typewriter. four

we drank coffee and squeezed oranges
in the morning. canadien whisky
at night with milk. smoking
4 finger lids

the letter c
started to stick
i had to find oil
and take arms
she was essential
to my vocabulary

tuning our guitars together
swimming out past the
sandbar to the lone buoy
the hammerheads liked to
circle

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m x memory

m x memory -viii

By the year twenty twenty-three, 99% of microscopes were melted down and recycled, whereas bifocals and bottle glasses had come back in fashion. And it was decreed that all laboratories be replaced with ashrams, following in the footsteps of a decentralization trend. Anyone caught with space foam running shoes and acoustic instruments got a one way ticket to the primeval forest being cultivated on Mars. These items became highly sought after. The principal objective was not to have one.

There were some (in the future) who could not hope to walk unseen down city streets. A loosely affiliated group of citizens who did not so much ask for the kind of attention they were given, collectively or individually.Which was a suitable regimentality for twenty twenty-four. Legend has them born of loose-fisted, assymetrical, left-handed, lipton teaheads just shy of true north. The truth was something else.

They tend to make a lot of noise without speaking, and move like waves.  Everyone else wanted to tell them what to do, and they wouldn’t do anything other than what they were told if they were to do what was expected, so atypically they defied expectations. Otherwise they wouldn’t really exist, would they. Ice water was in their throats, not their veins.

You cannot know them in traditional forms of knowing. They have something more intentional or focused, it seems, or something less violent-by-association. Anyone is guessing. They congregate in the shiny bars of the fringe-mainstream. On bicycle hill perhaps. Or in bookstores off the beaten path in the Mission. They have an aversion to snapping turtles and judgments and extemporaneous litigation.

Along with us, they envision a society where the only records are vinyl and photographic memories are stripped and laid out in the sun. But only visions are envisioned. Nothing has been empirically correlated and nothing ever will. The principal objective was not to have one.

journal

Journal # 06.22.16

you will help me if you are you and do what you do. what carries your signature will be appreciated by a conscious element for the courage to represent. we are not alike nor are we unalike. we both approach the rising sun the same. we both toss and turn on hot summer nights and wait for the mind to situate, before sleep comes to take us away. i have chosen Buddhist mantras to help me quiet my mind to sleep. i have chosen radical acceptance to level my day behind me, so i may rest and coalesce into a peaceful almost unitive being. for then i need not want to fix it. i need not want to change twenty four hour history. i need not want. at all. then can i off into the other world while my body is only breathing. where we have little control over our thoughts and visions and feelings. where i wanna believe something is being worked out to help me get along. in the morning. in my slippers. taking meds. drinking coffee with hazelnut cream and sugar. usually (now at my age) special like disoriented, awkward and shifty, fearless and ready to belt out a nursery rhyme in the shower. in the kitchen. at the top of the stairs whistling down to the boys in the backyard. they come running sometimes like cheetahs across the plains. lovable like this upon waking. not so lovable much later. after the day has grabbed me (and it used to be the other way around and i miss it) and shook me and often shook the life out of me somehow. and i worry will i make it. have i made it? and if i feel i have made it, well, will there be anything more to do? of course, of course, Katya, never mind you! there is always more to do. level your head and get yourself going. pick up the guitar. hit the keyboard. work it out again. you may go through motions, but those motions you go through may also activate you. i wish you the best. sincerely. we all need some help somehow. i know. the world is a mother. keep going. there’s something else awaits you. and you never know what that may be, but meaningful and so it’s sweet like coffee ground out by hand and touched with a tablespoon of hazelnut cream and several grains of sugar. to make us more fetching, darling and deserving.goodness gracious! we say (like our parents said before us) admiring, so lovable you are.  – xx KatYa

EFFING EFFED! (POEM & SONG)

im so effing
effed

once i was smart
now i am dumb
once i felt feeling
now i am numb

only god
can judge me!
ice cream in your face i
scream in your face
cream in your
face your
face your book your
face ina book youre
not listenin to
me

wrapped up in cellophane
wrapped up in cellphone
locked up in cellphone
locked up ina cell

take this napkin
its white
draw whatever you want
its art
stick figures
its wiping an ass
swiping an idea easy
off a perforation

origami and you
and a cigarrette butt
and a cigarette
but…

we’re so effing boring
so effing
effed

reading the mind
reading the stars
reading the paper
reading my lips:
so effing what?

eff you! and your effing
effingness. sir eff-a-lot

hold the phone!
hold the tablet
hold your gaze on me
softly

read my lips
quiet the mindless
inaction

no faxes from Asia
no instructions
no faction

no mickey mouse
fantasia
no brakes and no
traction

no roses
no hips
no more LSD
trips

just vitamins for us
essential yet boring

no banana
silk-screened on a t-shirt
it detracts from the
logo

no velvet
no underground
no Warhol
its boring

personal headphones
sleep apnea machines
no music. no snoring

effing effed

no winning
no losing
no flying
no boozing
depressing the
snoozing

get high like a junkie
on pre-natal vitamins
another pill head
how boring

no touring the world

im at home. effing effed
just eating my grapefruit
its juices runnin
down my lips my
chin

purple liquid pooling
on to Sexus. page 177.

no living vicariously
through the dead authors

the girl after
girl described in the pages

a dirty old man
beats off in a corner
how boring…oh wait!
its the author

from inside the pages
hes watching the purple
drool down my
red lips

how sexy
to know you’re alive
to know we’re alive
you and me
both

how boring
to die

a girl and a
guy and a guy and a
girl after
girl

give me a mission
give me a message
give me a bottle

effing effed
ill crack someone over
the head
with it