add infinitum (part 2 of particulate)

Why all this secrecy in the only land left with the only trees that offer only the finest santa rosa plums one could sink one’s soul into? The soul always begins at the enamel of the teeth, some part of myself said. I vetoed the thought. Back to the question, why did we have to hide our treasures? When sharing them was so much more enjoyable? What parcel of  drone intelligence in Afghanistan informed us to continue to hold on?  I mean, dare i point to the ground and meet eyes with my people to show how half of what we cherish and hold close to vest goes unused and rots between our toes?

Tonight is the same as a week ago. Forensics agents and yahoo messenger chat administrators  get drunk on insomnia. Graveyard hours give leniency to those who wish to have the fresh air and night sky and electric stars to guide and calm them. I set my feet to urban time. I see the junkies and locals steady mobbing the Whole paycheck parking lot trash bins.

Although I admired cold cases gone hot, I felt as though Forensics were passe. Standard procedure. The topic was of less interest to me in the new century, almost mindless. Many experientials and intuitives like myself were focused on precognition. Developing the sense. We hoped to locate ourselves either half steps ahead or behind law enforcement rhythms. Not because what we did was illegal. north beach beat adulators, and other sordid types.  Where we all were headed was all but certain (what some would call) hell.

by katya

I was still asking was there something going on?  halfway into the week. The lawyers and forensics had fucked up the whole scenario. Nobody knew what time it was. Nobody had any money left. And everyone was angry about the lies and deception. But nobody had enough time or energy to pull us out of the mudpuddle.

And I may have been ahead of the awareness curve, bulging back down, booty slump the chart produced toward some social science survey of  U.S. census citizenry, projected out of powerpoint to document awareness. As measured by hard to prove, easy to dismiss qualities or behaviors based on industry standards… as they cautiously evolved through the academic bureacracies to gain acceptance by industry leaders backed by and instrumental in securing ongoing public and private funding through grants and foundations, etc. You will be so fucked up trying to understand this bullshit! they promised.  Only for a while, they promised. Until you sign some contract they created. To fuck you. And whomever you’re fucking, too.

But we could blame the lawyers and the cops only so long, before we realized the deeper root of the problem.

This left us where we were. Flat-footed. Money made everything what it was, or worse.  Money kept the institutions together, barely.  Any revolutionary creative force threatened to gain immediate foothold.  Generally speaking.  An exceptional frontload washer of a maelstrom was imminent. The animals knew it. Killer whales rose almost whole out the Alaskan waters, undeterred by the opposing gravity. The sea otters turned and turned and turned, cracking shells together in cacophonous productions. Seas and territories globally touched and met and kept the electric circuit of our world whole, connected, glowing. Undisruptable. Unrepudiated welterweight champion of our solar system.

Throw your hands in the air, celebrate if you can breathe on another woodburn winter day in our increasingly spare the air day oxygen deficit-run you ragged kinda culture. Fuck! If you have asthma like many of us do, myself included, you might be getting worried. Secondary to secondhand smoke and chronic bronchitis, then fuck you feel the air or what is lacking in the air quality. You find yourself out of breath consistently and might sign up for alerts for spare the air days on your cell, because strangely your increasingly inhibited, shallow breathing coincides perfectly with poor index days in your local area. Fuck! This is not good.

Each breath like each meal, every morning a bit less nutritious than the last, it seems. So? Make up for it with the HFCS, it always fills the gap. The closer! High Fructose Corn Syrup for all! Like we went from the local deli of the eighties, to subway, all the You begin to worry. You don’t want to suffocate, eh? Is it a possibility? Well, can you get up and out of bed if you don’t have to?

I wondered about this from the moment i awoke into this fine cold for oakland with hard nipples for a winter storm-tested window. Frozen now thawing. For natives to this region the pain of the cold. Knawing. And my heart was hard beating for the memory. Oh, and the gaps between what i could recall. They would bubble and settle, like memory foam. the air slowly gone out of them. Back to my mug root beer. My sweet time home alone to myself, slightly on the beneficiary side. The asset of the balance was restoration of mental health.

k in red

I would have my converses. my all-stars on. black and white and just that simple. arguments may have gotten loud last night. but not complicated. simple like an air horn blast in your ear. well. through a hollow wall or door. this is low rent living. you know the deal. we cannot be sore. everything is built toward an early death of hard apartment life chewed up kinda living. Used to the give and take of taking. Oh, less the natural giving. Natural like breathing, of course. If you did not give, then never would you receive. Otherwise how would you know? how to cut it hard and cut it slow? Cut it deep so the shallows seem to be of commensurate kind of depth?

Had no one known a difference in depths? Well… you know the rest. So of course I was wise to the tales the oral traditions of dangerous acts and certain prohibitions… i was aware inside of me lay certain inhibitions (most of which i secretly hoped i could overcome). A childlike kind of desire came over me almost every morning as I awoke. So second nature I had to really slow down time – to a bowling ball release… (from a fastball down the middle with no sidespin). Plain and unaccessorized and hot out the oven.

Today was gonna be small as partly sunny. Large as organized unionized, pasteurized, homogenized labor. Like Oakland works and even on today, this k-day, this okay day. This say, what kind of day? hey! oh, right, taking a left turn on Broadway today. Say. Do. Bum a smoke. Listen to your heart. Faster then slower as you disappoint yourself. Then heat it up as you wax philosophical. Suffocating kinda fast on the spare the air day.

Feeling nautical. Enclosed. Embraced not so much. Traced now with the GPS on your android, checked off for awhile. Out of boredom. Change of style. Hiphop back to nothing back to hiphop. Play with the TV. Let her on then turn her off again. Silence the commercials and thank god you gotta remote. From the talk shows to retro tv; old episodes of that terrible show: murder, she wrote.

No remote access to your laptop. atop the tabletop. Time foams up like the air, the spaces in the air, the humidity after the ice thaw. The moisture in the place. The mould, if black, must be the worst kind in America. Basis: race. So you turn your thumbs around one another. Chasing flesh into butter. Not no margarine. Uncut portions may now be cut, in time like the cuts on your pen you made with whatever was sharp enough to make cuts. You forgot because you were in the blocks of natural inhibition amplified. We call these the ruts.

But today the sun will rise and fall and your chest will do the same. Your head will think the whole business slightly curious, all the way to half-baked aka insane. But no the sanity reminds you in the background. The foreground prone to quaking earth. The drip of clock arms shakes off the gravity and they will rise back until they peak above your head, where breathing is so easy.

Tommorrow at the mercy of the subconscious again.

Today I became conscious of the conscious objectors. And all foul political propositions which held court in the states for too long. For years.  Too long at the mercy of those who wish to burn wood inside their fireplaces. For fun. Not necessarily thinking they might be impacting anyone. Smoking cigars and tending to their hearths. Coughing up a lung, and further and farther from the earth.

Close to going underground, yet high from the contact with spirits never before seen (or seen only in dreams)…  Slow motion books, quickly and carelessly bound. The economic gradient in decline… (declination is a relatively healthy sign). Against the steep trajectory of the euro taking off. Take off your shoes and donate them to the Greeks. Let the dutch stop up the gaps and all the leaks.

Just like you, I’ve been waiting for this day.

And no, not just since last night.

When I lay down.

 The aforementioned statement is unsponsored, unclaimed, unadopted, and otherwise left hanging to expose and disintegrate into atmospheric conditions, and under no condition to be repeated, remembered, sued, reflected upon, or automatized unless a request is sent with alot of money to the author@ loveshelives@live.com.

life so far from spectacular (freewrite> K-styled vernacular)

Blessed!

Yeah, some people in your life, some chosen few in my life, some lucky charm girl or boy in our lives, yeah, sometimes we are so fortunate, Jupiter weighing into our house of fortune and fame, all nine moons working our water out and cleansing our path, sweeping the rough parts smooth, providence of angels, yes… this experience, if you had it you understand, if not please let me try and explain! for you have this possibility forever in front of you in whatever current manifestation, whatever currency you represent, well, its thick sweet in a non-romantic but glossy secular kinda shine or sheen,  not unlike the honeys of the world, farmed by the bees of the world. Thick drip of sweet intelligence into your mainline, feels like the superior class of olive oil infused with garlic fresh from Gilroy, California. A city like a town nesting south of San Jose and her central American flavor in the new century, the white population has dwindled comparatively in production and the Mexican sweat and calloused ground low center of gravity, gang-related, family placated, Juarez far far away now and hang out by the home depot on the curb for work in the early mornings of pickup truck transmissions humming on the downshift and pulling over for your reliable honest day labor natural to your central American bloodlines healthy and strong, with or without faith, music or Catholicism churns the energy the spirit the passion needed to kiss senorita and offspring aplenty, wash down the refried beans and avocado soft taco habanero fold, with a bottle of sugar coke in glass, the home the family drives you to move your ass and come home partially drunk off the shared wind down of laborers kicking it with cerveza in hand, yes, coming home with cash dollars for the missus to smile over and convert at the corner store Mexican-run to family sustenance like sunshine payday hitting you awakening you and lightening brightening your countenance, all of you. Dont forget every sunday to place the envelope sealed with cash rolled in paper for your source, your parents grandparents nieces nephews down in Chihuahua or wherever closer to equatorial heat of poverty and life simple and grateful beyond words for your obligatory contribution, still by choice, cause down there we must say with pride and tribute, props to these Americans below the guarde Texan New Mexican borders, well hey, they have a commitment to the greater whole the family the community that is often quite a stretch many lengths beyond what your typical USA brand American can fathom. This kind of love goes a long way in trust and good will and downshift at the curb to stop for the day laborers who never or minimal odds at least, take the kind of advantage a northern American sociopath might, as in take your money, take your wife, take your life, however they qualify and judge you for your insincerity they despise and lash out against in the end. Most pickups wouldn’t stop these days for middle aged white day laborers in these USA capitalist city centers and suburban sprawls, though such a species is rare to see. The whites who need the cream are more likely sitting at home on a satiating disability or workers comp or unemployment paycheck for now. The system not hard to work, if you know how to show up somewhere and act stupid act like yourself and be measured up as someone definitely for sure unfit for work, and probably if a jury weighed in on this type, would be seen through as insincere in the telling of your need for government cash support, and the insincerity aspect would ultimately represent the true need for help of some kind! so put them out to pasture so they dont fuck up whatever workaday world still remains in our credit-sapped country half-sold out like corporate initial public offering shares snatched like a Goldman Sachs or Fidelity decisively showing hand and taking the majority stake and the bigwig seat on the board, and letting the small shareholder sheep fall in line under their clear powerplay reign over the frightening landscape of capitalist one upmanship the old and existing paradigm put roots down so deep not even a Greenspan or Zell or Buffet or Trump could envision a way out, a path toward inevitable change, paradigm shift showing up sprouting from the cold hard unproductive parts of the soil, the tough ones, the occupiers, the Mike Moores, the musicians, the artists, the architects of change, the Aquarians, the social workers, the underpaid and overworked, the minorities, the descendants of American slaves, the queers, the fluids, the bis, the ex-cons washed through Delancy Streets or Salvation Army foot soldiers, under the great tutelage of former sixties revolutionaries, the Vietnam protesters, the ones who loved the poor kids coming home all fucked up in the head, napalmed, spirit firebombed,hooked on Asian dope so pure the cravings show up as multiple personalities coming out of your body and flying back over the Pacific to the Rim and waking them up in coldsweat nightmares and after shocks and PTSD left untreated, body bags struck the consciousness and dragged them blind and wet sweatsoaked bed sheeted with inspection failed at the corners they failed to sharpen and crease by protocol, for goddamn it! crying for help never got so ritualized as then, so the education of the new century youth who have the greater burden of bringing east to west in new paradigm living, community emphasis, leave no trace attitudes and inequality seek and destroy missions, arrested in Snow Park and formerly Frank Ogawa now dubbed Oscar Grant plaza, the criminal record scarlet letters will hurt, believe it, and ushering in this fresh and wonderful way of being will more than likely be accompanied by great loss of life and blood, as the nonviolent wisdom body gets put through the perfect storm of USA police state fear driven cash stocked NRA sponsored, tea party headliners, two-faced rubber bullet swarming system-programmed to protect some one percent faberge nest egg Wall Street incubates, violent response to the alien movement, a war of attrition fought for a rhetorical yet undocumented promised way of life that never existed, does not exist currently, and will have to be stripped down and documented and citizen arrested and media swarmed and exposed for its great lie! A lie that has fueled DC lobbies and capitalist greed eddies, and tragic consumed plastic product, like fisher price junk quality deep discount space-wasters that toxify our environment and leave our people starving without nutrition, HFCS vampires hitting the seven eleven white hen pantries for the arizonas the corn syrups the hormone-swollen dairy products and two for a buck sathers candies all the same HFCS just hidden behind form and leaving us all empty and without much function, just barely getting by with our loose change mostly dedicated to laundromats and weak ass dryers leaving our clothes our second skin our comfort our boundary against all elements moist and stinking, wrinkles of time, unfolded cause you ran out of your HFCS poor battery power like generic double As most people throw in the trash to further toxify our lands our skies our waters ourselves, too tired too burned out too pissed on and pissed off to care to separate it all out and follow the compartmentalization protocol the old paradigm offers in weary car salesman vernacular. Life was never so far from spectacular, dont you know. Infomercials in the middle of your sleepless nights sink to new lows, like poorly made powerpoint presentations suggesting we all require a pill to make our colons flow. Fuck no, fuck no!

Pretta, a girl with a weak heart

Pretta had a weak heart and everyone who knew her, knew. They may not have wanted her to know they knew, but she knew just the same. They may not have been old enough to understand what was said to still know. Still they knew. And she knew they knew, whether by speaking or gesturing or glancing away or rolling the eyes or tongues back or around in a circle or simply sucking on a thumb. She could relate to sucking. Her exposure sucked.

She learned to carry herself with grace. Before she even cared to, wanted to, needed to and so did. Her mother taught her with books on crown chakra balanced. Her neck became strong. Long.

She was seven years old, Pretta. Seven when she was able to walk through a small group of girls (not friends she knew but friends to them was she to be.  and do.)  also seven or so, most of whom she had to suffer in pre school times. Seven years old.  She held her head and her dresses high, and left them all with only a breeze trailing her strong jawline she inherited from her father. She would use unsparingly from this moment on.

She would be so generous. She would not spare them her pride. Inherited. She would not spare them it! For her weakness required compensation. Overcompensation to balance. A simple concept she knew, from the books on her crown chakra to ballet she watched the older girls and prayed to some day do, too. Having descended from a murmur descended from a fever: aka Scarlet. Red hood got her namesake by course of coursing blood and blue, turned out to air. Met oxygen with a blush. Stirred the beating heart some.

                 Scarlet. Scarlet sometimes coursing so as to make the tissue flush. Often a cure could come, some said, if you sat bedside and waited out the wailing winds. If you did not rush. Rouge red against the pale blues tripping out in an arc the moist flower bed.  Makes you scream, terrified. Strikes the weak of constitution dead. Or so was said.  No one wanted scarlet fever. That was how effective she knew exhibition of this trait to be. The small group of kids became smaller below her above average height, as she passed through unfazed. No less than two of the girls left the experience,  eyes glazed.

Pretta… she was going to make it. They also knew this, those who poked her and would not let her touch them back for fear of contagion.  She would outlive them all! You did not dare suggest otherwise. Everyone in this majority w.a.s.p country understood. The weak. The earth. The meek. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Ya Ya Ya… Her odds had low denominators, La La Ya!  She learned her math by it, her perfect true condition. The one thing that made her stand out  unique. Like the way she felt the day she rode her banana seat bike first through the mission. Approaching # one wholesomeness, they wanted her to think. Organic and good for the spirit.  Now tilt back, nurse said, and drink.

Young Pretta sprouted tall.  To help her get above it. A tall girl, many remarked, a lady still a girl. She would never know why they stopped. Why they stared. What they said. If they cared.  Sometimes she really minded. Most of the times she let them see the back of her head, her long dark straight hair.

Her peers they could not relate to her on many levels. She seemed older sometimes, but not all of the time. She got tougher every year, for sure. But all knew somehow the fears she carried, though some did not know they knew. Their was no lesson in her. She was not a subject to be taught. Still most and especially the boys thirsted to learn from her or learn her or learn to be like her, the girls.

She would not give anything to be any of them. Not one. Though she looked up to quite a few. Even looked up to younger girls she knew. She did not know why she was strong, or why everyone thought her so. But she let her hair grow long like a girl. And she arm wrestled until she was strong like a boy.  And the only thing she must pretend and put on, was that she was somehow tough, boy-tough.

She could and did pretend. She did not have to like it. She did not have to even be it, no. Not a fake. Atleast not pretend to the end. Where the boy would spit, she would hesitate. Then stop. Where the boys would curse, she would not. Where a boy would scream and yell and go manic? She would perform clear and conscious restraint. On a dime. Skirts falling ahead of her young calves and back again. Swing, swung. Swing, swung.

The boys eyes went wide like saucers, then telescoped small when she moved again.

They could not understand how she moved like that? could not predict when? She was a sweet sweet anomaly,  in the class of twenty twenty-two. A shame she would not graduate, Pretta, at least not through and through. She had to do things differently, or wanted to, they say.

She had a weak heart, Pretta. Everyone who knew her, knew.