Lethargic Limbs

I'm thankful that arms are attached to shoulders, my gut would throw whatever is in reach if it could grasp, the true conflict  is that hands' selfishness has left shoulders to do all of the heavy lifting, and then I'm saddened that these plates were born without a tongue. 

There is a colonie of women out there for me, we are the scattered kind. Walking alone, but always united as one.

I die
material to be slipped (in)
over the body, manipulated,
draped, casting a shadow:

A punching bag. An honest Ape.
I die friendships that never were for
A tightly woven assault of cast offs
And unfriendly whispers, pretty colors,
and I never hide my stained hands.

Lackluster,

Being misunderstood makes me boil to the point where I am sitting next to the opponent, pointing fingers at myself, ready to throw rocks at this person standing before us. I still reside in this body, and after the stones hit the ground, I find bruises I inflicted. 

feels like,

an illustration for 

twatmagazine.com

GEM, N0 3

GEM is a zine based out of Idaho, collecting all willing to be vulnerable and willing to engage in arsty dialogue. If you want one mailed to you, click here

This collaboration between Colin and I was for the theme Climate Change. 

The collage is Colin's part, I particularly like the Donald Trump baby resting on the starved cow.  I used an original Norman Rockwell illustration and re-purposed it, I felt it was appropriate to use him for this project. 

2008

 

2013, Response

 

I found out some of my work is better as spoken word, I think Colin still writes with a lyrical conviction. Currently, both are voiceless.

tonight, i would remember better if i had one more drink.
i miss my grandma.
sometimes i smile at dogs, like; the kind of smile that is the milk and ornamented in indulgence, like i want to take them home in my white van and just smother them / of abandonment issues. most self-respecting owners watch me salivate like a wolf over their pets. like i am just going to eat them.

irony,

obsessed with grit & bite.

Tara Dougans is the original on the left

and since this is a post about responses and appropriation, 

here is prose written in 2008:

Hungry birds drag majestically behind the window,

Twenty-six floors above the city, and I watch them every night.

High rise, never loses the hours of footing, and the swan-like woman wifes herself to the edge of the plank. Up and down, hand in hand, they face each other.  He bends at her brace, later even the stars howl in the voice of a turning moan, and at eight o'clock, the bowl of fruit is still

with such certainty, that the ritual of man is as strange as the legs of the animal who closes her eyes over in their graves of sky.  Cavernous mouths close back with such force, open throws, and the woman leaves around midnight.

---WHICH! was taken from the ever clever Maxine Chernoff, Evolution of the Bridge, "High Rise" :

High Rise

The man next door has extended a long wooden plank out of his

window. Twenty-six floors above the city, I watch him every night.

With the certainty of a commuter train, he arrives at eight o'clock.

He always dresses in orange trunks and black flippers.  A white

towel drags majestically behind him.  He bends at the waist,

extends his long arms, swan-like, and springs up and down three

times.  He never loses his footing. 

Later in the evening, he and his wife enjoy a stroll to the edge of

the plank.  Hand in hand they sit facing each other.  Like 

hungry birds they open their cavernous mouths and look straight

up at the sky.  Often they sit there for hours, still as a bowl of fruit

on a table.

When the woman leaves around midnight, the man performs his

closing ritual.  He braces himself with his legs, throws his head

back with such force that the plank moans.  He closes his eyes and

howls once in the voice of a strange animal.

The stars turn over in their graves of sky.

"those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities."
-Voltaire, just preaching it circa the 1700s...

IF YOU ARE THINKING ART, ARE YOU MAKING IT???

You know, wearing a crown in silence is no different than wearing your own gravestone. We all know the dead can't speak. 

remember when i held you close to my chest, peek down to see

the typography of what was my dream and i would gently whisper,

"new york fashion week," but could never finish the sentence

for fear losing, before you were even realized. my first course catalog

is a friendly neighbor to some of my favorite anthologies and et al's,

all aspirations of this and that, in what has been a busy and lonely 

attempt at expression, it sits gently; similar to the feeling you get 

as your grandma is dying and the need to let go of her tangibly hurts 

more than the sound of her voice because it hasn't hit you yet that 

it is over. 

some strike endlessly,

not out of shame

but in. an enthusiastic

endeavor of a will.

(and use potential

wholeheartedly, yours & mine

until what's left is like

the bottom of any cereal box:

a breakfast of champions)

of blending in the li(n)es

of deceit and sweet

nothings

i allow to happen,

and some times

almost admire it,

Asli,

 

i love that she wears romanticism under her eyes, relentlessly. 

it is 3am. when i finish telling you of my sorrow, through my horrible telephone, i am going to use it as a flashlight, desperately wavering over Allen Ginsberg's HOWL, wondering where my own went. i care more.