soooo …….. keeping jewels in back pockets, how this room is like the back tower of some mythological castle and i’m spinning, spinning

everyone wants a piece, and i cut myself a slice off the hip, the chest, a little cherry cheese cake flesh, every once and awhile

you know, if this never happened and that never happened and i was never different, i would not be so destroyed right now, but we all have excuses to tie our nooses with

you ask, why must everything be a puzzle, a riddle, a game? to avoid pain, of course, the pain i see so clearly, so i must hide it away in art and metaphor and displacement

either that or go numb-blind
and smile

we spin and bob to the moon tides

but, you see, the sun and moon are equal to me and even if i speak in metaphor and riddles, i’m balanced, even if obsessed

the eternal doubter: always looking for the flipside. i no longer believe in abstractions as much as i believe in people: when they become beautiful to me. i am awed at the heights human dreams propel this world to. i played that role for awhile, and like everything else my doubt for the solidity of human creation has cast me aside again … i do not believe this constructed environment i live in day to day has a very concrete foundation, either theoretically or physically; i don’t think that it will last, especially as its progress becomes more desperate, even into the next millenium. or more likely a fifty/fifty chance, as humans have the choice to go either way. it is so frustratingly ironic we ignore our natural inclinations, deny the evolutionary strands that tie us to these secrets, just so we can continue to go “somewhere”: temporary, worthless nonsense to conquer ourselves. we percieve we have conquered the physical, risen to the top of the food and nature chains, can control our own environments, now all that’s left is to fight each other and ultimately our own egos to rise off this planet as gods of our destiny. competing with that kind of pressure is enough to make any creature impotent. even now, i am generalizing to understand this madness and it sickens me.

as i told lauren on the grid patterned streets and cereal box advertisements of the buildings in chicago, “people look around at what they see and take for granted everyday and they think this is reality, this is all there is. but it’s not: that cigarette, its fibers deconstructing in that oil splashed rainbow water, the settling slope of the cement, the missing bolts and green chemical rivers, that is reality.”

and the truth is i’m bothered because we all pretend to care because we think we should, and you are just as guilty as i because logic would have it that if not, you’d be a universal hypocrite. great, i’m just spinach for you

but i am here, in front of your face! accessible for a short time and you hesitate to maintain control. you point at your lucky stars, your charming marshmellow pieces that only the most observant and dedicated of children find embedded in their processed food: all these creative people you’ve met, all the opportunity and fertile ethics fields and wide open vaginas there in waiting just for you. and i could be another spinning electron to your powers of attraction, your positive gravity nucleus, yes, positive energy children, maintain positive fucking energy… collect as many butterflies as possible and pin them up so all will see what a fine display you have created, all this beauty you have collected, yet have made none yourself …

and i’m sick of being squeezed, you pinch the thickness of my thigh, to see if i am in fact the choicest, best, hand-picked melon in the supermarket … and you wonder why i have become so cynical, so skeptical

i found a moth butterfly last night, actually it found me, fell right there in front of me when i least expected it like you, one with fake beautiful eyes like you and i thought of god. i thought of belief and symbolism and exponential morality and caught beauty in a jar. i thought of decay and principle, of doubt and extinction, of sex and lies and games … of dreams and intuition, premonition, art or beauty as the ultimate transcendence, the object of desire (forever unattainable), and then everything in between …

my father warned me of being a producer, everyone wants a piece of what you create, it’s a grand secret, making your own currency of creativity, one that will propel you above the displacement of everything else.

i never had these great things just given to me as you say you have, every step has been a struggle for autonomy, every road a grass field i had to chop my way through. it has taken its toll, and no one will let up on me, least of all myself … i suppose i am just as hopeless as you, in thinking you could be my breath-take for once.

you tell me of all the beautiful little girls here, just waiting to be scooped up and craddled in your arms, suckled by your philosophical cock, either that or find that perfect girl that is everything you could never be. go, go search out for your haunted melody, your singing siren across that sea, so ugly was her face when you finally saw her, when you had travelled the impossible distances, given up everything for her spell, so revolting was the realization, you ran in fear and slept in filth for a whole year to forgive and punish yourself for being such a fool.

but for her sake, in all that melody showed you, the great heights of female intuition you are so enamored by, you still do not see her as anything more than a trophy you once had and threw out and now want again because of the challenge. you don’t think she will know this? you don’t care if it rips her in two to see you again after all she did to mold you and you ran? after she built a managerie around the two of you and you busted it to pieces and threw the glass in her face when she tried to collect at least something. you could not even give her the peace of letting go.
you have forgotten everything, learned nothing. she gave you her siren song only so you could leer others away from their course to meet you on your great constructed tower of morality. that idealized island far enough away so that reality can never touch you. yes, you want to change the world to fit your ideal, but about the fucking world, they are all wrong, every one? “i want to change the world but i can’t change you.” personally, i think you’re scared shitless. your “brush with death” that was really just a rash from over-cleansing is so literally revealing i can’t stand not to smile everytime you whip out the prescribed line of logical ointment.

why do you tell me these things? to show me what a fool i was for making you wait, when i was SO fucking lucky to have a chance with you … please, pass the butter, i need some grease to oil this ego trip up, eat the lard in front of you because it is just that manical and fanatical and ridiculous and insulting as if i should be so fortunate to eat this up at your fine feast of organicly grown bullshit. why should i be so quick to jump on your bandwagon? america is all about crowding as many stupidly accepting sheep as possible, even its systems of protest are guilty of the propoganda they revolt against. no one listens and facts are at the mercy of whoever chooses to juggle them (i read that). i believe in you, but i will not believe in what you say until i see this literature for myself, and i need time for that. a lot of time, if art school taught me anything, it was i have to relearn everything. why do you think i am taking a year off?

yes, i know. if you did all this and made the whole world better and all you asked for was a plot of land, you would be such an immortalized saint, wouldn’t you? no, you wouldn’t need money, the ego trip would be enough. don’t you know? in this society being self-sustaining, autonomous is the greatest privilege, the grandest luxury of them all … i wish it were not so but it is

i know i shouldn’t care about you like i do. every time i leave for days and refuse to see you i am building back up the walls you so easily crumble in minutes. you haunt me because you remind me of my past and all the childhood hope those years held that seem so far away now. your promise to heal old wounds so inviting i can barely stand it. i know i am just as flawed and you could help me (we could help each other) if you could lower that mirror, that dependency for just a few moments. maybe we are too alike in too many logical ways, but so different in application, the symbolisms and interpretations and self-disciplines we chose to indulge our hyper-sensitive minds in. this all still remains hopeless. maybe you would find you don’t need it so much … maybe … all is possibility waiting to be regretted

i wish i had the strength to put you back where you belong, at a calm distance, and that moth butterfly i kept for you? i’m setting it free tomorrow. without you.