Apr 11, 2004

From the Annals of 52 Old Farm Road

All I have to say about the quest to exhume salable merchandise from the chaos of my old room which, due to my mom's...err...fragile relationship to change has remained untouched since 1989 is DRAFTS, DRAFTS, DRAFTS. So many friggin' drafts. Some day the trees will come for me...

On the subject of pornography, I WROTE THE FOLLOWING POEM IN 1988.

I suppose the answer to the question I get asked the most, "Have you always been this fucked up?" Is...um..."yes"...

(I didn't use caps then...)


down into the scarring crag
towards the motion of the sea
this place exists with the passion of any nexus
and the same pulsing addictive fear
into the place where the bleached forms
still caught in last ecstasy,
the nonangular fluid stasis
of the white unmoving
the white of peace
the white bones of beasts and men
somewhere on a shore an ancient
yew must have divined the beauty of
the death of flesh
and the white purity of shortly after
and gave itself
to the beckoning of the storm
and sculpted organic beauty
for the trees choose their own skeletons
how everything and the unmoving
gives itself to the always moving
the fluid arm scars the land
and shapes the stone
and the seaweed hangs
like the hair of expired mermaids
who knew the taking of the sea
and speaks with the spasm voice
of the knowings of the long lost
the spirits of the taken
crash against the rocks
that copulate with seaweed forms
remember me to my love
this moves in through the
scar and among the green
the always-willing
intoning of the lost with
open arms
we would take you when you
long finally to know
the white peace first
in nonmotion
and ever among the rocks and voice
the coming and leaving of
the half sorrowed lost
the skeletal voice the charmed tears
sculpting among the stones

I really don't remember where I was or what I was doing. I don't remember much about 1988 at all, in fact.

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