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

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.

THIRD HOOKER POEM (mirror mirror in the dark)

closet closet in the closet the brothel is the closet I hide my narnia in. this is only an innuendo if you want it to be whatever floats your boat honey. life is an innuendo if you want it to be, sultry or cool or both, the temperature doesn’t matter global warming starts with cold winters, my hands are cold but I warm them on you and put your freezing hands on me mutually melting poles like a gasoline-fuelled roadtrip deep into the heart of indifference to the wider context, I release all my toxic gasses like stars like an ink cloud behind my red sports car with a thousand arms flailing around it nothing will go untouched nobody isolated and nobody soiled by my waste but whatever authority is chasing me at the moment, this is how I choose my battles my toilets to vomit the past into, you say that my firm eyes on the one standing in front of me are a sign of egotism, you say I should let go of the two hands to feel the seven billion around my heart, but great officer, who art in the one-way mirror on the wall, you whose face adorns my retina’s oldest image of my mother, your warmth is not the one I feel against my chest when I open the car door that sluices humanity disinfected into my body, your warmth is the blow torch that burns open wounds like an experiment an attempt to cleanse away all personality until only the dream of the cold marble woman is left and then we can start all over again with pygmalion at the brothel, oh how history repeats itself like a centrifuge of careful cleansing followed by mutual defilement you decide the program I’m just the temperature you set the machine to I’m just a mirror to your light, all meanings all body temperatures can and will be collected into this my secret cave with connective tissue like big sheets hung to dry and then tied together and carefully lowered from society’s window, this is not a party this is not an invitation to play, this is the hostage situation I was born into, a society that flexes its thousand muscles around me in a collective sigh of involuntary power, welcome to the world here is the maze you must fight your way through to find the cheese and eat it and then throw it up because mice actually can’t tolerate large amounts of cheese and actually aren’t that interested in cheese much rather cucumber and oatmeal and little slices of paté on toast, but a society cannot be built on bread alone my gut feelings not typical not old enough for the story that must be maintained to avoid losing the thread like a rope through the labyrinth streched out behind me like a tail just in case the destination is worse than the journey and I have to find my way back to the hole I crawled out of, this is only an innuendo if you want it to be however your boat floats on the sea of mutual indifference, this is the fort I build when I’m surrounded on all sides by family the black sheep that counts people to stay awake at night, I have a black belt in deselection, oh great prison guard, who art in the dusk juggling the people’s wills, if you want to free me from the prison of the mind then magic mark my words like studying for an exam like a trauma you have to work your way through like the snow storm that never stops and never moves, learn the difference between the passion whose gaze burns holes in my face and the passion who lowers lids and holds my heart gently and endlessly carefully until I myself withdraw with a blissfully resigning sigh, all sky scrapers all churches are made of the empty shells from closets that somebodies once flexed their autonomous muscles in like jaws like levator exercises, now towers of Babylon heavenward corals thousands of lifestyle skeletons with a cheese like a Christmas star on top, mirror mirror in my arms look at me now, forget tradition’s firm grip on your heart like forcemeat to feed to the holidays, seize puberty’s black magic moment, turn from the presents predestined for you and see that here is a closet here is a body here is a gate to walk through without opening it, here is passage transit to what you always imagined was behind the last door in the Christmas calendar behind your mother when she hid her hands behind her back at the beginning of December and at night right before you fell asleep behind the closet’s secret door