I like Lady. I think it’s a good story.

the plot to get whitey

light head

the altar of art

clues for cleaner tools

- – -

Some understandings for me:

Here are some understandings and certainties for me.

1. I refuse to be labeled, marginalized and dismissed.
2. If you look too deeply you can see any possibility, don’t make it true, tho.
3. I refuse to be shamed.
4. I refuse to shut up, and I refuse to explain myself if it doesn’t feel ready yet.
5. I’m a good artist with good judgment in my collaborations.
6. I want to figure out who I am through writing & finish this book but I’m going to treat myself more nicely.
7. I’m going to act in faith of best intention, and if I find that I was mean, I’ll try to explore that some more and find out why, but I’m not going to go digging into it without cause.
8. I don’t abandon friends who treat me with respect but I believe they can wait for me to come when I feel up to it, or they can knock on my door if they want to talk.
9. I trust my subconscious finds to lead me on a path, and the path can be chosen according to what makes me feel comfortable and healthy.
10. I believe in the autonomy of others yet there’s a serious problem in communication that needed to be addressed.

How interesting. Hmm. These seem mostly lessons I learned from Smith, and some are lessons I learned from me. The ten commandments. Well, I always had a Christ complex, born on Christmas plus or minus an Eve. (It’s for real.)

My voices helped me find more of myself as I held every pebble, sometimes hard, sometimes softly, for a mystery about finding ground that isn’t haunted. I think I tapped into it because there are a lot of things making me angry and they needed expression.

I also found I like to use things as things rather than people. I think that’s a lesson learned too. Could be the eleventh commandment.

There are lots of good lessons. Each poem I put up in my zine is a lesson to me and if you are interested in what went where, why and what order I can share that with you. For example the title GIVING IN means to go all out for excellence in editing, selections and presentation, and evolution is a personal metaphor to be explored.

Had a good day today yesterday, slept real well last night. Realized I hadn’t written something for myself for a long time. Felt good and bad to tap into the magic, and then work my own. Not sure I want to write poetry unless it’s full flung manna, entire and unsought delivered whole unto me and not tricked into a miserable being. There are many ways to show aptitude and it’s not a competition, but a coalition.

Digging into the voices just for the heck of a good mine or to chisel a point is a little tainted ape for me, so back off and go tear down your own dream. I think we got enough pie to have some pie fights, enuff stuff to satisfy everyone. What I see is my own problem, likewise for thee. Remind me to tell you about how artists need support to make a living.

There are several rafts on my planet that feel good. Some metaphor magic I need to do to peace my mind. We got a ghost story I saw on the sidewalk, a holy dinner, the plot to get whitey and other lessons, the holiness of ego in the pursuit of excellence and why that’s a good story, magic rituals for beautiful angel apes who I love, and a poem about salt faces, come to mind. Some stories are deserved and hard earned.

The difference between Smith and me: Smith is gentle with himself, whereas I am obsessed for perfection.

- – -

another answer

“What’s wrong?”

I don’t know how to communicate well. I thought that I was clever and it would be appreciated.

“So why are you so caustic?”

I admired someone, and he was my best friend for many years. I thought he was so clever, and he is.

“I don’t have the exact quote, but Groucho Marx sed in conversations he was always listening for the opportunity to get the top joke, the best putdown. But it never facilitated the conversation, it just ended it. I’m very caustic I just don’t let it out very often.”

- – -

Voices that I love

There are lists of things for me, but they may not be for you. You may or may not see yourself in it. My subconscious self is an evil genie. I thought to write a mystery, because we had this character called Smokey Grey and I wanted him to solve some crimes. I wanted to explore something that happened to me six years ago, but the endless revibe jive of my boomerang subconscious mind lays traps on me. I’ve called on others voices to help me find my own. The voices that I used are voices that I love, voices that I carry with me in my head with pain and reverence. I love good poets. It appears the mystery was solved: I have crime in my communication.

The worst pain I feel is to cause someone shame or sadness or anger or to feel that myself. Yet to shut out the voices is to shame myself and not write this constant static of caustic crush. It’s a regular Catch-22. I didn’t even realize what I did when I perpetrated it but now I do.

Another worst thing is my envy, the grave in which I bury admiration.

A third thing is my ego and to show others how intelligent I am. The act of giving mental medicine is an administration of a poison.

Meanwhile, another grape Smith found in the Universe:

“Kwik-witted flies can detect swatter threat: Scientists have discovered that flies have very bright minds and within 100 milliseconds of spotting the fly swatter, they move their bodies in the position that allows an extension of the legs to save them.”

Today’s paper, damped and dated. Reminds me of the flies biting my fingers when I’m trying to concentrate–arg–it won’t stop. I love his sense of humor, it’s something that keeps me entertained & is not meant to hurt or pull anyone in.

“Here’s another headline, twelve decapitated bodies found in Mexico.”

I got buddha buddy mind on the brain, and it’s a tricky universe. Some mysteries need explaining and I hope you want to read my game.

http://edition.cnn.com/2008/WORLD/americas/08/29/mexico.decapitated.men/index.html

http://edition.cnn.com/2008/TECH/science/08/29/fly.swat.threat/index.html

- – -

polly tread lightly

There’s a mystery I gotta walk around, a good girl has to tread lightly, a good golly gotta support her man & friends explain the multidimensions of finds lest they are taken as mines in reserve. You know I loves you Smokey, there’s a fella wants to mime some questions. We got the calls for cast we think. I’m sorry I abused ya, wasn’t sure what’s the story, maybe someone wanted to sip yr sunshine cup in a bizarre complexity of coincidence that I can’t hold back because it’s darned interesting & I held that word in reserve for you (Smokey).

We’ve got missing punctuation, large and lower cases, fonts in verdana, letters sent in courier, what’s that?

Language plays that we all do to exercise the alter. Writing’s gotta come from findfields but you can choose yr footpath tender lest yr finds turn mines. You can put your heart in and out of art, like the mere menshun of a manhole. Tap into rage you don’t even feel. Kill a cat or seven and do a tap dance on his floor for more. The words just come out, they don’t mean nothing, but they’re enchanted in other dimensions. If I weren’t thinkin of you I wouldn’t admire ya anyways. All my friends are in my books. (They say yr worst nightmare can be yr best friend, and that’s a clue for whomever & who & me & you.)

Why are you so intent on solving the mystery?

Bodybags bein shipped out. People getting confused about real and not-real, the tick tack tapes in our heads we want to rid of like a coaxed witch tit for language, the things we need to work on and dare to be aware and brave.

That reminds me how Mom’s life was surreal with me around.

Like what?

She was my best audience & we joked I’d kill her. All those non-sequitors & did not follows, all those darts that were meant for me, not for thee, o my friends expounded upon like women in invisible jets (There are two, or three, or four, I haven’t counted, because I’m trying to figure out how to talk to women—we got a shared problem of clarity so often—we maternalize or woo but why we can’t be buddies and why does buddha have to be a boy. Buddha toy bodies in recursive illusions because it was there for the story.(

For instance?

Maybe I could show you some clues. We’re going to have to think about that and bat an eyelash or two.

Let me tell you a story.

There are the poetry thieves of Barcelona. There are pen pals right here. There’s a man with an eye patch at the cafe, or a sneak at a glance & wink for an ethic all the time, it don’t mean nothing, just something to illustrate a mystery. All these clues are here and as mature detectives we can talk about our ethics. Sometimes a voice is so very good you don’t realize you use it. Sometimes you don’t know what you writ until you wrote it, examined its possibilities from one o take, and it’s drop to yr death & regret. The other is a give touchdown dance of hello of an altiverse, I’m glad you found your archetype in this let’s shake hands and let me look you in the eyes and smile. It all depends on intent and establishing lines of communication and elaborating on the understanding, because the story’s complicated and not meant for sour grapes.

Yr a mysterious woman.

How did you use me?

I thought you were so strong Smokey, didn’t think about your heart, thot it always there for me and mine is there for you and thus I had you in reserve. I sed, Wow, Smokey, like to use you all ironic. Cuz you give me fine lines all the time.

How you ask of beality shapes what you see. I got magic with you Smokey, all these clues dropping from the papers. Insects in the news, power outages & back again, the altar that you made to alter what we do, the dogs you talk to on the street.* You’re the main magician and my ever dipping wishing well. It depends on how you worship less you less loose a warship. To use another’s words to ask an answer, there are so many things you can feel are your own, but they were meant for someone else. Loaded unintentions, slap happy slaughters of all the totters of different dimenshuns just because it sounded good to say when yr a babbler in yr brain to coax or trick a kid. Like when you do a collage, you collaborate, you take yr language from a picture, place it somewhere else because it looks good. & that’s all I meant, to explain a story to me from way back when, not now, not ever, and that’s a version of a proof.

To ramble on in little lambiguities is my game in plain language.

*real story

- – -

A letter to a friend

A letter to a good friend

I don’t engage in language unless it’s for real. I refuse to masturbate my heart or mind. I have had many failures of communication in the past. Ironically, this is one of the themes I was aching to write about with an incident that happened six years ago. & I can always see too many possibilities for ways to hurt the other. It kept me from looking in the eyes of people I admire for fear of burning them and being burned. I want to look everyone in the eye and answer with certainty. I see it happen all the time, they think you’ve got it all figured out, you’re supposed to have an answer as tho it’s a quick sound bite, as tho you can’t be a hypocrite or work the other side. What Crap traps we set for each other.

I had the concept for a book – Smokey Grey – a character Smith and I’ve been thinking about for three years. I knew I had a truth to communicate. All this builds and builds because I don’t even know what I’m asking when I write my lines. Truth is often revealed to me after I review what I’ve said, even in real life conversations, and it tends to have a stifling effect on me. I have to think there’s a way to reconcile shame with heart, to get over the hurdles that stop conversations, to allow us to embrace our sisters and work together in our rage, because it really is unfair, why should we shovel dirt over our graves of rage? How do we know what we say is for real? It’s a complicated dance, especially for women, and there are lots of footsteps to be followed and how dare you tell me my intelligence is crazy. That makes one want to hide behind a metaphor to protect oneself.

I don’t believe in perfect solutions and I have a tolerance for deviations that most people would find really weird. For example, most people masturbate, something like 95% of them but if you ask them about it they refuse to talk. I knew I could talk to Smith when he joked about cutting off his balls, killing his mother (joking about it) and celibacy for twenty years. This is one of many things that attract me to him. Even a single picture of him, his art, a poem, is enought to me fall in love with him. I am very afraid of losing him and the lack of understanding, as I laid my head on his chest and pull away for gaps of real beats, one, two stop, two stop, fourteen, forty, whew! one two, as he kept his head awake under anesthesia, paralyzed save for arms and head, feeling the deadness of his body. & how he got an infection and the history of how we’ve been ripped off by the u.s. medical system and why we live here for so many reasons – so many horror stories drive by – as he pulls his own stitches without waiting for me to explain why to stop but I halt for his autonomy. O Smith! I want to write about this. There is the fear of being startled by your ghost, ever, and why I want to have a reason to live after you’re gone.

I do believe in conversations and universal mind. I also believe that the act of understanding can be a breach of trust in a way in the way that it pulls one in. I’m not sure how to go about this other than to have faith, to not stifle myself, to move forward.

A metaphor for all of this is this: at a gallery in Cleveland, there was a hanging noose. The noose was not about a lynching. But if it was, so what? The noose was about the concept to be explored, and that is what makes great art, and that is why you can use swastikas in your art even if you do not happen to be Jewish. (I am.)

Now, someone kept slapping me with metaphors as tho they wanted to talk. I said, OK, I’ll listen and I see someone really needs a lot of help so maybe it’s ethical to share what I learned. But then I thought, How DARE I! But then I thought how I wish someone had helped me in the past and talked in real language. I really admire your guts, you’ve been a kind of fortifier and a mystery to me, and this was another theme I wanted to explore.

Love,

Kathy

. .

Looks like Vin Diesel’s gone down the food chain.*
Well, he had a horrible name for a movie star.
It’s like Rocky 17 now.
I liked him, I always did now.
O! Look at that! The eyes moved!
And there are four Ronald Reagan masks!
*And I didn’t mean nothin by that, jes talkin tricks for kids. Don’t take me outta context.

THE PENTAGON SOME THINGS NEVER CHANGE DEPARTMENT

It recently occurred to me that yr probably blogging as her – and then I thought I wanted to visit regularly & put it on my list inside for later as ifn for some tasty cake

It’s a scary world for a detective, especially for a girl who forgets her punctuation. Like were I to tell you what color the sky was I probably can’t remember but I’ll find yr contrails, see wonderwoman there in her invisible jet–go WOW–note there’s something to be said, a recursive maturity in the wait. & how pretentious the language’s observations as tho I’m a teacher on the take. It makes you want to slash your eyes and crash tits and go all lower case. As though eye could dare to grade and there are some easy answers here’s some kudos and a note of mention.

meanwhile the universe colludes for my private signal entertainment:

Here’s a grape o news. Found this article right under something called The Greatest Failure of Thought in Human History, a false headline. This universe can twist yr shit and I think that it’s aware & I don’t mean to look like I put you down because I respect your thinking. it seems like reality feeds us equal doses of comedy & tragedy & we’re each our own foil, but that’s a story for another time fer the blightedly frightened & aware tarots of leaning pizzas:

“Meanwhile, the Department of Defense reported it could control the movements of a rat’s brain using a laptop computer. Researchers will turn their attention to rats, birds, and insects for performing interests of the DOD. They’re talking about militarily enhancing the most violent of apes, Man. They’re also working on a way to keep people awake for seven daze straight. They taught a monkey to move a computer mouse and a telerobotic arm simply by thinking about it. In fact, the monkeys can move an arm 600 miles away.”

It’s disgusting quirk o coincidence delivered in the morning news. & that’s the troof. Remind me to tell you about Masumi Hayashi’s dream, sidewalks, and flowers still standing in the peace of pillows.

http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2008/08/27-15*

*I say that them calling it commondreams is like a hopeful glass of happy horse shit

- – -

THIS IS THE ONE THAT GOT ME

DEAR OCCUPANTS, ACCIDENTS & OCCIDENTALS

Just yesterday it was yesterday
Now it’s already today

Confuse not mercy with weakness
Confuse weakness not with an upset liver
And confuse not an upset liver with love
It is the shape of the silence
Which defines the sound
Like winter rubbing against summer
Each refines the other

Only certain curtains can be drawn
The rest must be endured
The souring sermons
The centered self serving
The lion den Christians in Coliseum stands
Twixt ape and angel wandering
Torn between the knowledge
And the need

Do I worship the moon or sun
Or yet the blooded one?
I bloat and smell
Decay in age
The focus runs

-smith

The Greatest Failure of Thought in Human History: To solve climate change, we must overcome “systems blindness.” (about global warming: http://www.commondreams.org/archive/2008/08/27-16)

- – -

TO MAKE GOOD CAKE YOU GOTTA SAVE YR SHIT

Global warming is the single biggest human failure.

That reminds me, Smokey, of yr expression, to make good cake your gotta save your shit.

If you think about it, Iraq & Iran used to be jungle, until we ate it.

O Smokey, you wax depressing. What happened in those woods? They say writers ate the trees.

Got another wise crack loaded Polly?

You know I gots ya, babe, in the crosshair of my faith on the dance floor of life…

to be continued

- – -

YODALING

The who in whoville calleth.. Yoo hoo! Yoda lay he hooooooo!

I’m not gonna say what I’m thinkin, Polly.

I’ll be your deep green keen whale pan pipe song.

So what is this story that yr writing?

I’m chasing the tail of the mystery!

I don’t think poetry books mysteries. And careful you don’t step on tails.

Yr not done yet are you? You got another three weeks of ten page stacks!

You cruisin for a bruisin? & they say there are more than fifty ways to whack a catcall. Thanks fur yer sense of humor. I see there’s something you can help me figure out because I some of friends to talk me through it. I thought I was the helper but I’m haunted and vice versa in reverse as is ever the case for this odd thotter.

I should explain what I’m saying here in pure language. Now I read my stacks of lines again I tap another tincture. I thought this was deflated but there’s another case I need for me. I want to write every word that I’ve learned to caress let rest and what I write is a mystery for me and not for you so ease your art and we can talk about it and I need your help. This is not a love story for a lover but a set of stories for some friends in delaced poisons. & I have a hunch it’s a case of catching abandonment and confusion lest I air some awful false auras. Let’s continue to build reality in our tracks of lines, gently, slowlike beautiful snowflakes that don’t cause abortions.

Sounds like someone’s been smoking in front of the altar.

Timeless medicine to discern the variants in perception. <– w.c. field voice, that’d be like him.

“Maybe yr psycho.”

I have to believe everybody has these little acid voices in their heads.

“Not me. I have little lambs.”

You know, maybe you do, Smokey, and you got a find mine. You certainly are my friend, good to talk less caustic – I can see I used your voice to explore my story cuz you’re so good at it – and I’m sorry I hurt you in the meanwhiles…

It reminds me of an allegory from Babylon Towers in Shake a Little Salt Over th Shoulder City Don’t Throw Yr Craps Off the Street, but we’re tired of this pathway and we think this a little mean.

- – -

A WISH

A wish for a rest and amends and a halt to explanations, a garden for our faith, and thank you for helping me to see myself in the ever compounding prison of my shame.

‘A wish?’ Smith says. ‘You don’t need this here. You don’t need to have any shame.’

I do love him so.

- – -

“Did you like that movie? Get Shorty?”

Two hours ago I did, but now it seems like nausea.

“What’s wrong?”

My head hurts. I have horrifying flights of ego & creativity alternated with buckets of shameful vomit.

“Well, I’d go with the ego and creativity were I you.”

_ _ _

The temple of our love is strong, Smokey. Your words sustain an easy dreaming. You are the best friend I never had, the ache for explanation, an exploring flame, a curiosity for thought, a superman I thought to use like a mattress. Is to explain to hurt? You refuse to abuse, use yesterday and hold hand lesson to today. You say no shame. & I how you are great, and how I’m angry. Not at you, but yes, at you, because I am jealous and obsessed and mean and scared. & how I thought I heard my echo how my mind wasn’t special, the concept of cliché but there’s hope for connection, how you trump my truth, how I want to steal your art, how I want to be you, what I want to write, the rage of the real. & how you are so kind to me & how I thot you’d leave – the allegory story of movies and a bowl of berries on the sofa, pomegranite plate that you threw in the toilet, ice cream in the freezer, brown rice for breakfast, a care for health.

Why are words fools? Why am I stifled? I would say woman but I’ll have to tell you me. I thought to inhabit but ain’t no gloves for what I am. Ain’t melodrama real and other caustic thots. The livewire voices I thot to hold like crickets in my fingers like chipper smiles never say you’re scared.

Shame ever wants to explain & drain.

–

WHAT’S WRONG?

“I’m sorry yr feeling nausea. You know what? Hatter sez he doesn’t like to owe people. I offered to give him some for the next shipment & he said no, let’s see if it comes first.”

“I like Hatter. I don’t like the cafe across the street no more.”

I don’t think the Mexicans are comfortable with us sitting in their comida. We’re too unusual.

“Well, you shoulda seen the way that little girl was staring at us.”

- – -

A little grape joke from the universe. My screen sez something when wrong when retrieving my id.

- – -

O how I’ll never leave you, how I don’t leave friends and if you want a rope that’s fine, and if you want to throw rocks, well, that’s fine too.

- – -

THE GARDEN ON THE ALTAR

Tell me your grape joke, Smokey…

“What’s purple, really angry, and you better stay out of it’s way?”

“The grape of wrath.”

I think that one was pretty good.

“My joke and Steinbeck’s novel, sort of.”

I like this little garden you made on our altar, Smokey.

Wait a minute – I like the shapes of plants there. That’s what having plants all about. I like the flying saucers there, too. You know what? I could probably put our pieces there! (It’s an altar of Art.)

So, you know what yr calling yr book yet?

Well, I’m thinking THE CHURCH OF NOT QUITE SO MUCH PAIN AND SUFFERING, but it could be called THE BIG FAT BOOK OF NO ANSWERS. Both sound pretentious, but I’m trying to talk with friends in a neutered language. I got a lot to learn.

I notice some of my phrases pop up in your work again. Like, “Let my ego go” and other stuff.

Yep. If you meet your Buddha on the street, you better have a conversation, and other things they told you not to talk about down town, like the urge to pull wings off of flies and other ways they shame smart people in the institutions to keep them locked down tight and steal their religion.

Sounds like a stacked trap of flaming shaming shit, don’t throw away your dreams.

Did I ever tell you how you can put anything in a tamale, as long as it has cornmeal in it? & when you run out of corn, you can dry and grind banana. & if your soil only grows yams, well, that’ll work too…

Thank you and Good Night.