The Process

Category: Poems

We don’t know anything much no not so much at all

None of us ever

Even knows what we

Think I

 

Have come to know, which

To be exactly unhypocritical

Would be more of an, “I

Have come to suspect,”

 

Knowing is hard so

Very hard I

Heard

 

A girl go on a passionate

Rant at the bar and

She knew all she

Said but from a fact

Standpoint, she was wrong

So maybe not knowing as

I suspected she did not

Know.  The thing

 

About now is Trump

Which makes me consider

America is not was not

Ever the good place like

What dream yes there

Were are some good things

But to reminisce on teachings

 

I would argue American history

As well as many lessons

Taught to young American students

Are not truths or facts as much

As perceptions handed down

Through the most widely prescribed

culture/ dominance/ situation.

 

The word propaganda is one

I enjoy using to describe

Most things that seem subjective,

Even slightly, like old cooking

Principles not rooted

In science or our

Landlord’s promise of laundry in the

Building but I digress

 

I have come to think of

Thinking and the questions are so mean

And arbitrary but loud, have credence.

 

Like is it important

To rise in power and financial freedom before

Expressing generosity to those who have nothing

 

What is a citizen and why are they so popular

 

Why is seventy percent of the week

Supposed to be work

 

How can there be hell for the

Love people at all

 

Who the fuck is Jesus Christ and

Would society be about as

Fucked if a group of babies

Survived an apocalypse and found the

Harry Potter series and adopted it as

Their bible but only some

Of the babies found the later books

With Sirius Black involved or whatever the

Appropriate analogy is

 

Is it hard to make your baby a good person

 

Why is every debate about a

Them

 

How can I write or talk

When it’s all questions and no

Beliefs or why is it

Squirming to express the

Simple values I do have to people

Who say that they know but who

Don’t

 

I would say the one knowance I

Have approached is that bad is from

Fear; no confident and capable person

Ever is bad, no not truly, no they are not I

Seem to notice and approach knowing that

thing.

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Welweteen Anchor

I came to a definition

Of euphoria yesterday

In a momentary lightness

In my back

 

I knew

 

I carry all questions

In a cavity in

There

 

Sometimes

 

The cavity empties

 

That levity:

 

A body’s mass

Is supposed to be weighted

Flesh, bones, organs, the like.

 

Yet this

Estimated thing I

Have come to know–cavity

 

Going from dense

Clay to warm

Void in a moment

 

Gravity is acting

On it not

Known mass

 

In an instance of

Drinks in an instance

Of sex or

Being perceived as making

Sense or held or

Escaping, bending

Id-ward or helping or knowing

Truth I

 

Could drift up and fuck

Off from the prison of my

Ponderings, prostrate analogies

I could know

 

By any sense sensing what occurred

Near my body and not

 

Not know it

As I so normally don’t

 

As I’m engaged in

Parlance with a loam

Thick with askings and

Riddles regarding fairness,

Ethics, and imaginings

 

And I like it yet

The loam is

Connected to my skull and

Nourishes it the same

Way welwet does a buck’s

Antlers,

 

Causes him to become

Hewn or pointy or instinctive, able

In his maturity or

Wholly stagnant, stale, or irrelevant,

 

Waste of existence,

Miss the point?

Another Day

The toilet was running the toilet the toilet was was running,
running there’s a pool of shit water in the toilet brush holder
in a well-ish kept public bathroom there is a pool of shit water shit shit
water.  The two feelings are annoyed and nothing and intermittent
intermittent, fairly intermittent crying regardless of either two and a half sentiments |sashimi
has made me consider presentness due to its honesty|  the best the best the best

of the policies is is sashimi sashimi is the best policy.  Staling is the need for
speed staling thighs and lungs I am pond-like or rotten in my stagnancy in my
stagnancy I consider cutting my hair off or leg or finger off off off any choice is productive

if motherfucking productivity is producing an effect an effect instead of an outcome of course of course of course horse norse viking pelt the presidency if that if that if that is what we are calling it it it baruch hashem ass man frito pie poured into black-polished tasseled loafers

the boy has the boy has boy has left the man the guy has left he is i am the frosted windshield and the bugs the bugs on the outside are the bugs are also us and you | the two metaphors are rarely able to occur simultaneously; they are more here for seasonal options which illustrate an obstructed view and a constant bashing and a gnashing of bumper against what at once is was a 3D being and is was a 2D was-ing| in any in any at all of the cases the car the car is in motion the car is in motion away and the innards and outards are not are not succeeding not so well not so well, in fact they are hollowly raining of the eyes

The sashimi was cut shittily by a shitty person and served by a shitty nihilist and eaten by a shit and turned into shit and pooled into a toilet brush holder and no one was any the wiser or everyone knew and didn’t care and did but didn’t care and or everyone knew and cared and hated each other and money and fish and appetites were lost and a family of fish worms died a mournful and needless death or they didn’t care and preferred to end it all because The Leagues Below are Teeming With Russian Spies and they can trust no one but don’t care as the only fathomable existence fathoms below is one of {kremlin or gremlin or cruller or worm} survival which was ruled out by such worms &/ they fathomed something fabled and aspired to return as some behemoth whale and and and and whatever the mentality, they perished, and who is to say whether it was a shame, in vain or and and fucked.  Sillily

weighing the thinness of the line between orderly and anal retentive, the human considered the likelihood of achieving either and subsequently aimed for both while plainly aware of its inability to avoid the quick brown fox Wearing Bathing Suits at Work jumped over the lazy dog on Laundry Day |It had it had been certainly been decided that one would not definitely not enjoy its mead and also achieve anal reten-tion/-tiveness or avoid sticky licks of chicken skins and the scenario’s subsequent sucks of sticky digits | trunks, picture, obviously, +/-  what the fuck bikini fox, salted/burned nipple?

 

Banana Pudding Tequila God and Heaven

Any responsibility I have to a self is shredded wheat cake and disassembles in the presence of most liquids: most think of milk but anything//
salacious bodies lie on the gum-tarred sidewalk and flap fish-like in search of
orgasm, a veil dropped behind the eyes rather than lids

maintains decorum within, without is dissolved and on display for passersby
who wouldn’t bother anyway–the body could be a corpse or a tree or a box.  Doesn’t
matter.  The sticky sweatpants will affect almost nothing.  My pillow talk

is of being dead in the ground without the interest for something more.  The third rub
on the lamp evoked a thick smoke that dried the wheat, almost set fire to it: a body that said euthanasia should be available on grocery store shelves.  What if your child…

“yes, it’s sad.”  Community of frigid underlings?  Underlying?  Outlier?  Interred?  Flung out or even strung out in the cosmos, one toe in Earth’s atmosphere, dipping it, buying milk and naked?  Seven layer dip served out of a guy’s head while he sits on the cement,

loafers and shorts, maybe lost a job or found Valhalla in a urinal: many will win, few will enter?  I am reduced to the powder at the bottom of the bag but consider that a step

toward firmness and the construction of sap to amber, while I trap you transparent, beetle, we might’ve been syrup but now head toward jewelry, ornament exhibition tomb.  From what I understand, the choice of death quick and cozy could be taxed.

In Loving Memory of my Bowl Cut

When I try to explain myself, I remember being a child, watching the hips of teenagers spilling over their pants on Rehoboth Beach, wanting them for myself and also for myself. To figure out which, I don’t know how: this was before I learned to hate this body and when I didn’t know it wouldn’t grow to be a man. The gentle hanging of fat from down the back of a thigh: it was ideal? Inhabiting myself is a dream in which I’m on and off lucid, committed and then quickly realizing this couldn’t be true, wouldn’t.

The Usual Crises and Boring Shit

In a room of talking bodies–I am one of them–I’m looking at the
rest, each glance sounding off a little wish in my head.  I wish I were…
that lazy looking, low-belted bro, the girl that subsists on just coke, the now-long-sober dude, the girl in the either ironic or stupid-sincere t-shirt: I wish I were anyone.  Even as I’ve come to suspect A Body Can Only Know Anyone Besides Itself, I’m bound by the perception that everyone here defies that notion, wrapped up in their enigmatic but clear designs, and the bindings tighten around my regret for my choice of pants.  If I could tell anyone about myself beyond the basic physical and occupational facts, I could hardly think of anything more than a list of things I am not.  And because people these days have eyes, half my potential parlor conversation is obsolete.  I Am A Cooking Person rarely makes the cut unless you’re talking to someone incredibly narcissistic.  Where do you work?  What kind of food do you cook?  What’s your specialty (the worst question)?  It is difficult to steer a conversation less than by saying “I don’t currently work, the only major cuisines I don’t cook much at all are Japanese and Ethiopian, and I don’t really have a specialty unless fried bologna sandwiches counts.”  Out of context, I guess I sound like a real winner.  But context is just that, and long ago I lost a spark for the type of varied inflection that captures an audience as well as anything to say that might call for such melody.  A joke on myself, I might make, and then make a joke on that one.  Something like, A Real Winner I Am, See?  And then something like, Well, What, Haven’t You Ever Had A Fried Bologna, Jim?, Tough Crowd, Jesus.  And just flat like that, unyielding, boring music.  Like a song you turn off when something fun comes on TV.  It’s the sound in my head, too: when I see, read, hear such things…flat footnotes loom up in each pause in whatever medium, mad at the similes I used to like, bored at almost any poetics, mostly Romantics, like “Oh, but was it as vague as etchings on glass (one I understood and nearly liked–sorry Patti Smith, who I adore–I also mocked)?”  It happens with most work: by writers, chefs, artists, politicians– I gnaw it all away and rarely find a strong bone beneath all the rotting flesh attached: their respective masturbatory description (somehow always full-hearted and VERDANT), cabbage shoulders and onion crumbles, obtuse color blocks, jargon and lies–and I make myself out of what I won’t be compared to what exists, and I don’t have attributes but I can sure say what qualities cancel out those in anyone else right back down to rot.  But often there are bones enough to hold them together, and that point thinks at/on/in me enough to want some flesh on mine.  Sardonic skeleton, depart.  Let me codify as and name myself as anything, maybe a series of 1’s and 0’s rather than “not 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, or 9,” maybe a seer of true flesh over an exposer of the rotten.

Boring Ways to Say What I Feel Amidst the Better Written Articles Being Published These Days Sponsored by the Fact that I Almost Cried About Four Times at Work Today but Didn’t Because I am a Strong Man Lady but Mostly Because I Feared Overseasoning the Food

  1.  I am profoundly sad.
  2. I don’t know that much about political history, but when was the last time an election left masses crying for days or weeks straight.  First at the outcome.  Then at the fear for the future digression.  Then at feeling of soft spot in heart when a stranger smiles knowingly.  A grieving process is talked about.  But this is not.  Void of acceptance at the sight of all of us.  A grieving is for a forever loss.  This is a pain from an abuse.
  3. I am not ashamed to be white, and I am tired and sad of hearing people say they are.  This is Regarding Race, all this being [The United States Presidency, as it devolves].  This is also regarding gender.  Sexuality.  Religion.  If you must be ashamed, be ashamed of everyone else who voted Trump, but be not ashamed of your skin color.  Or gender.  It’s as though Being Alive has become some sort of thing requiring a background in High Math.  There are still allowed to be white, straight, cis-gendered men and women.  We’re still allowed to like them.  Everyone on our side is necessary.

    See, I’ve had problems understanding things in the event of disaster.  A great example is the tragedy down in Orlando.  After the fallout of the shooting, and after the fallout of so many hate crimes this year, the affected group is riled up against “others” sharing their pain or joining in the grieving process.  In that case, specifically, many gays were offended to see straight/not targeted citizens of Orlando mark themselves as safe on Facebook.  Later on, I read a post by someone livid that a straight person was trying to apply for funding to create an artistic memorial for the victims.   Well, I for one was glad that my family in Florida was safe.  And what’s the real issue with someone outside the targeted group commemorating the victims?  What we are afraid of is someone outside of a targeted group to commandeer the oppression as their own.  We are concerned that people will disrespect and misrepresent our hurt.  But pushing away those who support us most and who are doing their best to fight by our side–our friends and allies–is counterproductive.  Divides us further.

    And now.  People are scared that black, Asian, Mexican, Middle eastern, etc. etc., people will be disgusted with our whiteness?  My brother started an email the other day with something like, “I know I’m a heterosexual white male, so I don’t have much of a say.”  Well fuck that, quite frankly.  That brother of mine is smart, compassionate, thoughtful, and someone who should be able to be my and our ally without being ashamed.  I know who I voted for, and I know who I stand by and with.  My girlfriend is Middle Eastern  No matter how westernized anyone is, all the hate and bigoted comments about people with brown skin–many kinds of brown skin–is terrifying to me.  She doesn’t say, “oh well you have nothing to worry about, because you’re white.”

  4. How am I/are we supposed to afford the amount of alcohol we deserve to get through this whole month if not the next four years.
  5. I wanted to get married my whole life.  Not in the way that I imagined a fantasy wedding with a fancy white dress and horse–well of course; I never really imagined myself in a big, white wedding gown–but just because I wanted the ability to have what my parents have.  The greatest love turned into an exciting partnership with many milestones.  I never thought much of it.

    I didn’t pay attention to marriage equality throughout my teens, because I was busy being a normal, confused, horny teenager focused on competitively achieving impossible female beauty standard of being under 100 pounds on any given day.

    | Sidebar: can we not have a president who pushes the most ridiculous idea of the female ideal on the public?  I thought we were getting somewhere.  Finally, we were getting to a place in society where I thought, hm…maybe I can actually have kids I will encourage to just be healthy and they’ll be like, ‘good idea!’  From more or less six years of experience with eating disorders, I can say that it’s not that fun to go to bed so hungry and in pain, not cushioned at all with my knee and leg bones touching each other, thinking, ‘I’m afraid I might not wake up tomorrow.’  But at least I was skinny.  And I’m kind of chubby now, but I’m also kind of like, ‘fuck you, Trump.  I hope you were right when you said Alicia Machado likes to eat, because I definitely do too, and I’m having fun doing it, assclown!’ |

    I dated boys and never thought that much about it until I met my long term college boyfriend.  He was so great and is to this day, but ultimately, we went our separate ways, at which point, like many do, I found myself smack in the midst of exiting my “possibly a bisexual person in conversation on my most blackout drunk nights” into full fledged homosexuality in one night’s time.

    I say homosexual, because that’s what I am, day by day, every day, especially in my current committed relationship with my girlfriend, Bettina.  But there’s always my broader view about the whole thing of sexuality in this article I once wrote.  And basically, what I’m getting at, is why the shit can I not get married?  And gay people could, by the time I was out of one closet and deep into another one full of Birkenstocks.  But only in some places.  I remember when Marriage Equality was passed.  I was so pleasantly surprised but also felt like, ‘right on, America–keep on pushing!’  Like this was a logical step in our progress.  Because it was.  And now, based on the politicians Grabbing The White House by The Pussy, we’re potentially about to go back to an old world style of not letting us homos get married.  And I’m sitting here like I THOUGHT THINGS WERE LOOKING GOOD FOR MY RELATIONSHIP!   And also…

  6. Not letting ladies govern their own bodies.  Ha!  First of all, let’s just all take a moment to bask, at a distance or as close as we feel comfortable with, in the inferno that Trump’s fucked up rhetoric about women left burning forever.  Like, if I’m even allowed to have children in the future, I don’t know if I want them to read what he said in their history text books.  But then again, at the rate we’re going, maybe we will be lucky if objective texts are still allowed to be taught.  So now that we’re all aware of pussy grabbing, defamation of women based on their weights and ethnicities; sometimes even pregnancy, we know where the basis for this sort of government control on reproductive health comes from.

    We need to be able to obtain affordable birth control.  Who knows what the final call on this healthcare provision will be, since Trump is now apparently up in the air about it.  I mean, when you are a dude known for getting with women all over town, it would probably be convenient to have birth control OR abortions be accessible instead of neither.  There are so many reasons for women to seek birth control, so what if it becomes harder to access affordably?  Period pain and symptoms, excess hair, unbalanced hormones, bad skin…who cares?  Right!  Whatever, man!  Women, right?   LOL.  And let’s not forget the icing on the cake–reconsidering Roe vs Wade!  And sidebar, is anyone familiar with the theory that unwanted pregnancies can lead to neglected kids who can become criminals?  It comes from the idea that crime dropped significantly a couple decades after Roe vs Wade was passed.  If Trump wants to reduce crime, I’m just sayin’ there’s kind of a theoretical shortcut here– don’t force women to bare children they aren’t ready or equipped to take care of.

  7. Am I supposed to be afraid to be Jewish again
  8. I know adults–not only young ones–but grown ass people who were so scared about Trump winning that they called their parents for comfort.  Many of the parents didn’t understand the drama.  To me, this was sad.  I have family who have suggested his campaign is nothing, that he will focus on straightening out (see what I did there!) finances and bounce without affecting social issues.  But then it’s like oh, Mike Pence, hay gurlllllll~~~~  And all the other people crawling into the festering, old Trump cabinet to take all the good away from us.  Most of us don’t have a comfortable sentiment about this.
  9. I imagined killing myself.  Why stay in a world where this stuff is fine and wins an election?  Basically, half of the country conveniently to actively doesn’t give a flying fuck about us.  The jokes we all mad about moving elsewhere if Trump (LOL!  Obviously kidding!) would ever get elected feel empty now.  I, among many, feel weak and nervous about the idea of leaving the beautiful, multicultural country we grew up in.  Our families and friends live here.  We like it here.
  10. We’re all people, people.  I’m so disappointed that the best credit I can give Trump supporters is that they’re after the financial side of the deal.  Well, I guess I didn’t realize money was so valuable to everyone that our neighbors’ safety and rights were up for reconsideration.  Not just our neighbors, but in many cases, our friends and for some of you, your goddamn children!  Shame on that.  But for those of you who share those views–the xenophobic, misogynistic, homophobic, racist ones that are making us all scared right now, shame on you so hard.  You are not Americans.

Your mom is a haiku

Once in a while you’re

off on a Friday.  It seems

likely you’ll get run over.

6

At night we argue until I decide to spend the next day cleaning the house, and what I do is hire someone else to do it while I clean the crevices in my teeth, because I thought I smelled the dying person smell on them, because my agreement was to become gone as soon as the old breath happened in this life, and it’s too early as just the other day I got home first and was alone and the cats were out because they’re not here and I was shocked and disabled by my solitude and as a result shocked and upset at the inability to be around nobody, not even fur balls and skin balls with legs, and I walked around and around and laid down and was forced to go inside my own body, which I rarely have to do.  She got home a few minutes later, and I could come out again, and I didn’t have to stare at my own hands anymore; I looked at her, because I like to, and she is not me.  Today we drank coffee and ate pasta and I put on an alpaca hat and scrubbed her skin in the shower because I had already washed my hair because I had gone to the gym to exercise in vain, so vain, because I know I will be stopping soon and have so much more weight to gain than to lose, because that is usually the case for most people, and there’s a long way to go until the opposite is true, and this concept forces a person to realize This Fat Ass is the smallest version of itself left in this lifetime, and that forces a person to befriend it or even to just stop dreaming of looking like a skinny Asian or white man.  The hat in the shower got damp, and I figure my hair smells a lot like a barnyard animal, which is probably gross to everyone around me, which is no one, so it’s alright.  And I worry, a little, about the cleaning person coming in, because I hope it brings its own soap and stuff, and paper towels, too, because we are out.  But when I was four, my babysitter washed my brother and sister with shampoo in the bath, and she told me it was the same thing as soap, and she was right, and I liked it, and to this day it makes me think anything is transferrable, like any glue, and my girl says there is shoe glue to glue shoes back together and ceramic glue to glue ceramics back together, and the only ones I knew were Gorilla and Elmer’s and the two questions are “why are so many things breaking?” and “if shoe glue is for shoes and ceramic glue is for ceramics, then is Gorilla glue really for gorillas, or do gorillas just trump everything, and if part A is true, then who is Elmer, and is he fine?”  But I’m more worried about talking to the cleaning person, because I am not supposed to leave it here alone, in case it steals all my broken shoes and ceramics.  I don’t know where I’m supposed to hide while it cleans, so I chose not to have my bed made so that I can use my bed as a private island.  Can I tell the person that the private bed island is sound proofed?  Does the cleaning person supervisor role allow me to get drunk on the Isle of Bed while the person is there?  Do I have to give it a drink if I’m having one?  Should I  offer it a snack?  Should I get cash for a tip?  Can it use shampoo to wash the floor?  Is it voting for Trump?  I’ve eaten 6 slices of turkey and some poofy but not puffed Cheetos today.  My dad said he eats canned beans and broccoli for lunch, and I agreed with him that sometimes I just eat food that barely qualifies as it in the name of energy or even health, such as the time I ate mainly chickpeas out of the can for days because of poverty but actually because of being lazy and disgusting.  But if I want to get something with good flavor in it, I will have to go quickly in case the cleaning person gets here too early while I’m flossing and listening to Patti Smith and breaking and glueing and having sore muscles that make me want halal food which is so delicious.  And my sister wants to talk on the phone–and that is what I’ll do!  I’ll Skype my sister so that I can ignore the cleaning person!  And she can watch me in case it is secretly a killer on the loose and that way she will have all the clues!  I like it, I like it a lot a lot.

Crawling Back Up in It

The dimming is

good.  Most days, I want to be alone in a dark

bar for hours but when I have the day I take its

sun and shit.  And walk and sit and breathe and think

about the dark bar and when I go

in I’ll want this and when I stay, I’ll want this, and

I want then I want then I want and want and the bartender

dims the lights and I think it’s OK the way I am.  I come

into my skin and I’m hidden and shown and unassociated and

disassociated as are the rest of the people.  I think

about American Horror Story the Hotel.  I think about Lady Gaga.  I want to know why we all need somewhere safe.  It’s just a show; this is also just a show.  And that’s a reason to not think so much.  The guy forgets he goes to the hotel; he forgets

he’s a killer.  We wash it down down

down and forget also; we are at home and then we exit

dark and we strap the faces and costumes and shit tight tight and that’s that.  Rather than

stay. |in the hotel they were ghosts| I were was am

out and the rules in the sun, oh the rules, but the sun feels possible–wants me to?