Old News (lyrics)

 Old News
Doesn't Age like I do
Still hurts everytime
even worse then in my prime
I was so excited to learn
thought It'd heal all pain
knowing would get easier
no no no
I just got higher on this escalator
a skinny tight rope
an adrenaline rush
having balance only means I'm not falling off
fine lines between real and imaginary
old news doesn't age like I do
crows feet and palmistry
tracing dicohotomies
I tried to walk between
such a short time line
just a circus act I only can see in my dreams
old news doesn't age like I do
and all of my excitement
young wonder, anything's news
buried under feelings
I was so sure I'd outgrew
old news doesn't age like I do
like just another tuesday
I try to play away
but 4 time around I'm only feeling the pain
amplifyin year after year
as my voice grows quieter and scared
sometimes I wonder if I'm getting any younger
but I never unwind
no my imagination is declined at checkout
I demand solitude like an american spouse
what I know is harder to be
as much as any certainty
oh what's left of me
old news doesn't age like I do
I wish mysteries still motivated me
I know I'm out there somewhere
deep inside of you
buried beneath old news
just doesn't  seem to age like I do
lookin for reflectiona of me
to be a positive influence
some enthusiasm for what could be
I already lost all my baggage
don't know where it went
my past dissolved in hot water
this history is blind
doc I need some glasses that I can't lose
some focus that isn't just a metaphor or a tool
don't give me
old news
it doesn't age like I do
I just have weights in my insidesn
that somehow gotta defy renewed gravity
remember life before you left me
so I can use what I learn and start to age old news so I can stop getting old  
it's up to me
no deals with the devil
tightropes or timlines
I wanna reach the next level
oh olds news
better age like I do

He walks her home

 He walks her home only to face the dark alone. 

Measures his drink and time spent on the phone. 

Chills each measure, pays for her though hes broke. 

She walks the line. Freaks out and texts 50 times. 

 Acts a clown, like it'll be good if she's the tenor from velvet underground. 

Paints her face white like putting on another mask will make it right. 

 As if. 

She's a mocktail made with 2 & half pints. 

Maybe some wine winin bout whites and trans rights. Never knowin how he fears the night. 

Weepin tales of rape at the microphone. Sitting on her front of house throne,

 listenin to the good ol boys callin her woke. 

 I'm sick of listenin to people speak with their eyes, with slick backs kickin comebacks. There are no answers so don't just do what you're told. 

 I've got curly blonde hair doesn't make me a sheep like my third person verses make me weep, 

for all my bla wa wa and bla bla beeeeepp.
Sensored everything but my cuss words, how many decades til I'm declassified. 

Eyes wide shut coppin lines like 'haters gonna hate' when we know in truth we're all repressed, oppressed, at the very least depressed but can't see our own defeat. 

Can't fuck it out, talk it out, or even run down this street. 

It's half passed three. It's not a gun so why're you happy to see me? 

I try to strip tease my act. I know I'm not that tough. Just a sensitive bitch in love with your guts. There's not a moment I awoke, this series ain't the first I wrote.

 It can't be taught in a poem, a note, or a life time of cut throat. 

There's no referee, coach, player; just a game; you and I were both condemned to by name. 

Why are you taking the fall, we're both guilty but you're down and out, while I crawl as if to prove I can't walk when I know damn well to hold my head tall. 

I've always been real, so why am I frontin transparent?

- Ya can't see me if you look right through me. - 

 all the doppelgangers in the world, reflections of oppression, gang rape, fights in the street. 

Guilt projectors spotlight as if their down- still on their knees when they forgot to stop, look up and take in the beauty before me. 

I'm short on quick comebacks, don't know what to say, but hay that's ok Bitch you know I'll still fucking talk allll day. 

there's not a rule book on you or the people you think this songs about. 

Are you prepared to be surprised? Best remember none of us know what the fuck we're talking about. I'm sick of listening to people speak with their eyes, with slick backsides, come backs and their inner thighs. 

No one has the answers and there's never a yet so don't just do what your told. 

That's what you always tell me but fuck we're still in a molding mold, a myth taking hold, believing us into reality every year it's sold. 

 New layers of hypocracy more painful irony, uneveiling seems to only reinforce the cold. 

You don't have to love me, but fuck I know you like me. 

Even with my batshit dung strung out in clown acts we both know I'm much more than this shitty song. More than a defensive step in distraction tech. More then ears to our trip in a this psychedelic ship wreck. 

Fuck everything. 

I just need you to know how I care about you and you alone

Does it Tickle?

 All of the words that come out of my mouth are magnets on a lock box.  I can't really write with them or explain what they say, they just magnetize to the poles extending from the key hole jammes with a broken key, across the enteric nervous system of the universe.  I can only dance with them, feel them with someone else.  The words won't make it all ok.  They might provide soothing explanations or defacto manuals; stroke my ego for long enough to feel like a "functional" communicator only to be superimposed on fantasies of scripted tv scenes.  Oh lala do you see me? capture the love of someone whose reading them; but they will never fully express the pain of duplicity, fluidity, disregard, denial, bystander effects, group think, words, judgements, geminis, generalizations, tyranny.  The pain that happens when someone is beautiful in one moment and terrible in the next.  The pain when someone is so close to you, or seems so inviting and full of warmth it's inconceivable that they could do such a thing.  

When such a thing, two best friends curb stopping eachother over a small interaction, racial profiling in an interracial relationship that had so many very real and genuine moments, denial, lovers leaving town on a plane they booked three weeks in advance of the date they said they'd always be there, taking a partner for granted and justifying behavior with a holier than thou victimization complex.  There are no victims in this world, Only people who can feel and people who don't.  

The people who don't, can, they choose not to.  Like me they have tried to put the pain of experience  away in lock boxes.  We look for explanations, reasons, lists, mantras, disorders, generalizations, rule books, objects, objectification, grasping at straws when we all got the last one and they're all up a tortoises nostrel.  Something to make sure the pain won't happen again because it's impossible to feel like it's not your fault to be so wronged, at least that way we'd have some control over it.  The pain would be slightly less than knowing that a person could be so sincere and truly wonderful in one moment, so horrible in the next, and those moments could expand across nights, weeks, or even years.  

The only comfort or soulus is maybe that if someone can be so beautiful in one moment and terrible in the next; then anyone whose been terrible could be beautiful in the same fluid motion.  But that's an optimistic shift, a gun shot through a pillow.  It may be true but it can't heal us. The only true cure is knowing that no matter what someone does we have all felt this way, felt this pain, been the rat in the water maze swimming up to it's provider, namesake and caretaker. Been the rat begging for help as the scientists watch it drown just to educate themselves on how much humans and rats are alike only to deny it when they're cruelty is questioned.  The cure is the day we stop denying we have all been scientists. I have been a scientist, I've put people in water mazes without meaning to. And again I've been in a watermaze without admitting it. We have to recognize it in a moment, be inside eachother in every present waking moment of everyday, not just when we're sleeping with each other or on too many drugs.  

The people who can feel often shove it in a lock box as I have.  The alternatives often feeling the pain all the time, being open all the time.  I've lived in either a state of paranoia and misinterpretation, or a state of utter acceptance of the absurd brutality that befalls myself or another.  This is entirely owed to the fact that it's easier to feel the pain of that disconnect with empathy then it is to recognize the pain that we are all truly doomed to feel so much pain. Slowly over time all of us who choose to feel all of ourselves, make the only apparent choice to respond to how we feel, and we begin to distance ourselves from anyone who could make us feel that way again.  As if love were toxic.  

Love is not toxic.  Love is the moment when we are truly connected.  It is the map on my back I wanted to draw as some compensation for my inability to unjam the key in the box on my feeling.  Just like how alcohol allows water ways to stop the damning and the flooding in the corners of my memory.  But it isn't a painting, an image, or words for me, it is only the feeling I get from a hug, dancing, connecting, and knowing that someone has accepted this pain is real.  That knowledge and honesty is all we have to protect ourselves from being damned ourselves in one moment when we know damn well how not to be.  It is the subservience to pain with disregard for how it looks on display or behind a hard cover.  It is love without ego.  The toxins of this universe, the duplicity, the mantras, the blogs, the manifestos like this one corrupt that law with some wrongful artificial flavor and cheap hot sauce.  But the toxins aren't the love.  The love between us is real, built on the connections from pain, from a mutual response, from an acknowledgement of how much we want to think of how our actions against each other would make us feel, of what it feels like when we listen to how our actions make our loved ones feel.  

Love is not toxic, it is an antidote that loans itself to discovering all the corners of human nature with utter acceptance... a fluidity that is ignored in the face of stability.  But that fluidity will always be there no matter what any of us do.  It's too cruel to offer these explanations, or to simply remark "shit happens" or "damn dude" or "I don't know what that feels like".  That's fucking bullshit.  All we can hold on to is our feeling, as a reminder of ourselves and the only way my awareness has any chance of discontinuing awareness of the pain of those around me and myself. The pain that reminds me of what it feels like when the pains not there. When you're there.  I trust you more than I wish I trusted myself.  I can't really trust anyone until I trust myself though.  To remember this when words don't just pass across my screen but when my tattoos comes to life and walk off my skin... I jump out of my skin and lie on the ground.  Exposed, vulnerable, depraved, but part of a substance that does not unify people but exposes unification.  Across nations, cultures, values, status,through words and heady explanations, through bullshit conversations at parties and self involved narcissistic sly commentary or quick comebacks.  it is a notion that we all share.  

I may have a magnetized lock box with a keybroken off inside deepthroating a refrigerator magnet from a fringe fest vernacular set, but I will never pull the schizophrenic card.  It is not a card, nothing is, it is a state of being.  There are no cards in anyone's deck unless they make a play. The voices melt away with the paranoia when I remember my choice should be to pay attention to someone else as much as to myself.  Stop talking my way through that which cannot by said, the lotus sutra, snide commentary about and martha and snoop dog, through this computer program.  

To say love is a self defense mechanism is a cruel joke.  It's sick and twisted joke that is played out before me nearly everyday.   None of us ever fall in love with each other to right ourselves, we fall in love with each other because it is the only way to remember that within the pain we are humans who by force or through our own actions have to come know the pain in each other, and all of its relief.

Endangered Graffitti

June 2012

Endangered graffitti sprayed

Mariah carries culture corpse paid

A shack in Louisiana

Dip dyed with polaroids

crying ink with uncontrollable hands

developing smiling screams

in a dark room spotted in sunshine

Louisiana VIP energizing pleas

Lifestylin que notes of conundrums everyone sees

 honesty with no sarcastic fees

Treading the thread

I’ll sew you crayons and sex

Nostalgia that doesn’t plead guilty

And memories you don’t want to steal

deviantely dancing

closure in open mouths

With dilated pupils

crowded ears

sighing exhaled smoke shotgunned between your asshole and your fears

Right to Left

Excellence is a short sentence.
It's the half step up to a major dryad,
the most dull inconcieved creature of western mythology.
Don't run too fast while you're slowing down to keep up with ideology,
turned the corner of a phrase and found the caldesack
where we used to toss a roygbiv hacki sack
between new wave hippies and philosphical discrepencies
we kept in back pockets of ten year old cargo jeans
I wore on the train car between Arkansas and do you miss me?
Threw salt over my shoulder
counter clockwise three times to the left,
you've always been my right
to leave me
but I'll smile and find you
right where you left me.

Verevolf City

Endogynous,
My own internal drug
Exogynous,
La Luz de La Noche, La Lumier de Soir
Four bat species, Ten different primates, The spring mouse
and me
We are an army
taking orders only from the dial up tone of reflection
#$^%@$^#*%&*$( bbbbbbzzzzzzzzzzzztt
pushing the tide at the ankles of my pituitary
 weep estrogen in fillopian back alleys.
I smell it wash out the stain of unborn children,
so called crime scene wall paper at uterine dead ends;
Chunky, Robust, Uninhibited
Lusting after my jaw with furry introductions,
and the claws on the dazzling paws like a five dolla make over at royal beauty by yours truly.

Fuck a featus! I'm reborn!
I've got a cocophony of lunacy curling up my mop.
They say I'm mad,
my midnight snack,
the sweet thighs and sour mouths on a gaggle of lasses and lads.
Can't you hear?
It's a fable with such a loooooooong tail,
don't catcall the wolf!
Polite smiles done grown fangs in the south,
this is New'Orlinz now- Full Moon means y'alls head's in my mouth.
This is an army
not of dogs or cats, birds or rats.
This is an army,
not of reptiles or dragons.
We do not abide the mating call, the dick nor the seasons
of dinosaurs, beavers, and bearly reasons,
only the tidal wave crying blood on the deaf eyes of my prey.

Do I seem virulent? Loony?!
Well, well this is not the wishing well nor my weakest hour now I'm your predator.
Observe as I turn whisky to wine and fine dine upon your flesh.
Tastes like Krispy Krunchy at Ideal, gettin' that prepackaged hot sauce forreal.
This is an army,
 of periodic bitches, women and queers.
This is not a period...
it is an exclamation point!

Soon! Up and cumming! To a theater near you!
BLOOD EVERYWHERE

Lucky You! It's the full moon
I'm at my best so y'all better watch yourselves and do your damndest to impress.

Giselle

Struck in dim blue lighting, Giselle appears through the fog of Willis, downcast, veiled in white, like a ghost on her wedding day. The veil is swept from her face as she comes to life, the tutu unfurling like smoke, her head following her body around the room. Every movement of Giselle traces the pervasive feminine ideals of the romantic era, but also colors the inherent tension that resulted from creating the feminine ideal.  The romantic ballets like Giselle gave women one of the first opportunities in western history to have center stage.  Giselle is not an accessory, she is at the end of every gaze, within and without the stage.  However, at the end of the gaze is a female of fiction; almost too delicate, emotional, and vulnerable to be real.  

The dance is a display of power, the power it takes to create the romantic fantasy of ‘the woman.’  Anyone can slip into dreams of Giselle’s purity and grace, idealize her femininity as she breaks into penchees. Giselle frees women of the title ‘the lesser sex’ with an almost post-modern adoration for femininity.  Yet as she wilts and bows her head Giselle is bound to this femininity, not only by the steps but by the fiction they create.  She is the unattainable ideal, born of the era’s inability to grant women the power of reality. 

Giselle is exaggeratedly emotional, her character at first is unmistakably innocent, young, and playful.  She smiles at the Duke Albrecht with large clueless eyes, will look away as if unsure and take a few steps forward only to turn back and smile again as soon as he follows her.  As Albrecht’s real identity as a duke and not the peasant she believed him to be is revealed to her, her emotionality reveals itself to the audience.  It is as if her steps design the caricature of a woman, dangerously impassioned as she dies of a broken heart running through folds of onlookers.  The dance is an ode to her emotion, the tragedy of her womanhood idealized.

 Her character is in part a result of the expressiveness craved in the romantic era. Amidst the industrial revolution, the logic of the enlightenment left most in factories and smoke filled streets.  Pastoral scenery and myths of old became nostalgic fantasies, and sensational intelligence a wanted escape from the greying landscape.  The feminine identity of an emotional, objectified beauty was put on a pedestal of fairy tales.  This allowed women a new respected role beyond domestic labors, a role caged in choreography, as Giselle is caged within the surreality of her death.

Giselle is never more beautiful then when she reawakens from the dead. When she appears in the 2^nd act as a Willi there is a pas de deux between her and Albrecht, and she is forced to seduce him into dancing with her mournful adagio.  She pushes farther on to her point shoes, her extensions stretch her tutu into misty cobwebs.  An inadvertent temptress with genuine love, her movements begin to put the air around her to sleep.  Her arms melt gravity and her body becomes a tired eyelid.  Giselle’s promenade is so light atmosphere suddenly feels too heavy.  As I watch this adagio over and over again, she seems less real everytime, and a corset begins to wrap itself around my love for her.

The tension between the mystical and the real, the stage and the audience, is cradled in this scene, between life and death, fiction and familiarity. In it females can command the fate of men using feminine qualities, but in a world that couldn’t possibly exist. It is the most ethereal, transcendent and elegant world one can imagine. The very nature of the woods of Willis expresses at once a desire for femininity and the refusal to consider that desire an attainable possibility.

The most choreographically extreme expression of complete love in the entire ballet is told in the most mystical setting.  Thus this ballet does not simply tell of the tragedy of Giselle’s beauty, it tells the tragedy of human perception of beauty as conceived of in the romantic era.  Beauty was feminine, it defied logic and reality, it was longed for and yet too tragic for anything but a stage. 

             As the dance catches itself between escapism and forward momentum it marks a transitional period in the western perception of femininity.  Giselle reflects a time when woman could use the stage to begin to skirt the truth of the fictions that lie outside the curtains. Femininity, as surreal as it may have been, gave women a voice instead of silencing them.  In today’s world there is still a withdrawal from showing emotion and fragility, especially amongst more powerful women.  Contemporary imaginations can still learn from Giselle, in spite of its confined gender binaries.  Giselle is still compelling because the strength that comes from a choice, of any gender, to be vulnerable is still craved.