// Manifesto Draft 1//

‘A penny for your thoughts.’

In the news, I heard that in the same way Pluto is just the last odd ball orbiting the sun,

pennies have become just this copper-sheen dream

changing the system by eliminating change from the change machine;

now, both are just metaphors and memories.

 .

And it’s funny, the way we can play God

with our multi-hued self-construed fabric of the universe,

with our mightier-than-thou retraction of definitive absolutes

like they didn’t pay their existential dues.

.

‘A penny for your thoughts.’

I’ve spent months punching clocks,

trying to earn my reality checks

but I still feel existential broke,

like I spent all of my time applying for loans of perception,

hands coated in education and subjectivity,

it’s dirty money

and money makes the world go ‘round.

.

I offer you these poems like planets

but the gravity of here-i-am has no pull but apart

and this universe of ‘I’ is quietly expanding, perpetual.

.

I feel electric, and just as brief and intangible.

.

How are we supposed to find solid ground when we are floating particle-widths apart,

buoying on the buzz of polar energy repel,

.

When texture is the translation sensation of energy between surfaces,

.

When perception is just our brains’ interpretations of these connection contact impressions?

.

How vividly we rearrange.

.

.

A penny for my thoughts?

I believe in a gOd who lets us create ourselves.

This past year has been a season of existential anxiety and introspective inbreeding,

of clinging to second hand connections like smoke

     until I made a conscious decision

     to grasp lucid

     over dreaming,

     to grasp the wholeness of infinity

     over our polarity and duality.

.

Knowledge being unattainable to

finite creatures without

infinite understanding,

I believe in a gOd who lets us create ourselves.

At the time of writing this,

     I am as heavy as 54.5 39mmx39mm cylinders kept in safe vaults in Sevres, France.

     I am as old as 5.5e+18 periods of radiation between two cesium-133 atoms.

     I am as tall as 5.5e-9 light seconds.

and even if we are just a conglomeration of sine waves folded into self-awareness

it’s beautiful the way we create ideas of absolutes from abstraction and flux,

create constructs to define our states of change.

.

So here I Am; I am here to Be.

I exist, and this is my manifesto.

// Pigeon Man (Jamila Woods)//

spokenwordacademy:

Ever since I was a squab
people been jackin nickels
jackin nickels from my couch
That’s why my fluff
That’s why my feathers tousled

See my eyes?

They wasn’t born like this
no they was born grey
like my brothers
but the smoke! The smoke
turned em orange

People been litterin in my house
Their sunflower seed scabs fall off
their plastic fingers. French fries
hot dog buns, granola crumbs
That’s my breakfast. That’s my
breakfast

But this
This is my house
That spot you’re sittin in right now?
I’ve shat in that spot five times
Five times that spot was my bathroom
before you sat there

It’s still gonna be my bathroom
after

You ever seen a pigeon ass up close?
Jackson Pollock ain’t got shit
on my ass. I dropped a mural
in the foyer. I call it
my Fowl Welcome Mat

Speakin of ass
You ever seen a pigeon man
sweet talk a lady?
Our whole necks swell up
like a sparkly indigo scrotum
balloon, and they run
away

That’s how we know they like it

We watch their scaly pink legs
scuttle past, bouncin like bubble gum
red noodles the color of flamingo sex

“NICE LEGS!”

It’s a compliment
But pigeon ladies wouldn’t know
a bouquet from a dandelion
a mirror from a clean glass window
if it hit em in the nose

You know how pigeon ladies are
Finicky feathers, beaks in the air offended
like they ain’t strut past my burnt cantaloupe
eyes on purpose

Speakin of struttin
somebody put a boot in my spleen

Yesterday somebody put their boot
in my spleen, like I was a rock
or soda can or piece of shit

But this is my house
Know what I’m sayin?
This is MY— I’m not a football I live
here, people should SEE me

See my eyes?

They wasn’t born like this
My eyes were the color of clean
cement before people with their smoke
in my house turned my eyes to this
tangerine mush so when I say
hellooooooooooooooooooo
ladies roll their eyes away like silver
marbles like I’m contagious o-o-o-o-o-r
invisible so I say HEY
YOU SWEETY
PIE YOU LOOK
GOOD FINE SEXY
LEGS NICE
THIGHS I
SEE YOU

and they run away
so I chase I say
heyyyyyyyyyyy wait
I ain’t mean that
in a bad way baby
come onnnnnn

Look at my apricot cellulite
eyes, my dirty couch chest look
look at my city shit feathers look
how shiny nickel ball blue
I make my neck
swell up just for you
baby

Just for you

// Letter from My Heart to My Brain (Rachel McKibbens)//

spokenwordacademy:

Its okay to hang upside-down like a bat,
to swim into the deep end of silence,
to swallow every key so you can’t get out.
It’s okay to hear the ocean calling your fevered name

to say your sorrow is an opera of snakes,
to flirt with sharp and heartless things.
It’s okay to write, I deserve everything,
to bow down to this rotten thing
that understands you, to adore the red
and ugly queen of it, to admire
her calm and steady rowing.

It’s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet,
to drink all the wine, to do what it takes to stay
without staying. Its okay to hate God today
to change his name to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you.
It’s okay to feel like only a photograph of yourself,
to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down,
it’s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed.
It’s okay to brick to fuck to flame to church to crush to knife
to rock to rock to rock to rock to rock and rock.

It’s okay to wave good-bye to yourself in the mirror.
To write, I don’t want anything.
It’s okay to despise what you have inherited,
to feel dead in a city of pulses. It’s okay
to be the whale that never comes up for air,
to love best the taste of your own blood.

// 10/08/12//

it’s been years since

i’ve been stationary long enough

to notice change

// 10/03/12//

right now lately sometimes i feel like a

hexa-flexa-gon tesseract of edges,

blown-glass-reflections real.

every leaf and flower becomes knowing

and kaleidoscope i turn outwards,

technicolor. people become background noise.

trees grow like still-shot motion streaks.

there are no blurred edges;

no wind, just patterns of change

everything shares the:inside-joke,an:ironic-smile

of/at existing

// 20 Miles Down a Gravel Road//

Smoke. It’ll linger for weeks.

Bodies blur around the campfire. 

Lackluster we sit in states of semi-consciousness.

Someone I don’t really know bums a smoke.

Ashes create new stars that reflect against empty beer cans and a pool of vomit

and I’m trying, I’m trying to find the poetry in men pissing three feet behind me

but you know, sometimes, it’s just not there.

.

A prepubescent hotshot tries to sit on my lap, steals

a drag of my cigarette,

throwing his arm over my shoulder

like he wields authority in the

extra chromosomes in his DNA

chains

looping around my neck like 

the words that drip from drunken sneers like

Y marks the spot

like I’m his like 

I should be counting my blessings like he’s divine,

with his manly can of beer and fruity cooler abstinence,

like his shadow is illuminating and now 

I’m real.

.

Well, I refuse lean into the gestures of boys who have fucked themselves into men.

.

I used to. I used to try to be the sort of picture

you’d be comfortable enough to hold

.

because when you looked at me I could feel my worth lying in the lines of my face.

Well, I didn’t ask for your judgement.

How can I explain to you that my self worth is not based on my ability to dress

in slick second skins

that stick and slither seductively,

dress as though I’ve got flash bulbs under my skin 

that just keep taking your picture?

Smile for the camera.

.

Maybe you will never discover that your gender stereotypes are only bedtime stories told to you by generations of cowboys and Disney,

laundry detergent ads and Yorkie, Home Depot, lynx/axe, Burger King, BMW, Dr. Pepper, Che Magazine, Skyy Vodka, Arby’s, Cabana Rum, Tommy Gun, Tom Ford for Men, Panera Bread, Chick Fil A, K.F.C., a lot of mainstream t.v. and a large portion of the fast food industry.

Maybe you will never develop a tolerancy for anything besides alcohol.

But I can wait.

When the family money you’ll inherit from your grandparents’ farm is gone, maybe we’ll talk.

When wedlock turns into another divorce, maybe we’ll talk.

When the women you’ve slept with but never been with weigh in your skin like old age, maybe we’ll talk.

.

But I won’t be holding my words out like offerings anymore.

Instead, I’ll be holding out to you these scraps of paper I’ve written my life on with careful indifference, explaining

that I can’t live within your definitions of ‘woman’ and ‘man’

and that I know you think I’m lesbian because

sometimes my clothes are too baggy

and my hair’s too short 

and my dating history is too virgin

I shouldn’t have to explain to you that

I’m just a person

And sometimes, I’m attracted to other people,

And it doesn’t need to be any more complicated than that.

We are not defined by sex or sexuality.

But maybe,

maybe we are just perceptions - dis

connections, mis

conceptions, in

decisions and sense

ations, deceptions

and a lot of patience;

impermanent like memories,

reflections creating continuity,

made by our misdirections, 

and this,

this is perfection.

// 09/20/12//

Last night I drove 100km to Cranbrook
to stay with a friend who told me
his mind was in pieces.
We ate nachos smothered in plastic cheese
because they were cheap
while he talked to things that
i can’t see.
He told me that nuns live in his apartment
who cuff him when he curses
and that a demon with a child’s hands
lives in his mirror.
He was focused the way I hold binoculars -
violent twitching tunnel vision.

We watched youtube videos until 2am and
I stopped feeling like when he moved
flakes of the idea of him filled the air -
a psychosis of dust motes

He told me that sometimes he coughs up blood
and that he can’t afford to get his broken teeth fixed.
He told me that he’s allergic to cigarettes and alcohol and pot
and everything else that makes life worth living.

He told me that he gets hate mail from his uncle
and death threats from his father
and that the ex-brother who used to threaten him
is dating his girlfriend’s sister.

There are places in the mountains that the sun never touches.
If you spent your life staring at the ground
because somewhere along the line
someone told you that there’s no point in keeping your chin up
you would have no point of reference to
understand sunshine.
I feel like all that I can do is bring him boxes of candles and books of matches.

He showed me how to put aftershave in the sink
and light it on fire
with the lighter his girlfriend gave him.
He told me that instead of getting his teeth fixed
he’s going to buy her a ring.
I’m terrified that she’s a firecracker and
he won’t wait for his eyes to readjust to the dark.

He told me that he doesn’t sleep much anymore.
In the dim
the bags under his eyes are unnoticeable.

I slept on the couch.
In the morning we bought eggs in our pajamas.
We ate them while watching reality television
even though he should have been at school.

In the mornings he stops shaking and
doesn’t tell me anything.

// Resorts and Lakeside Houses//

I move when blessings over flow, but

Everywhere I go

The buzzing in my head seems to

Follow me here too

.

I don’t want to settle down, anchor

Myself to any town

Floating is a feeling I’ve be

Come accustomed to

.

Now I’m watching lakes from windowsills

Wondering which pills

Would clean this dirty glass

I’ve been filtering the world through

.

Where colors melt like snow, seep through

Everything I know

These mountains are collapsible;

i deconstruct

.

At 16 I smoked cigarettes

To make sure I can’t forget

The people and cliches I used to

hold on to

.

I don’t make connections anymore, but

i’ve got my ear to all the doors

i’ve closed without your help,i’d rather be

lonely by myself

.

I don’t want to settle down, anchor

Myself to any town

Floating is a feeling I’ve be

Come accustomed to

.

I move when blessings over flow, but

Everywhere I go

The buzzing in my head seems to

.

Follow me here too

// 20 Miles Down a Gravel Road//

Smoke. It’ll linger for weeks.
Bodies blur around the campfire. 
Lackluster we sit in states of semi-consciousness.
Someone I don’t really know bums a smoke.
Ashes create new stars that reflect against empty beer cans and a pool of vomit
and I’m trying, I’m trying to find the poetry in men pissing three feet behind me
but you know, sometimes, it’s just not there.
.
A prepubescent hotshot tries to sit on my lap, steals
a drag of my cigarette,
throwing his arm over my shoulder
like he wields authority in the drunken atoms of his skin, the
extra chromosomes in his DNA
chains
looping around my neck like 
the words that drip from drunken sneers like
Y marks the spot like
like I’m his like 
I should be counting my blessings like he’s divine,
exotic with his vodka and chocolate milk 
like his shadow is illuminating and now 
I’m real.
.
I refuse lean into the gestures of boys who have fucked themselves into men.
.
I used to. I used to try to be the sort of picture
you’d be comfortable enough to hold
.
because when you looked at me I could feel my worth lying in the lines of my face.
Well, I didn’t ask for your judgement.
How can I explain to you that my self worth is not based on my ability to dress
in slick second skins
that stick and slither seductively,
dress as though I’ve got flash bulbs under my skin 
that just keep taking your picture? 
Smile for the camera. 
.
.
Maybe you will never discover that your gender stereotypes are only bedtime stories told to you by generations of cowboys and Disney,
laundry detergent ads and K.F.C., Home Depot, lynx/axe, Yorkie, Burger King, BMW, Dr. Pepper, Che Magazine, Skyy Vodka, Arby’s, Tommy Guns, Canadian Club, Tom Ford for Men, Panera Bread and, well, a lot of mainstream t.v. and a large portion of the fast food industry [most recently, ahem, Chick Fil A]
Maybe you will never develop a tolerancy for anything besides alcohol.
But I can wait.
When the family money you’ll inherit from your grandparents’ farm is gone, maybe we’ll talk.
When wedlock turns into another divorce, maybe we’ll talk.
When the women you’ve slept with but never been with weigh in your skin like old age, maybe we’ll talk.
.
But I won’t be holding my words out like offerings anymore.
Instead, I’ll be holding out to you these scraps of paper I’ve written my life on with careful indifference, explaining
that I can’t live within your definitions of ‘woman’ and ‘man’
and that I know you think I’m lesbian because
sometimes my clothes are too baggy
and my hair’s too short 
and my dating history is too virgin
but how can I explain to you that 
I think that I’m turned on by people and not whatever ambiguous counterparts they may or may not possess, and
I’m not saying that this is normality, and I’m not saying that this is eccentricity,
I’m just saying that 
this is me
and that we are not defined by sex or sexuality.
But that maybe,
maybe we are just perceptions - dis
connections, mis
conceptions,
deceptions, in
decisions and sense
ations, conceptions
and a lot of patience;
impermanent like memories,
reflections creating continuity,
made by our misdirections, 
and this,
this is perfection.

Hey, would you mind messaging me as many sexist brand names/fast food chains/etc as you can think of? 

// or maybe need//

watercolourstorm:

i am twenty years old.
my hair is short and my hips are big. 
my skin is bad in summer
but sometimes i can sing.
mostly when i am alone.

i am twenty years old.
that is twenty years of mornings
i have woken up
not counting the days
i never went to sleep.

the more time
you hold in memory,
the faster
you move through
the present.

i crack open
frostbitten books
to trace my fingers
over my old-self’s
pencil marks.

graphite fills in
palms that read:
hardship,
will not overcome, but
a long life

- and i’ve liked how my hands
can spell out
a fuck you
to fate
                (or a coma,
                 a friend
                 pointed out) -

the lines of what i did
smudge with
should have dones
in the margins.
i set aside time to write a poem

but only type
“i’m tired
in a way
i don’t have words for.”

i watch a digital clock change
without sound.

from the hard drive
a first draft asks
to be stunned.
to be strung
and unstrung
and unravelled
and sung.

and i also want
to want that
again. 

// Fragment Figment//

[The very rough draft of a song cobbled together today from nearly a year’s worth of writing. It makes more sense with music.]

I’d been trying to fall apart,

polish each piece I disassembled.

Nothing was tidy anymore.

My thoughts were trapped between layers of crystal,

crystal and dirt.

.

What if we are just

a technicolor explosion, bust

one finds oneself in the midst of

photon-induced colors and sparks

you imagine you see?

Such crystal creatures.

.

Rooms full of conversation

sat heavy on my chest; I wanted convers

ational arpeggios to

practice all alone

.

an immersion in dull sounds;

blare.cucumber.bunk.month.dull.sun.limb.stump.undone.pull.tug.

unfair.dareless.gut-wrench.thug.instead-metronome.bookends,

reruns,lowfunds.tenorhum,dragfulldust,crust,solid,rustmuch.justahunch.

.

I was staring at graphs, staring at graphs,

staring at graphs of conversational form.

Semantics, words, and speech.

I was reminding myself to breath.

Every movement became inorganic.

.

This is a world of seems, and I was following dreams

on the sustenance of memories.

My lungs were porcelain plates,

Two staggered halves, do not resuscitate,

I was choking on our fragility.

.

Maybe the meaning is to breath, maybe the meaning is to breath.

.

.

This is a short existential film.