INTOX NONSENSE


NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION

WRITER, MODEL, GRAD STUDENT in STL

photos are of me or by me unless reblogged
all poetry and prose is original

  • Rambler #3 (very drunk notes on death from the notebook by my TV) [I’d say “rough” but it’s not really anything]

    I do not believe in heaven, but I do believe in peace.

     -

    Peace like a thrum, as in: being young,

     -

    or feeling that way again on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon in summer

    (which have a lovely alliterative connection),

    and hearing the dull sound of a TV turned to static in the bedroom,

    the hum of a radio, the hum of more than one,

    incessant rumbling of the distant concrete echoes—laughing, barking—

    the dull but roaring undertow of night bugs,

    the sound heat somehow makes all by itself at noon.

    There’s peace in this.

     -

    The word itself is a great success of language.

    We know, somewhere deep, what it means.

     -

    Peace is something only the body knows—

    it has spent its existence steadily moving away from and toward it.

     -

    The only true peace is in birth and death, in closure.

    There is a crystal clear ocean within us, and thoughts only trouble the water.

     -

    When death comes the mind will let go of the body.

    We find this terrifying.

    We think we have only known anything with out minds,

    that all will be suddenly lost.

     -

    But the truth is we’ve known everything with our bodies,

    thoughts are only the symptoms, our complex explanations

    for what these bodies already know, have always known and must.

     -

    Just as the womb sometimes miscarries naturally,

    life knows that it must leave, must end—and when.

    So it does, and despite all our thinking around it,

    it’s terribly happy to do so.

     -

    The mind has such a strong bite, grip so tight we never move beyond it in our living.

    Even now I write this down, a product of my country, education and upbringing.

    I have no way of speaking or knowing without my own misguided, biased thinking.

     -

    But death speaks volumes by itself.

    Death needs no languages—they rattle the mind.

    When it goes, the brain rejoins the bone, disintegrating into and then with the skull.

     -

    The body always knew.

    It’s satisfying to finally come down to this.

     -

    Not to never fight!

    to not fight valiant to the end!

     -

    But to appreciate that when it finally arrives,

    it cannot be so much a terror, a failure, too-heavy darkness as we think—

    but more of a release.

     -

    The body knows death, even if we can’t.

    The body knows, if anything, how to die—

    how to die spectacularly,

    how to fight and to surrender,

    how to accept release, to end the war.

     -

    The body knows how to create itself—

    how to be born, to give birth, and to die,

    death being integral to our creation.

     -

    All else we think we know, we have invented.

     -

    At the end of it, our bodies must be glad to do what they know best,

    now free from the torment of thinking, of rationalizations for everything.

     -

    The mind is a tool for wanting to live,

    despite knowing it couldn’t matter and no one survives.

     -

    The body’s a ship for moving into and out of existence,

    at both ends peaceful because we’re devoid

    of what made us aware we were ever alive in the first place. 

  • Poem #97 (Smoked Bison) [very rough, part of a project]

    Prepare a marinade to brine the bison

    -

    (Brining is the process of soaking meat in a salt-water mixture to retain moisture throughout the smoking process)

    -

    To create the brine marinade, mix spit and water smoked from your eyes in a pot and then drop in the bison

    -

    (Your bison should be completely submerged—you shouldn’t be able to see it)

    -

    You have to let buffalo brine for several hundred years

    -

                (Don’t watch it)

    -

    Light your charcoal smoker decades in advance and on another continent

    -

    (You will know that your charcoal is ready when all of the coals turn from black to a glowing white ash)

    -

    Go back to the kitchen and pull the animal out from the water

    -

    (Beware: returned tears dripping from the brine might burn your skin)

    -

    Put your bison roast on the grill fat side up

    -

    (Fat melts into the meat to keep it tender)

    -

    Roast your bison for ten thousand years

    -

    (During this time, feel free to turn on the TV)

    -

    You don’t want your bison to be fully cooked or it will turn out dry and tough

    -

    (Tenderness hides in the parts left alive)

    -

    Never cut into any meat straight off the grill while it is still hot

    -

    (Put a century between your body and the fire)

  • Proem #58 (Controlled Burn) [very rough, not sure I like it, part of a project]

    A basic premise of fire ecology is that wild land fire is neither innately destructive nor constructive: it simply causes change. Whether these changes are viewed as desirable or not depends upon their compatibility with one’s objectives. Regardless of man’s viewpoint, change is biologically necessary to maintain a healthy ecosystem.

     -

    There are three rumored origins in the naming of San Francisco’s tenderloin district. One compares the neighborhood to a cut of soft meat—the underbelly of the city. Another refers to the salary of the police—those working the district were so busy they could afford to truly eat. The last guess remembers the prostitutes—their inviting soft.

     -

    The use of fire in the forests of the United States has come full cycle. Early settlers found Indians using fire in virgin pine stands and adopted the practice themselves.

     -

    A woman’s body dating back 5,000 years was found in the tenderloin during excavation for a subway line. They did not put it back.

     -

    Annual burning to “freshen up” the range became a custom. This practice, plus destructive wildfires after logging, left millions of acres of forestland in the United States devoid of trees.

     -

    Most of the neighborhood was destroyed in the earthquake of 1906 and backfires set by firefighters to contain the devastation. Twenty years later, it became a haven for musicians.

    -

    A prescribed burn that consumes more dead fuel than it creates will reduce the fire hazard and, with few if any modifications, will improve wildlife habitat. Almost any prescribed burn improves access.

     -

    Immigrants flooded the district in the sixties. Cheap studio apartments were used to house entire families. These complexes were called “vertical villages” for their capacity. From the sidewalk, nobody inside could even be seen.

     -

    Prescribed fire does not benefit fish habitat, but it can have adverse effects. When shade is removed, water temperatures will increase.

     -

    Since 2009, the violent crime rate on the first block of Turk Street has been found to be 35 times higher than the citywide average. 

     -

    A buffer zone should always be left. If in doubt, a control line should be put in.

     -

    If you travel the city at night, imagine dark rivers run through Van Ness and Market, barrel down Geary and Mason. Only fish can cross it. Are you a fish?

    -

    -

    -

    *Note: text on controlled burns comes from the The South Jersey Resource Conservation and Development Council

  • i let katie do my nails
  • Poem #96 (At Dark I Put my Makeup On) [very rough, formatting looks odd]

    The 1-800 number at the bottom of the screen spells RE-AWAKE.

     -

    I keep the TV on all day.

     -

    Commercials let me know that something’s wrong,

    - - - and I have always liked to be afraid.

     -

     -

    If I must believe anything I want it to be everything I’ve heard on television.

     -

     -

    All afternoon I tape the shards of Maybelline biographies into a map,

    - - - their faces shot in popcorn pornographic:

     -

    - - - black-lacquered girls sat still in soft-lit bathrooms,

    - - - strewn across backyards,

     -

    - - - laid out on decks of glitter-boats and rooftops,

    - - - sharp heels loud on marble stairs and going down.

    This map plots the building of cities on top of my body’s

    - - - unlivable landscape.

     -

     -

    I didn’t even route the scarce roads running through my torso forest,

    - - - don’t know where they lead.

     -

     -

    So first I’ll build a sanctuary in the glow of laser-hair-removal ads

    - - - (first soft, then permanent),

     -

    cave out asylum in the clack of teeth snapped happily by lipstick queens.

     -

    Their secret:

    - - - faith is only unconditional when you believe in change and alteration.

     -

    The gospel of the infomercial cannot teach us being

    - - - but turning more beautiful—turn without end.

     -

     -

    Now it’s 5 pm, the brunette on the treadclimber loping a new meditation.

     -

     -

    Looking down at my body, the length of it lying across the blue couch,

    - - - I can see it’s an atlas.

    But one that’s far too fine and bare, a perfect planet shape.

     -

    A shape that any fool could learn as me, or recreate.

     -

     -

    The only way to truly alter is to change the gravity, the center.

     -

    But how do I find it?

     -

     -

    By dark I’m stood still in the bathroom, at the sink too close,

    ribs pressed hard to marble.

     -

    At the right angle, breath in a circle,

    I can hear the peaceful thrum of my skull’s crystal ocean.

     -

    Waves over bone sound that the water is empty.

     -

    I want to pollute it—

     -

    - - - shores littered in jungle-red glass,

    - - - foundations laid with concrete just my skin tone,

     -

    - - - cans and bottles cut to diamonds,

    - - - smoke wrapped silk-like through the breeze,

     -

    - - - oil tankers in matte split apart to turn the water dark,

    - - - an unknowable deep.

     -

    Even though nobody sees it,

    - - - not even I do when looking straight through my left iris.

     -

    The circle changes only in circumference,

    - - - flat pupil like a painted tunnel entrance.

     -

     -

    I can see where sight leaves, but not where it comes from.

     -

     -

    How could I not be suspicious, not face myself cautions and armed?

     -

    As with any foreign enemy, to invade you must start slowly

    - - - poison from the outside.

     -

    - - - Watch—

     -

    - - - here is the seamless bulb, the pale skin opening

    - - - -under a bright light, veins that run, run, run,

     -

    - - - a black pencil tip touching to white.

  • more katie
  • monkeybars
  • katie
  • playground i
i’m pale
  • willow curtains IV
  • chains
  • playground cleavage 
  • a little red light
  • hotel willow curtains 2
  • willow curtains at the holiday inn