we run like dogs,
we're tidy like books.

at night,
we climb in our favorite fantasies
like bath tubs of old porcelain
where the chips tell a tale
we drink and we loosen our lines
and we sing a little louder and we lust a lot longer
and we let our feelings get the best of us
the very best of us gifted to madness
and we play with our words like hop-scotch or bird song
and we retire to soft arms that we hook
and pillows with a billowing view
and long, sweeping novels just to read someone write "forever"

and on days when the sun vaults through
pines like shafts of powdery light,
and holy sight,
we are freckles, eyelashes and fingertips,
we are the first people,
we are the last people,
we are the creek.

we are laying on stones
and blessing our own weight,
we are bodies without a care,
we are rushing by fervently
without going anywhere.

goddamn, baby
i'm gonna dig the splinters out of you

i will suck on your bee stings

there are nettles neath your knees
and i don't care

i found a million years
drowned and sleeping in ancient tar pits
to think of all of the ways
to make it right on your mouth
to say hello and mean

you ran the past over with a steam engine

the internet is so confusing

what is the precedent for the kind of jumbling produced here in this nonspace--

"Female escorts Webcam sex District.9.720p.BluRay.x264-METiS diggu1GQfE,
Couples dating Teen dating in Grantsville WV
RT DenmarkLeo To love, work, study and travel in Denmark: Salary in Denmark, how to calculate it? 3Msnsb Disconcerting: The toilet paper of the stall you're in being changed through the wall from the
proof required: need to clarify the claim that Jon Campbell is the 5th most sampled songwriterproducer in the world 8sLImA Let me correct myself. Dont Take the Girl by Tim McGraw is by far the best song ever written.,
Saving aerospace in Washington State - sharKECN LaDainian Tomlinson No doubting Thomas fantasyspplayernflLaDainianTomlinson676780 NFL SD,"

also, in other news, i have a big crush on this song right now.

proserpina by martha wainwright

OH MY GOSH ALSO I'M STILL ALIVE!
the new world is beginning--
what are your visions intentions dreams for the beginning of the new world?

baby goat skulls forever

it's real
inspired by drawing in ROT by katrina,

drawn by chaz @ ritual arts studio, pdx
body by me
stars for mandeep, martin, mutiny/ravin, mellow

ho ho ho

friday: how many time have i listened to this today? i'm not actually gonna talk about what happened because there's enough people to do that for me. but remember, the president eulogizes, "a street corner in Chicago" and it was my first thought anyway.

saturday: i was thirteen once, with an internet connection/such a boner for homoerotic subtext and we're back at this story again but this time the smoldering exiled prince who just needs to get his people back home shtick doesn't seem so great with yet another white face and sorry baby, bodice-ripper lieutenant general, you can look like you're in some terrible norwegian doom band and i will still want to ride your face and yank you further into me by the roots of your viking hair (it will hurt) and think about you in leather pants and your hands on a huge double-necked guitar, but idk it's not as exciting as the first time around

sunday: your hubs is watching us carefully. is this scary? let's talk about pills, xanax and wellbutrin and chinese hamster ovaries and you talk about which ones made you fatter/skinnier and i talk about the ones that drove me into the lake in april. no one says nutjob. nutjob is a term of endearment. we're squawking  because of the resonance. i'm watching him, watching us, and is this what it's like to be married? he accuses you of being a lightweight. you're deffo a lil drunk. but, girl, they made us this way.

monday: don't leave the house.

tuesday: i move paper from my desk onto other peoples' desks. later in the nosebleeds, i'm not turned on by soldiers for the first time in forever. look, soldiers yank my chain the way dead girls yanked poe's, but i know no one's gonna die in this playhouse tonight. so no waterworks. after, i have to check that my life is still there so i reread all our old emails. i realize i know what i am going to say if you die young.

wednesday: four hours and no shower is not enough. send help, can't stop listening to ke$ha, can't stop thinking about zizek, like maybe he's weeping about neoliberalism (but not really because he maybe doesn't care that much) and noam chomsky comes along and fingers his asshole til he feels better. i would pay for that download. okay, i wouldn't.

p.s. hey, j, saw you on the sartorialist. how you feeling about that?

city men

oh not much

geez it is pouring out here in the west hills of portland and it sounds like the ocean crashing into the back of this mansion.

putting things in bags, this dance i have been dancing of touching things and shuffling papers,
scrounging for toothbrushes (i'm at 4 now)
flipping through books
sorting into piles
rolling up clothes
putting liquids in plastic bags.
oh geez home again home again jiggity jig.

headed to pittsburgh tonight on a bird that walks on clouds slurping gasoline
or something
it's funny to be excited about not paying rent
for a few weeks
in the house
i grew up in
for years

i'm hoping to find some ways that are satisfying for me and easy gentle for my sister brother parents to celebrate welcome acknowledge the solstice on the 21st and the full moon (the 28th?). lots of things. and a family reunion in tennessee. my mum sent out an email suggesting cabins for the "kids" based on gender and then another email suggesting instead a division of quarters based on "comfort."

yup yup,
it's portland,
everything's fuckin cute
even in the rain!
pink and purple narwhals,
uniporn,
restaurants with "toast" in the name,
splashy umbrellas,
tiny inventions
apps galore

it's been a whirlwind here, and really really fuckin lovely. lovely to walk around and say "oh i don't live here anymore!" (we just got officially "approved" to rent a house with a fruit room near wolf creek. mmmmmmhmmmm) also busy and wet and occasionally totally overwhelming.

all of these words
feel a little hollow
right now

i have a new tattoo!

Jungle guru and the search for embodiment

Grateful to rediscover this forum. A lot is shifting, oozing, and rearranging in my being, and it feels right to share. Self therapy to feel very dear and distant friends out there witnessing me.

One month ago I flew to hawaii with a dream of wildness, warmth, and simplicity. I spun the key to all this would unfold on the golden being of my friend Lucien, who breathes the jungle of pangaea, takes care of the trees, and visits the warm ponds by the ocean every day to do watsu (underwater massage) and eat sprouted cocos rich with ocean minerals.
When I arrived back to the west coast from Kauai in July I was already halfway in pangaea, and though I LOVE DANCE, theater, and spectacle, I was prideful and judgmental of the way it gets compartmentalized onto stage and dance floors. I felt that the very point of dance and expression is to blend with and decorate nature in beauty and gratitude, that this dance is meant to take place on windy bluffs and rolling rivers, not in an environment tainted with ambition and who-have-you-studied-with, which-chakra-is-alighting-now boom Chaka boom Chaka what the hell does jai ambe mean anyway?
So I thought, I have figured it out. All I need is my own embodiment, a jungle where I can be wild, warm waters to make love to. I have found the simplicity of being beyond all the madness of the world.

I didn't realize how prideful I had become, how much I looked down on and pitied folks who live in cities. How I pitied that they would never be fairies and mermaids.
In arriving to the island though, this all came up for me. Lucien turned cold and universally judgmental. I woke up everyday singing a prayer my friend wrote

We are the gold flames of violet blue black light
Warming hearts, lighting humor
Spirit, knowledge and wisdom shall kindle our own love
Free darkness
And we dwell at last in the light of the sun
And we dwell at last in the light of the sun

Singing as I whacked cane grass to poison the fire ants. Feeling an emptiness in the core of it all. A strangeness in the young drummers and old farmers drawn to this Land of lava, fruit, and dramatic cliff. Deep beauty and loneliness. Highs and lows of emotion spurred by a diet of only fruit.

I couldn't be around Lucien any longer so I decided on a whim to go to kipahulu, the mystical far out side of Maui that I'd happened upon with my dad three years ago. That was right before I went to brazil, when bao family were at the height of our bukaka spat here revolutionize being through bdsm and magic phase. I had found kipahulu where "all is one" and back then been kind of snarky. I imagined that this time I would come and allow that merging of the micro and macrocosm to envelop my being and bring me peace.
Surprisingly I found the same questions arising for me as did three years ago; something felt superficial about the sunny raw food picnics along the ocean and spiritual songs. I ended up spending most of my time alone swimming in the amazing waters, foraging for food, writing songs, brushing off the various corners of my being.

I feel I came to Hawaii in order to leave it. I am flying back to Los Angeles today and am actually excited about it. Excited about taking butoh and African dance classes, about meeting the community there, about allowing myself to enjoy a city despite the packaged food and cars. I know I want to spend my life in nature, and I also know I love culture as deeply as nature. I have a lot to learn and want to be active, growing, serving.
Excited for whatever is about to happen next. Happy to have shed some degree of pride, though I'm sure the lion will rear its head again and again this lifetime. Happy to realize I can carry the wildness and simplicity of embodiment inside me wherever I go.

days when the sun pours down
like crystalline pellets
on slick, mirror paths
and the oaks don their pearls
and the snow lifts off the mountain with the fog
to excite some other valley with its sight
and i ask the oak woman
may i be as strong as her word
as i sit in the rain
and pull back the husks
of molasses and clay
to get to the soft, gnarled center

i smell time
in the wind
turns the leaves
leaves me
on the couch time lives
where time stops
the couch we made to hold our bodies
when we tired
from the rising
birth grave gravity rising tired
bodies and chairs to sit

look upon the world
beyond glass
moving around the world changing
house on a hill
3 years ago held a family of people
now sits too gaping
the forest and field have opened it
rot brings things down
doubt brought him down first then her
then him then her

floor drifts toward the basement
the couch slides into the ground
the whole house does
babydolls, exercise weights
and books on homosexuality

what is boy?
don't google that.

baby dyke-o-rama

first, actually
hi, i read this sometimes
it's really intense.
i dont do much on the internet but email these days
thank you for sharing your feelings and findings.
i don't know if i can do that in this form
but i love you
and i love this
(i'm talkin to you t'mo)

and second,
i just found this little piece
written at age 18  (you may remember it from que(e)ry #1, which was created january 16th, 2009... 4 years ago now)
i used to do writing exercises of 100 words
here's one

100 words
Listen: I just want some cunt. I want to gaze at cunt. I want to breathe cunt. I want to inhale odorous cunt. I want to kiss cunt. I want to consume the air that surrounds cunt. I want to caress cunt. With my fingerprints, with my lifeline, with my taste buds—both sweet and bitter—, with my eyelashes, with my nostrils, with my knuckles. I want to curl the curls, the lips, and then dive, probing for mysteries and miracles alike to behold, and upon finding, marvel in silent—or not—awe. For a good time call

Measures of Personal Sucess/Personal Measures of Sucess

1. low stakes sexting
2. the rain the wind the snow and my ruddy cheeked genes don't make a good pair, i show up anyway
3. i have something to hide
4. early december, bus ride through indiana, i am scared of the man who talks to himself and mutters, "i been in the penitentiary most of ma life" and the municipal waste treatment plans don't seem beautiful to me and i know it's hilarious that i live in illinois but not in illionois, but at least i'm not claiming america looks like one place, you know?
5. my nail game/the best ass for twerking/my fuck-me face
6. my hand is on the seam-ripper
7. can you dj?
8. my whole body doesn't want me to say, my spine runs into a pin point and my veins push up to the surface of my skin and someone notices my hand shaking and maybe i need a beer before all of this, but i'm still saying it all anyway
9. still not dead yet

some people in the woods have web access

"Axes" by Mark(ie) Aguhar, queer genderqueer transfemme brown artist in Chicago who committed suicide earlier this year (1987-2012) - http://markaguhar.com/tagged/drawing

related : http://youtu.be/NGe0hHvAGkc "ugly" by 2NE1

"As the (generational) effects of global capitalism, genocide, violence, oppression and trauma settle into our bodies, we must build new understandings of bodies and gender that can reflect our histories and our resiliency, not our oppressor or our self-shame and loathing.  We must shift from a politic of desirability and beauty to a politic of ugly and magnificence.  That moves us closer to bodies and movements that disrupt, dismantle, disturb.  Bodies and movements ready to throw down and create a different way for all of us, not just some of us." 

- from "Moving toward the Ugly - A Politic beyond Desirability" on Mia Mingus' blog Leaving Evidence, keynote speech from 2011 Femmes of Color Symposium in Oakland
http://leavingevidence.wordpress.com/2011/08/22/moving-toward-the-ugly-a-politic-beyond-desirability/

so if you want to kill yourself remember that i love you

THIS WORLD IS KILLING MY FRIENDS
AND I AM FURIOUS
AND SAD.

fly high mutiny-kelsey-byrd-brainz.
another witch, another radical queer, another edge-walking boundary-defying larger-than-life whirlwind,
the third suicide of a real amazing freak friend i've seen this year,
metamour, meta-metamour,
and that's just with my eyes;
i'm wearing blinders of forest to refocus,
block out some of the horror of civ/the world/our culture/...

STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS
STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS
STOP KILLING MY FRIENDS

i'm less interested in dying than i used to be
doing this dance: facing confronting death without fear,
doesn't mean i want to die
or that it feels "okay" to see my friends killed by the world.

and what is it, what is to be done,
when i find myself wishing that facebook
had a button, a "group," a "subcategory,"
for "dead friends"
so at least i would KNOW
somehow an identity category that could be changed with a public consensus of ten or a thousand or a measure of knowing beloveds
from "alive" to "dead"
(we get to say we're alive and it's our friends who verify we've died?
is that right?)

who's to say,
who's to say,
who speaks the names of the unnamed dead
where will we build their altars
what will happen to our bodies

kimya and i agree--"don't ever put this body in a casket"
maybe we could all dive into morbidity and celebration for some time
as we are young and beautiful and vibrantly alive
and think about what we'd want to happen if we died
it's on page 9 of my journal--
if i had a funeral i'd want everyone to be invited,
i'd want people to play games,
i'd like for people to touch each other a lot,
i'd like for the people who weren't sure if they were supposed to be there
to be right in the middle of the circle,
i'd like for z and fox and tate and tmo and lelz and stam to collaborate on the playlist,
i'd like people to tell stories about me and also about my mistakes,
i'd like everyone who i made out with or was lovers with to sit together,
i'd like the food to be great,
i'd like for people to decide to do brave or weird or adventurous or nasty things after the funeral,
i'd like for everyone to really feel great about being alive,
and i'd like to become a tree.

or not, you know. we've made this many narrow escapes.
of course we would have scratches from our run from the capitalist death-machine.
how much time does the mouse spend thinking about its predators,
about where it wants to die,
such things?
does this line of thought jive with living in the fullest,
brightest and darkest,
present-est,
crafted and accidental,
most that-which-you-desire
way?

well,
what now?

when you paint your nails and put on your lipstick and get your hair cut and make sure it's big enough and shave your toes and buy a beaten ring from Forever21 and the tear in your tights peeks out from under your skirt and put your eyeliner on real thick and holster your tits and lick around the rim of a beer bottle

do you mean it?
or do you just "mean it"?

my shitty hosiery rubs a raw spot in the crease of my crotch
that's what it means to be born to die