tristan_dotdot

http://www.righteousbabe.com/artists/buddywakefield/index.asp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cyO59F0-vMg&feature=player_embedded

HBO came out with a doc called, Middlesex: Redefining He and She. it's amazing.

also,

crime

long before we knew her voice cradled a knife
my sister carried a puddle in her belly
made from the juice my mother fed her.
only from the right breast, only once a day.
never enough milk to kill the flies in her stomach,
just the amount to keep her basin growing.
my sister was always a small child.
face crooked and mouth desperate to chew.
once i found her on the floor of the kitchen,
teeth tearing splinters from a spoon.

http://www.forbes.com/forbes/2009/0622/lifestyle-poetry-slams-derrick-brown-poetic-license.html

also, my muscles are getting like, whoa, big.

my left eye watches the day waltz, 
tangled up in window glass,
amidst walls anorexic and white

sometimes -- it's as though i do not even live here.

still, i decide i can unpack the boxes later
there larger business is at work.
something of the sun is dancing
to the revolution music; such a moxie,
that symphony of wood, and wine --
of sin and youth pressed beneath my throat;

the lid of my chest sounds more brilliant
open than it ever was unaffected,
filled once only with arcane possibility
these, now are my beloved echoes
trapped into edges aged and perfected yellow.

i've kept the vibrations of my childhood
all in tact, here. i, a crouching belligerence
a stunned Spartan, i have held it all in place
as only a tired child of too many failed mothers could.

i was taught to listen for storms but ignore the sky.
yet my hands touch the surface of this, now,
thundering breastplate in wonder.
a myth of intonation is at work here.

noises playing like first rain following a drought
hitting tin roofs, which are hollow with desire;
their mouths already open

i've stopped asking my daydreams to produce miracles.
i'd just like the slowly draining quality of my accountability to edge itself against the side of a cliff.
and let the wind push its final good-bye.
i'd like to stop having sex with guilt. it feels like watching a virgin fold her underwear before getting into bed. sweet and painful.
i'd like to be more functional on wednesday's.
                                                                                              on stage.
                       during dinner parties.
                                                                                                                    in interviews.
                                                                  buying coffee.

"...your order sir? you're holding up the line..."

most days,
a latte
is my greatest
triumph.

i have 600 phone calls to make.
3 emails.
4 people to repay.
8 years of my youth to collect...

i need to actually make my therapy appointments.

my bed is often left unmade. high crime for the ocd.

i was messy in my youth. i'm nostalgic for the collection of dust i would scrawl messages in under my bed.

see, insanity is exhausting.

people think admitting it is the challenge...but a testament to ownership is simple. surviving the everyday with it, after ownership is claimed,

now that is the shit that leaves sweat stains on your clothes.
i've been doing laundry nearly everyday for weeks.
                                                                                                            nothing is clean.
the dust in the air
keeps me up at night.

people threw their hands up and danced around me at one point.
"we did it,"
they said,
"we burned the witch,"...

but a tea party does not satiate the birthday of a mad hatter...

you must make it through all of wonderland
balancing tea cups on your head.
                                                                                   you must speak to every flower.
                                                                        feed every cat.
                                                                                    survive the playground for both god and the devil.

when god is the devil.
and you are god.
religion,
                                                                                   makes so much sense now
                                                                         i think priests must quiver in their sleep.

 

i know so cause i saw it out the window
it's seven p.m.
my heart races for balance. a metronome.
so i guess we live in a beautiful world

 i notice there is a dog at my heels everywhere i go. 
i sense he is worried about me.
i agree with him, thus enjoy his attention - at times, require it.

my panic wakes me up round six.
usually panic follows a dream where forgiveness is involved.  i know that it's not coming. 
forgiveness is what occurs at a kitchen table between oreo's.
salvation is what i'm after.i checked into a wack hotel three nights ago for punishment
nothing has improved except my new-found obsession with god
but i don't believe he even exists right now. even if he does,
this place holds all the souls god turned his back on.
we sit in the center of satan's palm together and wait for christ to come on back.

speaking of christ, one girl openly discusses the scars still bleeding down her back.
she snuck out two nights prior and allowed some local to hang her from a branch.
another, sniffs so constantly, i can only be around her for periods of ten minutes
before having unbearable urges to jam a Kleenex so far up her nose
i can wipe the cocaine clean from her brain.

a boy roams around strumming a guitar, with only five strings.
his voice is as inconsistent as his stories.
it's freaky; he tells the same one over and over, and yet it always changes.
which reminds me of how fragile our truth is.
so i guess we live in a beautiful world

i haven't moved much since wednesday.
scared my truth will change
can't see around the corner
the west wing smells like urine.
they tell stories about what the security guards do to you at night time.
i haven't yet swallowed a pill.
some boy upstairs is heavy in heroine; he screams in a pitch so high only i can hear him,
the docs opt to mute our minds til they find a way to solve them
which means i'm the only one not on drugs

the others line themselves up, 3x a day, like kindergarten
i whisper to hush out dirty soul thoughts
they will drip from sink sockets to waterfalls if you let them.
 hallucinations come with the territory
"you don't even need to be schizo, "
the girl with stigmata bleeding on her back tells me
she will sneak into my bed later and
promise she doesn't fuck like she's 16
when i consider the offer, i know i have gone officially insane.
i panic on thursday, cup my ears until friday

lesser quality thoughts are secondary, i will pray.
oh yeah, i pray now.
it's this new addition to my life.
it grew out of my head like a limb.
i pray to the back god turned on me.
but i don't believe my voice so i tell myself i can't die yet.
i promised you an opera. a tragedy about the fragility of truth...

before i die, i know have things to do.
like laundry: my clothes smell of insanity and cigarettes.
i realize becoming desperate for my smile to return
i google palm reading in search of a hint
outside i watch a rabbit run by and convince myself it holds some sort of prediction.
that's when my pores expand.

toxin seeps out.
leaves a trail of sin running along the small of my back.
the dog is back at my heels again.
and all i can think is, rabbits.
this shit is unholy.

Ky and our film made it into the Chicago Reader... YAY!!!

please read the article:

http://www.chicagoreader.com/features/stories/ourtown/071011/kydickens/

pass it along. promote love. done.

yours,
..ts

ps: the film has a myspace, too!

 http://www.myspace.com/fishoutofwaterfilm