Archive | January, 2009

Who doesn’t like mushy cheese and sappy corn?

31 Jan

To the clyde to my bonnie, lactameon to my anterabe, and ‘shaw to my dr. dreidel:

I miss the shit out of you. Come back from the retreat already. I cannot think of another place that’s a drivable Distance Under the Influence of Los Angeles (D.U.I-LA) that doesn’t have phone service. I listened to Lauryn Hill today walking back from the TC event and the song I Remember inhaled my sentiments and sighed out your essence and goddamn I miss you. I wrote this musing while reading about Salvadorian street gang history, what’s new.

Stairway to Heaven…Oh wait…

My love for you is a lift,slow and steady–

elevating me, skyward,

 a perspective, higher

a quality of character, I’ll soar. 


Courageous listening, caring learning,

slow and steady– my image carved after yours.


Morph a maturing me, levitate–

a piety me towards a patient me,

the liberated pity & pillage of me,

you’ll see.

I’ll be proud of me, ascending alter–

perfection sacrificed, 

for salvation of strength & wisdom,

and I think you’ll be proud of me too.  


I love you.

Below: aforementioned song/lyrics. As your idol Tracy Morgan as Tracy Jordan would remark: ” It’s dropping truth bombs, Liz Lemon!”

I remember
When you looked into my eyes
You saw
Right through me
And. I could not hide
I was exposed
Just like a child
All of my heart
You hold in your hands
I’m yours to command (2x)
I, I feel so humble
With you in my life (2x)
I remember when I looked into your eyes
I saw (cough) a reflection of myself
I could not lie
Out of control
Too weak to deny
All of my soul is naked before you
But what can I do
There is nothing I can do
I, I feel so beautiful
With you in my life (2x)
I remember (3x)
I I I…
Oh Oh Oh…
Ooh Ooh Ooh…
With you in my life (2x)

Colonize or be Colonized: Bjork spears Britney

29 Jan

Vodpod videos no longer available.

Britney Spears Womanizer (Director’s Cut) from the album Womanizer (Director’s Cut)(C) 2008 Zomba Recording, LLC

Vodpod videos no longer available.


Horror House Hysteria

28 Jan

I felt It coming. I know It’s inevitable. A good friend suggested I try and cope when It comes ( if I know) by having a word document open and ready. I’d only tried to make sense of delirium, of flirting in the space between real and unreal, of a casual blind date with psychosis where he’s sheepish and well mannered but nevertheless inherently devilish. This sucks. It’s my friend’s 22nd birthday and I was about to go out to a Beat Poetry Lounge – I really, really wanted to go. I do have too much homework and meeting preparation to complete to have a peace of mind and go without sacrificing school, sleep and/or financial aid. BUT underneath all the reasons dictated by logic explaining why I am here and not there was the persecutory premonition of what was to come, and come quick. I did muster a few keyboard pokes during It, but as a coping mechanism, not so helpful. It’s subdued now, leaving me numb, exhausted and beaten up from the inside out. What I wrote:

Horror House Hysteria

Inventory of fears like a million cruel mirrors each skewed to suit a sinister procession,

prompts paralysis, Bermuda triangle open wide like pupil dialysis,

censorship plunges the plank, psychotic visions shank umbilical reality, body catatonic magma anger melts mind, scared stiff in arbitrary place and eternal time:

cackling odor, pungent poles piercing skin slicing screams surging shredded into dust caught stale in midair,

mouth sewn inside out eye lids forged into one, and ears ripped off bleeding buried into their hole pleading as I listen pleading and realize only I can hear and eyes can see and nose can know the sweat stained smell of my own terror magnified inside and inescapable to inverted senses, isolated;

alone . beheaded and embedded into a horror house whoring me out to my own worst nightmares.  

Take Back the G-Spot

27 Jan


I hereby pledge to name my daughter(s) any one or combination of the ideal stereotyped Greek titan or olympian goddesses. Take back the goddess? The ancient Greeks and their epic storytellers, in this case Hesiod and Homer, were not being sexist; they were being. I can’t criticize a caterpiller for shamelessly existing as a lame and grotesque butterfly.  But the bible borrowed Greek stuff and American hotels have a bible in every nightstand and, well, History is Now.

Thus, I am a viable contributed to a never ending narrative. The Names:

Hera, Aphrodite, Pandora, Athena, Hestia and/or Gaea.

Life isn’t Disneyland so Why are you Touring?

25 Jan

Signed, Sealed & Delivered Stream of Wondering Thoughts.


 Tattling-Tale of Reality’s Choke-hold

Mines are planted in the roots of mindful thought.

Tangents slippery and deceptive trailing, trickling loyal to hailing traps.

When combatant wires cross-fire and falsify stone stable truths

or validate far fetched fabrications, reality sweats hallucinations. 

What is wrong with wisdom is the cut-throat slit she carves

of submarine suffering-a chamber drowning dark with mystery

 and ripe misery echos and reverberates the

 weak walled existence inside the cranium coffin.

Confiding in oneself the solace in knowing

and commiserating with tribal Terror, indigenous to the proper Unknown.

A  wound weathered to deep to laugh leaving toiling bellows,  

blowing white foamed waves, flagging down tourists

over-scheduled hyper-stressed miss understanding the sublime SOS.

A final signal of surging oozing raw, wrought & caught in reality’s wan-knuckled grasp

scenic and seen as Majestic Madness– 

moment enraptured with life photographed & captured

pixilated filed forgotten memory, rotten ills slated  conscious clean,

Blank canvas, undisturbed unenlightened and serene. 

Blessed by narcissistic, self-righteous angelic narcotic causing

clots that clog capillary connections of emotion from calloused hearts. I

Wisdom & struggle supersede emotional vanity.

Knowing wise and beautiful sojourning in unrecognized agony.

O’Mama, here Dawns the Rosy-Fingered Rise of Obama: My New York Times Commentary

25 Jan


Straight to the non-Poetic Point

Call to Action from Our President: Straight to the non-Poetic Point

My comment published in the New York Times Opinion piece “No Time for Poetry” may be the closest  this Nut ever comes to the funny page Peanut Gallery, my arch colloquial comparison.

Thanks to the whimsical world or wikis, the fusion of bull crap and credible crap are welcomed with the same laxidazical regard I wish upon American border police. Asserting that I “published” commentary on the New York Times On-line Edition is technically, technologically correct.

My sunrise musing was more or less accidental; I awoke during that curious crevasse defined by the waning night and waxing day, opened my computer for a time reference revealing my homepage, interlocked glares both intrigued by and challenging said-headline, and slurred reasoning from thought to type in a sleepy stupor. And with that I present to the readership, a la comment:

January 25, 2009 9:59 am ( note: this is east coast time and I dwell in Los Angeles)
The death of poetry is no fundamental change for the Legend Before his Time; unprecedented Hero & messiah of Hope; myth masked man ‘OBAMysseus’ who weathers tenacious turbulence on a mission to reunify his nation: President Barack H. Obama.     

The expectation, or false hope, that President Obama would partake in authentic creative expression during his inauguration is ludicrous. His campaign spread the ideals of Brand Obama  through propaganda and repiticous rhetoric. Linguists carefully selected which words win votes and those bytes of sound surfaced as a jargon of it’s own; with a medium to discourse openly about Obama and the concomitant & hyper-sugar coated issue of ethnicity, he became our own. Ironically, the well endowed lexicon breaking the Barack barrier blossomed out of concrete: Obama’s prophetic talks and promotional tours during his campaign were void of verbatim original expression. Route memorization of his policy and principle propaganda painted his candidacy, Save a tight framework for poetic licence within his regurgitated rhetoric. He was not alone in the strategy, but he was also not a poet.

Poetry practices pentameter and breaks it, playing with unpredictable analogies to ambush eager ears-ready or not. Complete chaotic, anything goes & verbage linked like love, poetry is symbolic and solid like the First Lady’s wedding ring, NOT like Politics. 

It seems that there is no longer any room for poetry in the tightly-fit template demanded of contemporary politicians. What a shame.

— Inter.Self.Awareness, Los Angeles, CA

Letter to Parents

23 Jan

Disclaimer:  I  tend to abstract and hypothesize about big things- complex phenomenon often dictated by context- well aware that my perspective is very small. I’ve lived 20 ethnocentric-years limited to the lens of a white female in this specific socio-historic context. And while I try to be open minded to other lenses and the experiences of people/places in a different time and space, ultimately they’re still  Other people in anOther place. Ultimately, they’re all artifacts and representations through the limits of my authentic lens, which is turn is authentic to nobody else: to you, I am a representation. Knowing I cannot possible take the sliver of what I know and accurately generate a strong and credible account of anything out side of myself, I still do. Because this blog is my honesty box, and if I think  it I write it, just stream of thought here.  I cannot authentically fight the fight of any other body because re-appropriating their voice, their struggle, is colonialism ,2.0.  Not only colonialist, but imperialist: I identify the inequality, and my dissent with my voice (when I am not directly effected) is a an underhanded self-rightous way of thinking I know what’s best for another and stuffing my words and values in their mouth.

Now that I unraveled that rant I’ve said it once and it need not be said again. With that, I give you a tid bit of my *personal life with an email to my parents:

*I’m a firm believer in the personal is political and the political is personal. In my life specifically, politics have been the only domain where I’ve been able to communicate meaningfully with my dad for most of my life.

Obama – Birthday Email

Basically, the Obama talk around here tends to fall into two school of thought: 1) excited, converted believers in the ObamaNation or 2) the cynics and skeptics or overly rich/ god-fearing people who are worried about this Obamanation (abomination). The group of my housemates who were out of the house by 8 to watch the ceremony on campus said the coffee house was packed with screaming fans. I was on my porch with my computer writing a paper/ watching the streaming video on, but in the end, I heard the same stuff. I liked what I heard, minus the white religous preacher who started alluding to jesus, then comparing him to Obama, Come on, as an American politican that a) can’t be anywhere near one of the more accurate analogies  and b) I was baffled by the transparency of that act, ‘ and with the power vested in my middle aged definition anglo-masculine christian preachings and milky white skin like every president before you, I know knight you into the ango-male commun
ity of power and despite your funny name and black face, you’re are exactly like one of us.welcome to presidency.’ 
I know obama chose the dude-but just like every president has been christian and only one (JFK) not Protestant-christian and Obama denounced any muslim ties while running and H.Clinton put on a cross necklace – I’m pretty sure Obama knows what he’s doing. And he’s doing it purposefully, and it’s smart and sad at the same time. How else is he going to gain trust and support of the south and conservative high $ christian titans off the bat? His actions and political principles and plans? I think not, it’s been a long time since that’s been the criteria for politician popularity.

Russian Doll Layered Mind Locks Pandora’s Box

21 Jan



An American Daughter   

She told me to temper my temper, and I no idea what she meant

She sat across from me with an empty plate and told me to finish my dinner,

but her Eyes grew Ripe:

hungry and hypnotized; glossed and wet; heavy lidded lust of mental masterbation

Imaginitive Sin. Devoured it before I began,

Stealing the scent and taste,

Living through me living in me my own mother

leaving me used- full of empty confused feeling

and leftovers. 


Etiology of Emancipation

The day Can and Cannot had a fight,

The World shook.

And through the crack

of their walls, back to back,

Hope was born.

Pregnant with repression and fruitful in her nature

she birthed a daughter named Despair,

Despair bore Guilt, Guilt bore Shame,

and Shame, twice-divorced, 

labored through twin girls- Sexual and Asexual-‘

and later Eros-Indulgence and Denial.

The lineage of goddess,

everlasting the space that passed between time,

had a running discourse:the ideology of my internal monolouge.

Though killed by life, when I was saved from death, 

lacerations, living streaming nightmeres, are laced into my memory

So dizzy chasing the discursive threats and taunts, I stand defiant and say:

Thank You.

Because my mind knows suffering and it spins fueled of it’s own exhaust

and although I’m tired 

like the trickle-tingle trickle-tingle anxious tranquilization of a herion addict  

relaxing into her fix, nodding in a back alley to the rhythmic blues song of the night

performed by those who live to practice and practice to live

lives lit with cracked harmonicas and cocaine laced pipes.

My Fire’s meaning now resonates with the drumming

of my  heart, Beat, torn and raped and savaged, Beat, 

 deceived and vindictive, Beat, 

paranoid lab-rat paralysis, Beat

Armed with easels, Beat, but paint a picture

of a blunt butted brush, Beat

stabbing Beat jabbing Beat ripping Beat 

wrenching, Beat the conspiracy againt myself onto white canvas surface 

my enemy faced to face like a real women

instead of lying awake eyes wide open silent with fear

knowing the monster isn’t under the bead

they’re in my head.

I’m tired, 

Save me from myself.






Insomniac Hallucination : Lay Lady Darkness, Lay

17 Jan

Lady Darkness, of the night

croons soulful melodies, and I wonder

if I too can achieve that knowing serenity.

Lady darkness, graceful and smoooooth

like lids, laxidaxical & lusting to relax

drip-drop droop down and rolllll and lullllliby

eyeballs back, tuck them in and protect against

the tear-weighted temptress of Sefl-Pity who appears

when looking around and not an echo is there.

Lady Darkness of Introspection,

How dare you make me face myself

Like that, knowing all too well

the inverse image makes me feel like a stranger.

My life is My battle to become Acclimated to Myself.

As Lady Darkness Lies,

My eyes recline & seek serenity inside my mind

But I’ve declared war on myself, white flag flies during the day

and night it come down and there’re debts to be made

so Insomic I’ve become, Insomniac I am

Gotta find piece of mind as my own confidant and friend.

Hello world!

16 Jan

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