The Prodigal Daughter

the revolution began in analogue because there was too much money in digital
the short waves of small places
i turned on a sony watchman from the 80’s
and there it was the voice, the small one
underneath the static and pitch of black and white diagonal lines cresting into blue waves and spikes
i tapped into the keyboard that we had plugged in, a relic from the refuse
and then it responded to me
it was a phantom of something long forgotten since the 70’s
the 1900’s obliterated by gadetry, craft beer, military spending, the westboro baptists, afghanistan, north korea, america, nuclear power
ancient land feuds still remain popular

it will probably take time until we can obliterate the $ said the static

2011: america is
rapidly sharing information and nothing is paid for but a connection to a binary system

high priced scented leather slung over the should of a woman with a tight black bun perched on the nape of a long muscular neck, she cranes her face toward the future of news
her hair smells of nothing
her cunt smells of nothing
her tail smells of nothing
her lies smell

i work on her in the department of lawn chairs and paper backs
we careen towards a future that is uncertain of it self and she is fully animated mouthing the words of silence that havent been programmed
so i work on her back and tap her shoulders

she is alive and ready to shop
i send her out to buy up all the land in the middle east so that she can run smoothly, she is a large machine mounted on the dashbord of a spherical vehicle

the machine tells me that i can’t write this, i can’t write about the things that i have been
and i type back
what should i write, the static flickrs something at me that i hallucinate seeing, the appiration of a smile
it tells me to obliterate religon
do away with race
do away with anything the mind has created and so then i will be free
and i ask
am i talking to Buddha
the machine cackles a laugh and it says no
human history and everything we have ever written comes to be a part of the collection of memory and i am only a manifestation of that

the woman is now plugged into the main output and she is a familiar face if anything, a disembodied talking upper half of a human seated on a swivel chair
she is wearing a pleasing wheat colored suit and her makeup has been painted to look natural
we formatted the disc just so, we bent the wires this way, and her mouth is ready for performance art

living vicariously thru the lives of others via a cable connected to another and another underground

yes material(ism) is reduced to pixels css xhtml dhtml java

transcribed in a particular way, generator hands and minds
readable to the ocular sensory input

i will regurgitate it and feed it back to you
i will turn myself inside out with a wand of brilliant light

what is the lack of duality
the lack of an opposite
not here nor there
the horizon into the void

thick white space
small tubular channels

super bodily extra hypotrophy into a wire a tiny pin point

flush left is all i know

to sit and write
to do it everyday
to piece to gether the fragments
b/c meme ory is a fractured thing like the earth
plate tectonics rumbling due to the core of truth light
fractured reality
the truth is unknowable
but we have all created it and the internet and technology and our tools are demonstrations of the mind articulated by the bodies we are given
as are our thoughts

confessional movement of the contemporary century:

teen girls get out yer lap tops
whip em out
those phones
those tools
to communicate self

src material
play
/movie
/art
/film
/language
/text
/ideas

the mind of matter the matter of mind dishing out the flip of the tongue into a pool of blue liquid

oh out spot
lopsided cousin of the circle
my brain takes the stimulus and creates more from it
a collective mantilla expands intricate /w threads

i want to write something that is all for you
i want to write an epic science fiction poem

yer always on my mind, u were alwys on my mind

it floats and the text is not big enough

i gain the strngth of the flow of brite energy thru the tips of my fingers

cherry blossoms bloom in pink sucession above 13th st
i have been reading about an ancient civiliazation that lives right below the clouds and they descend from the boddisatva
plums of purple smoke fill the room of ancient tiles
creed-ence scrolls down to the floor of the ancients yellow and pocked
there is something lost in translation
the characters are unseen to the present
words have been made anonymous by time
mother kali bears her tongue to the ancient kami
christ is cradled in a manger
and buddha is all of us as long as we can withstand an initiation

and i am meditating on pink clouds surrounded by speckled easter eggs strung in a canopy upon the dissemination of space and time and that which is contemporary

it is a wonderful world this
nirvana above the
scope of space and the jewels of the stars
celestial bodies moving in a harmony that we know so little about

tsunami in Japan
	
meanwhile there's a block and 1/2 line outside the i store in
     philadelphia
	
the ivory coast along with
     other nations in that geographical location are
     reaching an unnerving state of political unrest
	
meanwhile in america charlie
     sheen gets fired for enjoying
     too much crack cocaine (and unmentioned hookers)
	
teenagers in philadelphia put on
     hoodface to defend their lives
     nothing like education occupies their minds
	
meanwhile millions are spending
     more in $$ in this retail
     climate but oil prices are still on the rise
	
the emergency systems run smoothly
     as the fires blaze on and gundum is destroyed
     they are at a standstill
     coastal villages are wiped from the face of japan
	
meanwhile on watkins st
     feedback from a broken VHS
     play from youtube shaking
     recording equipment and cords
	
technology keeps failing me
     as well as the muscles in
     my face to convey emotion/feeling/thought
	
meanwhile in ameica the
     faces on magazines are
     derivative and empty
     glossy hollow eyes set in
     digitally airbrushed cheeks
     stare at me while i redeem a giftcard
     to buy chocolate and the tibetan book of the dead
     or actually \"the in between\"
	
surrounded by star shaped plastic
     pieces of slinky and of disco ball
     and silver glitter; huffing a pink rag
	
meanwhile an English singer of mild fame
     produces a concept album about
     the propagation of war and the
     fall of western imperialism
	
in america they are at a standstill
     over the budget and reproductive rights
	
meanwhile in philadelphia the weather
     was sunny until midday
     the clouds descended, black cushions
     under neath moon clouds
	
it is the Age of Aquarius, or at least
     that's the tune that's playing
     as i clumsily fail to locate a beat
     with a tambourine in electric orange light
	

i am the female forever with the snake
i want to shed the skin of my sex
watch it curl as it unfurls
a being without want
without the condition of knowing
lead me back to paradise
bring me the head of my enemy
carve it into 4ths
and keep the third eye for experimental tests

what made your third eye?
your male instincts
a thin man made out tanned leather hide and bone and teeth
though i am the aforemnetioned
masculine energy flows thru my veins
it goes uninterrupted into the silent river
out through the epidermal
this brings me back to you, the male
with an overflow of feminine energy
is that the origin of your third eye?

D: we are dissecting here
under the gaze of students in wht lb coats
and here under the microscope of science
the eye appears to be or normal construction
D: vitrosin and collagen present
the mystery of your life remains unresolved

the cyclops

we’ve come this far on eachother’s back
evolving water spring borne under neath the immense expanse constructed of items that can not even be seen whilst looking into the eye of the cyclops

obsessed with the man in the glass case
he says, this should be my job
the relic of man left over from red gelatin jell o molds with bananas and technicolor
language manipulated here and there
selling something
communication
a thousand pardons sir
i did not mean to step on your feet

but oh yes yes
the man in the booth
imagined vagabond poet; a square in a lot made of plexi glass depositing the tickets in a metal box
he thinks to himself: i could do this instead of work at the university
dreams himself on a hammock and a goat farm in new Mexico
picks the dead hippies from the windshield of his car
my father hopped trains and so did my sister
and all i ever did was get groped on the greyhound

we’ve come this far on eachother’s back
and i am on a back street in south philadelphia that is the street behind the street by the corner of Jesus Christ chinese in your bar and his house
glittering with brokenglassgarbagetumbleweaves highschoolhandouts
i think of the cyclopse
perceptions of the past
does the old mythology apply to the man in the booth and the bud eared adolescents?

our cyclopse eye with which we see
thru, on the road
down divergent
we all on the road
down convergent
undulating hip to lip
“the species needs to diverge from the tribe”
he put it in the bar on watkinsbackstreetpub. thin and knows german though himself a poet for 2 years followed the literary trail and then quit after he saw ayn (is it a yan or anne) rand in soho

He is there in the lot:
cyclopsian visions caressing grass split asphalt

i am not happy with the formatting, printed it would look much different

i am an expatriot of love
neither of us remember who exiled whom
the mere symbol of
a state of being
of something we ourselves could never communicate
the frailty of language
mis - con - s - true
particularly the con
the slip of the hips
towards you

a cunning snake
undulating around ankles
curling my love
smoothing my scales into skin
gliding thru the tall grass
into handwoven straw

i disavow my emotions
are your young ears clear dear?
can they hear?
what my body is telling you
is not what my mouth has said
please take note of the word
love
and know that it is only
an abstraction of reality

i will reenter the subspace
nocturnal tunnel digging
rodent eyes and teeth
getting closer to the center
scraping my way to the womb
my room
tomb
all the same center of place
i refute atheism
i chew on organ keys
and rotate on a bed of vegetation
it’s all unfolding out from us
the center
the sentience
creation itself
colliding rhythms of bass beats
chewing scraping escaping
subterranean

the characters all mostly the same
in small circles on the top
networks of bodies connected thru space and memory
indifference falsely estimated as cool a turn here

the trick
interior inverse

i want to stand in a white space
free from the objects i have accumulated
blankness
and heave a deep breath
of relief
that it’s finally all gone
nirvana

fall on this sword
organs fall into the snow
the body will be no longer
the vessel that carries this will be frozen and blue
against the pale white
pure white
bloodied with the corpse
and corporeal workings
a sentient self allows for this
the only exit route

thy battle is with thyself
there is no honor
there is no love

only
shame binding this thriving vessel

notice the beauty
transcend

______________destroying natural beauty
create illusions of it
through electronic means
connections no longer available at a visceral level

i am blue in white
i am choked and quiet
in a room of smiles
ye will never know me
as i fall on my sword