or fame; never much filters in past my autistic emotions sometimes.

Him: Right now music is my only connection to the universe. This one. The only one I can stream....

But by now I see his slim hips sauntering towards me with a cup of hot cocoa. But he holds it like a gun slinger and there is fog and mist all around him as he walks. 

I know that walk...... 

He grins and winks,
"you remember!"