hymn to parts without a whole.

From "The Tenant":  "Tooth is a part of ourselves.  Like a bit of our personality."
"At what precise moment does an individual stop being who he thinks he is?"

Why these themes?  What is "me", and what is "my"?

Why chasing to the bottom thoughts of Sharon Tate's death, why did the psychic see me following her down a rabbit hole... just in passing, "why Sharon Tate"?

My teeth, my head, my mouth, my tongue, my voice,
my speech, my hand, my script,
my body, my turn-on's, my psychology,
the backs of my knees, my orgasm, my
impulse, my brain stem

My neck, my throat that swallowed the fly,
my stomach,
my stomach acid,

my digested insect?

My love -- or my not-love -- when we
cum together -- your cum, my cum,

your heart (not organ), my heart (organ--
not-organ)

what are we left with?
Your ghost - my ghost.
the silence after sex, dissected--
amputated, cremated, scattered.
*
Cut off my breasts,
they are not me.
Pull my teeth,
excavate my gums,
they are not me.

Mine my throat,
sever the chords,
they are not me.

Mutilate my sex,
conquer my dreams.

Scoop out my womb,
eradicate my birth
and my death,

and my Self -----

they are not me.
~

When I masturbate in the shower,
are the waters
that wash down my lust
to the drain
not me?

The vibrations
of my voice in prayer,
are they not me?
not mine?  not my?
...organs:
me,
donated to the wind?

new poem babies

I repeat your name as a mantra,
falling into its rhythm
into trance.
~


Dream-scattered poem:

Umbrella-darkened face
fractured in the flooded gutter
is more real.
~


Of course, you
don't remember
how well you tasted.
You tasted like
the sound of the ocean
from a conch shell.
I would ask for you back,
call you desperately
late at night...

but I have you already bottled;
and eroded smooth by the sea.
~

Fires:


I learned early to
celebrate the burning;

be it smoking to the filter,
self-immolation, spontaneous combustion
or cremation.

Long time, no see.

Hi blog, it's been awhile.  My very quiet friend.

Today, New York Times article about Frank O'Hara:  http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/09/books/frank-oharas-lunch-poems-turn-50.html?smid=tw-nytimes&_r=0

I have not written a poem since last we spoke.

It was easier to write love poems when I was not in love.

"In love" became a consensus pretty recently.  But it is also real.  Real like dreams are real.  The moon is no more important, no more beautiful.  But I feel its transits in my chest.
And I need to appreciate the pain of being in love.  That's beautiful.  I've known that for a long time.  Even when I didn't believe in being "in love".  You know, that sort of gorgeous desperation.

How a couple of words can throw me into turmoil or ecstasy.

I realize these are symptoms of bipolar disorder.

But truly, I've jumped off a cliff here.  And I have no idea how I'm going to land.

And I am learning how to love all over again.  Even if it's unanswered, unanswerable, hidden.

Norma Jean Baker helps me out here:  "Only parts of us will touch only parts of others".  This is a huge part.

And man, how willingly I would give it.


I have spoken to a therapist.  Soon she will be a one hour a week friend.  Nice to know someone is getting paid to hear me speak candidly of self-hate, abuse by myself and by others; the days or nights in which I feel like I'm screaming into a void.

"Ancient children, I am one..." -Joni Mitchell

I'll be back eventually.