lucky

guess this makes me lucky.
guess this makes me giddy.
playing utada on loop.
living for the sun.
do you think writers skew our world, by the colors we paint. when love becomes fatal incident, exhausted pints of infatuation… He, like a latin poet, calls it “Ruinous, tragic, infuriating, embarrasing, fatal”…. better to have loved and lost than not?

i glee gloat and float away.

always make the most of it.

but the real point of the entry:

i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend i will write cover letters and turn in job apps this weekend how’s this for a thousand words jack london?

i love my friends so much.
i wish happiness for everybody.
i’m glad i’ve met you. thank you.

what?

2.14.08
caught up.
so caught up yo.

V is not for Voulez-vous coucher avec moi  !

poet mentor

what do you say to your favorite poet writing to you about san bernardino.  i don’t remember being so impressive a year ago. the snowcapped mountains of san bernardino. it’s t-shirt and shorts weather here says he, and bitterly cold. i don’t remember being so pretty a year ago. last year this time, was i in hong kong, yunnan, or the glooms of canton? i remember he wore a traditional chinese gown, his long hair tied back, with dissidence written on his fore arms. do you miss your home your motherland your reign upon middle kingdom o poet?

and i’m tired of poets and their tragic ironies, self-consciousness, meddle nonsense.

i want to sleep on porcelain painted with golden and silver, and dip my feet in lotus seed.

burrow

being a writer sucks.  you burrow yourself in a room, in front of your desk or in your bed, breathing foul, dry, cold wintry air through your mouth because it hurts to breathe through your nose after a hangover (the wind knocks you down from your nostril to the spot between your forehead and right eye). if i could choose any profession in life, it would certainly not be the writer, artist, musician type. i mean, good god, really, who wants coffee as a lover, drugs as paramour, and a keyboard for a husband? not i sire, not i.

i want sunshine! i want the moon! i want mountains by the sea!

i want homework to magically vanish, but when they do i’m not sure what to do with myself, because after the work there’s applications to reality. lately, my life has become one big ellipsis. right now, my head swells like a grapefruit.

please give me an eskimo kiss.

talking shit about a pretty sunset

we kissed our lip gloss off in the dark, among sheets that smelled of yesterday’s play. here i tell my little prince, stories. i hold my thumb up for him to cradle and whimper, and here i whine into his nape: how come you are so happy? i want to be happy just like you. we’re not angie and jonny lee, no way near courtney and kurt. and i can swallow the vial of blood like a shot of captain morgan’s, and the glass shards go down all the wrong ways. and here is me jealous of the sun in your eyes, your toothy grin, your ex-girlfriend. and here’s me sad about the end like a poetic lover. call me a pessimist, the exhausted urban soul, lofty intellectual ambitions, just not enough fuel.

we dwell dwell dwell on the past. of missed chances, fated glances, and in that great big void of a hill, i thought about monumental events like getting high, getting low, meeting him, losing him, letting go. all the drama in my snow globe existence. can you wait for the day when you graduate to sleek talking, smooth sailing love? or would you stick around in the sea of blankets – afloat, aloft, wasted and out of words to impress?

my thumb, my words, i’m ripping it to pieces and i don’t know why. a towel of speckled blood waiting to be disposed. and you’re the prince of my better half, calling me unique and not crazy. i’m narcissism wrapped in self-loathing, and all of this but a play – staged, rehearsed histrionics.

we invent the tragedies in our life.

(would you care if you knew?)

turn off the lights to starve every squeamish sigh.

summer

can’t wait for summer time

fatal

is it bad if i just want to crawl in a hole and hibernate? the seasons are gray and labored. the more i learn the less i know. the more we love the more we fall apart at the heel. give me a handbag or two to buy me sanity, because jackson pollock ain’t the road to peace. give me peacock feathers to tickle me foolish. i want golden goose eggs for future guarantees. it is possible is it, to be tanked over by nihilism and fatalism. i hate coffee with cigarettes over a book and a bad conversation about philosophy on a side. i want to be blond, perky, beautiful, and made of a gentle mind. no rough edges, no ingenuity, no surprises, gomen nasai. i want to be dull and cute and not moody and pretentious. i want to be able to smile and wave and not drag ten ton feet.

as happy as i am. i still think it’s time to get out.
but where? where do you have someone waiting for you?

write when you are compelled

I have porous memory. For records, today I dreamed Ciel was going to S. Africa instead of Paris. For records, life isn’t fair. It just isn’t. It’s just… damn.

hot grrls

I’m telling you. Procrastination man. This is how we do it man. Superbowl from 8-10, learning rules 9-7, Quarterback’s all American man… nice. Then got brain fucked on USK. Almost makes me wanna drop acid on my skin, and by that I mean music, so okay, we drop the music, but don’t drop the ball.

What I’m saying is, Mack, all that I’m trying to say is, I just wanna be sane. I wanna be the girl walking down fifth avenue with inch-heels and perfect eyeliner, is that so much to ask? Do you think it’s a lot to  ask? Is it too much of a guise. There’s some kids dropping acid out there, but I’m still pretty sure I’m more fucked than they. In this way, I guess we are different, in that maybe I possess the chemical of romance and playacting.

The truth is, I think I’m happy. I think I’m happy because I don’t give myself time to think (except now? but this is free for all. journal for nobody. bury the link. bury you). I just want to play hard, study enough, make love, play hard, live hard, rock hard.

Willie Shakes is waiting for me. Goddamn Mondays Mr. Baker….

hot boiz

I read a short story in the Brooklyn Review on the way home from NY, on a claustrophobic propeller plane, about a plague. Then last night, quite appropriately, I dreamed of a plague that took us by shuttles to quarantined hotels, and I was screaming at mother and father for somehow losing three key members in the “family” (all of whom were my good friends). Before the plague, the narrative of my dream was set in sweaty parlors with stand-alone beds and swaggering young men. I think someone was out to kill me, so I was playing hide and go seek while managing multiple lovesex affairs by broken stairs. Before I fell into dreams, I was thinking about mountains and seas with the boy in my arms, he smells like fabric softener and brightness and I murmur “thank you… thank you… thank you.”

I don’t do poets, but I’ve loved Rob Herrick ever since “Upon Julia’s Clothes.” In Baker’s class we’re moving onto Love/Erotic poetry, and I want to chortle at him to explain why I haven’t been  the most studious example. Dear professor, I’m too busy living the poetry.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And, while ye may, go marry;
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the landscape of oceans and seas, of lakes and ponds, of mountains and hills, and grasslands and plains, looking out with eagle’s eyes from plateaus and monuments, on this earth I proclaim, that I would love to reclaim the soil, the dirt, the earth, to swallow the breeze and feel the trickle of a stream. Once upon a time, all I loved was music, stars, and the mountainseas. Today, I dream of kisses from lovers and heartfelt words from people. PEOPLEMOUNTAINSEA.

Ham Lam says I’m whimsical. Still, I intend to rule the world, the way Sasha and I dreamed it on a roof six years ago. The writers’ conference was funny because, all the writers were such flimsy things. They walk with their thoughts and their feet take slow dainty steps. There was a bar association conference next door, and all the lawyers walk with their chest forward, their suits pressed, and their sturdy minds ready to wrestle their piece of the world. Writers’ are funny because 2/3 of us are cat people and the rest are academics.  I don’t want to be a cat person. To be honest, I just want to be hot to trot and melt the world with prose.