pirated memories

no cheating no cheating no duplicating no copy-pasting words onto sacred blank paper, no copy-pasting thoughts and images through time from past to present, present to future, the three holy tenses like mirror images like a centerpiece altarpiece three-piece mirror three-piece suit of satan, this lawyer of the children of the future I speak no evil I simply speak in future tense, I don’t believe in santa claus because I am no longer (a child) get behind me santa, I look to a brighter tomorrow, the tunnel at the end of the light cubicles like sacred closed-off altarpieces in long rows, mass will be held in the confines of the altar the rest of the church brought into the heart of the office drone with halo around sleepy head, mass producing tongue, offices opened up and closed again like eyes but someone having misplaced the lid now our workplaces are open to high heaven and duplicated endlessly with millions of people in them with different faces and different names, all these little creations in hardwood frames to keep track of, the creatures and the things they create, like mise-en-abyme, like babushka dolls lined up to make it look like the tiniest one is the furthest away when really they’re all equally close, the future as close as the past both hazy memories that could be dreams when just waking up and there’s no saying what has really happened and what has simply not happened yet, this is the time and this is the way the time moves marching in circles to the tune of keyboard-pressing fingers like endless r’s and endless l’s and endless s’s and all the duplicated letters that somehow mean something new every time, create new sounds and watch the old words get new meaning, watch the old treasures be forgotten and the pirate open his chest one day as if by accident while cradling the patch around his deleted eyeball like a monocle while groaning while lying around while forgetting while saying yarrrrr, this be the currency of a thousand repeated promises

school of words

words words binge word binge twitch tweak things spin fin work shark word whale how to produce words like schools of fish, schools of words swimming through book pages, sharks like titles backfins like quotation marks cirkling like lions, like tigers, pupils dilated to their utmost comprehension point, their utmost sign of recognition delight, pupils dilating like balloons filling with hot air writing down the teacher’s words words on the black board, the teacher’s factory-made thoughts, mystery meat, a problem with meat on it, let’s dig in deep like lions like tigers dissecting a still-warm carcass with fangs like scalpels, claws like meat scissors, the taste of knowledge in our teeth results on our breaths, let’s solve these words in their complex yet simple formations, like spinning plates like a school of fish spinning out of control, without control all trying to get away from the predator while staying close to others, a vortex of nothing but blank confusion and fear spinning around in the schoolyard, tag and skipping ropes in oblong movement circles, how to produce the wrong words in all the correct orders so teachers will grant passing grades for things that still mean something, the recess not the only space for words words the words that matter the words that express inner reality, swear words, sweat words, the words outlawed, banned from the reality of the score board, the black board, keep score of your grades bet on the fastest horse the fastest mind the reddest herring in the race to survive grow up and become someone whose words matter, words that matter being said in contexts where the words are reproductions of age-old habits, how to keep the words that don’t fit in, make them the glue that holds fish together in a school, stay close to the teacher don’t get lost don’t lose your head, bite into the main artery in the throat right by the windpipe this producer of spoken word this tunnel with light at the end of it always infected with a virus from outer space, a double virus of the meaning of the thing and the word for the thing all scrambled up like morning eggs, like fetal chickens still in their birthday suits of oblong orbs while being prepared for a meal or being prepared for taking form, surviving growing up, learning to sing with their own beaks like music class like playing the triangle, the double triangle like a double virus of notes scribbled across endless pages from scratch, mozart as a four-year-old, barely out of the egg, look father I made this symphony from scratch, not a baker not banging eggs like heads against tables to make them crack open and reveal the contents of the mind, not opening minds just pouring silently from his own through the quill leaving dots like carbon footprints across prison pages, almost arbitrary, completely logical, all the music locked up in rhythm, in a structure of starched knowledge of form and content, an information system like a word for each note and each duration of the note, like words like a school of fish swimming through a flooded prison, all these words flowing from schooled hands into blank data filling up like an aquarium to the brim like the glass of water that occupies the nervous hand and lends a welcome pause to the speech

FIRST SUPERSTAR POEM (so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat)

I’m so tired of remote controllers trying to shame human nature out of celebrities this delusion that being on a pedestal means being made of pedestal like the artist is nothing but sculpture of dead culture, this delusion that millions of dollars and a record deal sucks all the hormones out of a young woman, like where the fuck are you imagining they go, hormones strewn about the studio like money in parody of gangstarapvideo people slipping in hormones like bananapeels, “you’ve gained all the outward signs of success through singing your heart out so now hide away your inwards in favor of what parents will adore, only when you stop moving what your momma accidentally gave you only when you stop giving your intimacy to fans through instagrammed half-naked lookatmes normally preserved for long-term boyfriend, only when you stop playing girlfriend to little monsters after the death of the rock star fantasy lover only when you treat the audience like strangerdanger like I’m only here to do my job and get paid only then will we stop calling you a cynical money-grabbing empty vessel, sex can never be intimacy can never be rebellion self-realization experimentation only art clothed up to your neck shows your depths”, and here’s miley cyrus pointing the great hand of #1 like a gun to her belt “I have a pussy and I’m not afraid to use it” here’s lady gaga with great big imaginary dick, the many different kinds of endorphins at the very core of why even before hormones before boys and boobies I was pressing my face up against my TV offering that sweet sight of human flesh like radiator defibrillator curiosity satisfied like mind blown by a hundred singing tongues, the sweet stereo whispering foreign familiarity into my pulsating body, try taking the sex out of music like removing pulse from veins wired throughout limbs like speaker system, here is a voice I will need to rehearse before launching into the world, here is the hormone shitstorm I need to see in full-color HD before it happens, proxy recognition the only thing keeping me safe when those olderadults scream not curse words not political incorrectness but very state-sanctioned insults about tooskinnybody ugly superficial mentallyill as if any form of hate is okay as long as it only hurts the young and vulnerable, smiley the snakish womanchild mocking the paradise lost on sesame street the disneymovie that cannot be repeated with tongue stuck out from breastfed over sex to crazed and teddy bears twerking to their heart’s delight strangely doped much like existence in the living rooms of tradition of that queer victorian age that seems reappearing in endless new decades, like reoccuring nightmare like repeat offense to compassion like the rape that’s never seen because it’s done by the book, hey society come back and talk to our frenchnailed stripper hands when you’ve realized that here in our sequined bikinis we’re still only the logical product of your own well-meaning emotional bdsm the assertion of bodyfreedom needed when we’re never defined as anything but what’s at the end of your judging gazes, hey assholes if your heads are ever coming out of there maybe use them for realizing that music’s main audience has always been and will always be teenagers looking for a place to be all of their own raging wrongs

EIGHTH HOOKER POEM (soulsex)

here is my work, a back door into humanity a secret passage to a walk-in library of congress, how many positions can I love you in let me count the ways the words the long rows of kamasutrapedias spiralling out of my head as I lower it around yours and collect evidence of body parts warming each other, dances on your skin that create corresponding dances in your bloodstream the necromancy of mindful affection the craftmanship of really meaning it, like a master’s degree in harnessing your inner analgesics like ballet without the aching feet, here is a tantric massage like a back door into your forgotten sorrows a recipe for spiritual success, first we take your fantasies those hidden from embarrassing othereyes, then we go deeper into the fantasies you’ve hidden from yourself and then finally we find that space where your wants are too you to take form just blood flowing endlessly facelessly shapelessly through arteries made of what, and here I make your cake here I take your alls and whip them up into spirals of pleasure, my big trick my grand finale is the tears, the laughter, the spasm, the whateverthefuck comes out with the sperm this little white blotch of soul nutrition so exponentially potent when mixed with everything else, ah the body the dish that feeds itself by expelling its own memories, this is a little miracle when I see the juices flowing from your everywhere and I see how it all comes together in grateful eyes shining with the light of some still-glowing heart inside you that I must have somehow managed to weld back together, well fuck I guess I’m some kind of accidental wizard

SIXTH HOOKER POEM (mourning lullaby)

I.

my first memory is fictional an image developed in the darkroom of meditation to satisfy the need for a first memory, a cardboard mother sitting with her cardboard child on her lap, no colors only white surface and scanty suggestion of faces light pencil sketches of eyes nose mouth, this scene depicts my first experience of unconditional love, the guru’s assumption of universality that reminds me so of exactly my mother a figure that will topple over if I blow on it, my breath held tightly against my spine do not disturb happiness it’s so fragile do not disturb your mother while she sits here trying to love you to tolerate the aspects of you that are missing. a wild child appears! from a dream of a child with needs like the ones she remembers when she goes into a quiet room in her brain and watches a movie of a mother sitting with her child on her lap (back then not yet grandmother no confusing doubling no surplus memories), a mother looking down at me like a child begging for love, how do I invent a feeling how do I erase emptiness, to look into a set of eyes like you’re seeing something on the other side, like looking into a two-way mirror and knowing that someone is standing behind your other self watching you, to gaze so firmly that the other starts to doubt her own invisibility

II.

here is my insistence on existence here is a woman like a red light in the dark like the nightlight that keeps the city from sleeping, the obstinacy of the sprouting weed, leave me on the forest floor like hansel & gretel let me solve my own puzzle by eating every breadcrumb I’ve dropped behind me and not until I’ve done that will I stop killing myself with lack of memories and lack of happinesses and lack of possibilities of reconciliation, I count my duvet like a sheep, one soft warmth one soft warmth until I drown in the cloud that reflects itself in the sea from which it took off, how do I break myself like a wave, how do I reach out and grab my fellow human’s heart-shaped balls two spheres of unlived life like two golfballs tossed at the body’s wall, how do I hold the man the woman in my arms without looking ahead to disaster the moment when one of us clutches too tight, feelings that can’t be passed on only demanded in uncomprehending arm-pulls love! love! love! the imperative of why aren’t you smiling why aren’t you melting into my arms like I’ve melted into the arms of others before you, and my mother how she haunts me how she appears in all the neatly crackling ideologists of media research authority, why are you shaming yourself why are you shaming yourself endless attempts at upbringing, I’m just trying to help you become the person you should have been, I’m just trying to erase the pain for you erase the emptiness that stands here looking like a woman, and put myself in itstead like when a woman has a child to live on after death like when the tumor has spread out into the whole skull and the surgeons cut off the patient’s head to cure him like when the serial killer kills his victims to make more room for himself in the world,

III.

here is the biggest lack of space I’ve ever seen so many mothers breaking their backs carrying around the concept of baby the desirability of men, don’t disturb society while it sits here pulling your teeth from your mouth like some kind of fast-forwarded aging process, maybe you just need to have some kids that you can sit and stare at until they feel welcome, maybe you just need a man to take charge of you a job to pull your soul out like teeth from your mouth like milk from the crying breast, maybe you just need to be restarted retold a new childhood freshly developed, sit your shameslit down right here and listen to the therapist’s lulling tales, it all started with a piece of desire a glowing apple in the night, see how it jumps up and sits on the branch that pulls itself towards an ever-shrinking trunk it almost looks like an aging process if it weren’t for the fading wrinkles, a woman that gathers herself around herself preparing for lonely death the failed attempts at stretching her hands out like branches and letting apples grow and fall into other women’s shirts, look, when we rewind you become a martyr dying in the moment you clutch the mechanism you came from a kind of icarus of self-pity, yes this moment right now came first and then youth folded into childhood like a flower closing up shop for the night, like a chick dying in its nest abandoned by the life-saving fluff of the brooding ass, it’s never too late to have another unhappy childhood, it’s never too late to be disgusted by the unwashable filth of your violations, say after me I’m ruined for life write it on the blackboard a hundred times that’s how you raise a person to feel worthy that’s how you beat loss out of a woman with an obligatory welfare system marketed as care an endless cycle of somebodycares not about you but hey it’s still caring right? right? right! it’s never too late to regret what can’t be redone, eve eating the apple and with her mouth full of unconditional sensory perception handing it to adam with a smile like a nightlight, here in the man’s mouth is maybe another dead end here is maybe an illusion as powerfully glowing as the hearth in his chest maybe a new world,

IV.

how do I tell the difference between hell and the promised land in any other way than by following the trail of decreasing pain and fading demands for emotion, give me anything that lights up the dark a warm cock in the vacuum of the crotch a banknote mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, not much is much more than nothing, give me anything but the two empty eyes chanting down at me trying to love we only want to help you why are you hitting yourself why are you hitting yourself BE HAPPY OR WE’LL FUCK YOU UP take my hand TRUST US OR WE’LL PUT YOU IN JAIL love should be a matter of course NO ARMS NO CAKE no reflection no help from here, goodnight little girl goodnight fair prince goodnight goodnight and sleep tight

FIFTH HOOKER POEM (what is the sound of one hand reaching out)

every time I try to name my losses the sound is drowned out by the pecking window rain of a thousand chattering feminists, will you please shut the fuck up so I can hear my own heartbeat and reach carefully into my deficiencies, please step aside so I can see what’s hiding at the ends of the roads I have to choose between, and MOVE your fat averagefaces melting with decades of no pain hundreds of proud rejections sitting on a throne of satiated childhood, move your gazes out of my way so I can contemplate the thousand outstretched arms before me to choose the pair that won’t drag me screaming into neverreceding night, grandmother what long arms you have, all the better to liberate you with my child, grandmother what little understanding you have, all the better to build a society with out of you and three thousand other confiscated bodies, empathy halts progress with its shrill screaming ants blocking our freeway to freedom, money’s comforting arms and feeding hands must be hidden away in the treasure chests of happy hearts as if someone might steal it from us through our cheating husbands, maybe you little hooker maybe precisely your starving heart on a street corner will pirate the man’s resources, better to hasten your disaster throw you away like a broken barbie doll (which by the way is totally unrealistic real women don’t look like that real hearts don’t beat that fast), better to sacrifice you to the garbage men than risk being infected with unhappy childhood or developing countries, here is a cry for help like a circumcised vocal cord in the silence, here are all the wrong problems and all the wrong solutions in a jumble of humorblack puzzle pieces, a woman that forms a different image than the one on the box, I don’t want to hear your whining about minimum wage inflexible job market depression anxiety carpal tunnel syndrome jacks-in-offices like avenging angels with unexplained grudges guarding the gates of heaven from, for example, people like little you, don’t give me your problems if they don’t solve mine, have a problem with the solution you’ve chosen for yourself lose your respect for yourself for your expertise in your own life become the story we tell with the full force of fully functioning lungs or GTFO in the rain with your red umbrella

FOURTH HOOKER POEM (fuck me in the now)

sex is a shortcut, my icebreaker of melting pulse. sex is my only synthetic alternative to trust, the slow, that grows like moss across imperceptible years and boring days. I’m a deer frozen in your headlights, your dating profile’s personality picasso. so many likes and dislikes, so much to memorize and store in my heart like trinkets of information on love’s dusty commode. I’m a deer that has just stepped out of the bushes and is considering whether or not to eat from your hand. if you seek me, I can’t tell you if either of us has the patience for domestication, friendship, and only then romance. if you seek me, you can find me in the future or at 555-FUCKMEINTHENOW.