air thick with doubt,
lungs sticky with presperation and smaoke.
blood poisoning setting in
the narcotics kicking off
her lazy head
drooping
dragging
the wall-tarnished brick-
the floor- cracked. broken-
scarring up her lipsticked mask
her mascara smile twisting. twisting.

where is your heart? (broken)
where does your mind go once you've lost it?

5.20.11.

You struck me so hard.(5) There's a leak in my heart that I just can't stop and blood pours out in a fountain of love.(20) Mend the hole with kisses and maybe I'll forgive you, baby.(11)

The Jeffersons

There was once a family by the name of Jefferson. They lived at the corner of 4th and Vine in a 3&1/2 story house painted a rather off-putting shade of mauve. The neighbors hated mauve and were convinced that Mr. Jefferson was partial to the color for that reason. he was just a spiteful man like that. A pipesmoking, tweed wearing, walking ego. One may say that his head was so big that he had to get his hats special ordered from a shop in India that specialized in elephant attire. As a result, he had a rather eclectic headdress collection.

Mrs. Jefferson died in a house fire back in '83, reportedly started by a malfunctioning electrical socket. Though the family of poor Matilda Jefferson knew in their hearts that it was a lie, for the Mrs. had an unparelelled passion for matches.

Bat Romance: a Batman Fan Fiction (preview)

BATMAN- GOTHAM CENTRAL- ROOFTOP:

I feel my soul die, watching- horrified- as the jagged blade plunges deep into Joker's chest. Suddenly my little Joke isn't so funny anymore, his oh-so-familiar grin twisting to a grimace giving way to shock. And his eyes... goddammit...

His eyes cry out for me:

B- BATman...

His complete vulnerability in this moment tears my heart in two.
I didn't mean those words, Joker. Dammit! What if the last thing he ever hears from me is that I don't need him? That I don't want him? That I don't want him? They were LIES.

He. Completes. ME.

Please, God, let me go back and replace those lies with the words: I love you. I love you because you bring out the best in me. You bring out what I love about myself. you give me the strength to carry on day after day. You are my EVERYTHING.

...

yer.very.nonversational.

Where's the monster under yer bed now mutha---- give me a reason to shoot and loose my head from all the----  oh hey there yuh lost me in the limelight of yer reddened lips sticked for other people (when the sad track hits rock bottom there's no turning back till the bassline) an' I told you NO NO NO NO yes as a matter o' fact I DO have a wicked foothold on my monkeybars for it's only noon o'clock and tea is after supper and my mother wants me home before yesterday so take me to the lake and push till the melody goes all wonky and junk.

Pulchritudinous.

what is beauty?
am I beauty?
give me a reason to believe that you give a-

your not the first to tell me half the things you say.
in fact I'm sure it's all been said before,
so just give up
go home
and have a wonderful day.

Hitherto.

Henceforth and hitherto
where did the good go?
my Marry has an awful ache
for her Heart is full of blood.

Without the dreadful stench of dead
I don't know what to do.
The time has come to tear apart all that has been whole
and break away for something new
something blue
and something borrowed.

Can't we Kiss and Makeup?
Can we just forget and regret?
my martyrdom has run it's course
run through the motions with a pike
and run away with the spoon.

Give me a chance to redeem myself,
my brain is merely a bundle of cells -> atoms -> electrons, neutrons, protons
you can't expect much from a man with no soul.

Henceforth and hitherto.
where did the good go?

April 13th 2011 (continuation of March 24th 2011)

Goddamn Batman...

And then there's Harley, my temptress, my suffocating Succubus. Her hips sway through the winding smoke and pressing blackness. Harlequin red and black abandoned on the floor for something a bit more bare and pink. Golden curls fall to cover her.

Trying to be seductive.
My tounge writhes with nicotine and anger, growling in peels of hate:

My heart is far too busy with other matters.
Goddamn Batman...

Her expression drops into a dainty frown, feet turned inward, shoulders limp and helpless as she sways back- forth- back- forth-

"Come on Puddin'"

This started as a poem about how Andrew Brockman was flying at Airband and then it evolved into greatness (read it as one big sentence):

When Angels fall from Heaven-sent the messager of Hades fire-the guns of nuclear War-heads of soldiers roll like the th-underneath the skin there's secrets to be-hold the wrath of God is more dangerous than good-ridence.

April 19th 2011

Heart throb
Oxymoron
Maryrdom
Mixed feelings.



I am horrified of myself.

March 29, 2011

Duct tape scars
reddened rings wrap wrists
lovingly <3
------------------------------
be the Batman to my joker
the Batsy to my jay man
without you I'm just a
joke without a opunchline
a trick without a treat
just a stupid clown...
playing stupid games
with a deck of cards
       missing his King of Hearts <3
-------------------------------
Everyone knows I can't live without you.
you are the last piece to my puzzle
the puzzle that's my
little
giggling
heart <3

Self.

Self.

Indigo Jackson

            Everyone wants to be accepted, right? It's one stereotype about teenagers that just may prove to be accurate. All of the hokey superstitions about peer pressure, as well as the oh-so-familiar rant about how “the media is poisoning the minds of our children by brain-washing them with the idea that girls should look like walking twigs and boys should look like they're on steroids,” are all true. That's right. It's a legit problem, people. I see 12 year old girls that look like Snooki walkin' around the hallways it's so bad. It's January, people, the sun doesn't shine enough for you to have a tan like that yet! And, of course, the ultimate challenge is to be accepted for who you really are, because, as the Snooki lookalikes demonstrate, anyone can create a false image to hide behind (with enough spray-tan and bumpits). To take it to the next level, it's an even more daunting challenge to accept yourself for who you really are. Because, sometimes, deep, deep inside the walls of our disheartened souls, we feel the urge to search for something greater than what the eye can see. We feel there is something to ourselves that is bigger and better than we give ourselves credit for, we just can't quite put our finger on it yet. But it's definitely there, waiting to be found and embraced. And it scares the living daylights out of us, not because it's dangerous or bad, per se, just because we know that making this new discovery about ourselves will signal a change in our self perception. I can tell you from experience that revelations can be painful and sickening and life altering all at once. The only thing that keeps me going is the understanding that I'll love myself after enduring all of the trials and tribulations of coming out as my true self.

            I've lived the past 5 years of my life as a Lesbian. That's right, I said it. L-E-S-B-I-A-N. Lesbian. I figured that to be a “true Lesbian” I had to follow the stereotype to a tee. I was a man-hating feminist rebel against everything that had to do with testosterone- a “true” short hair, bra-bashing, makeup-boycotting dyke. I even went to an Ani Difranco concert, who, for those of you that don't know, is the biggest name in feminist folk rock (and a total lesbo magnet). Anyone with a half-way rational gaydar could pick me out of a crowd in no time flat. Along the way I picked up a beautiful girlfriend, an affinity for plaid, and a head full of sexism, bias and bullcrap:

You are a male and you are talking to a female? You must want in her pants!

You are a Republican? You must be a stuck-in-your-ways conservative bigot!

You are a flamboyant guy? You are flaming GAY!

You are a girl with short hair? You are such a LESBIAN!

            Looking back on how I used to think I am ashamed of myself. How did I justify fighting sexism against women with sexism against men? How do I have room to talk about politics, economy, and social issues when I don't know more about them than the man on the moon? And, above all, how can I as a member of the LGBT community myself, make degrading assumptions about other people's identity based on physical appearance? As I rounded the corner of 17 and left the horrors of sweet 16 behind, I started to realize how terribly, hypocritically, judgmentally wrong I was and how twisted my ideas about my society and humanity were. This was my first revelation.

            After a long bout of soul-searching and heart-to-heart talks with my girlfriend (which usually ended in tears), I realized I wasn't a Lesbian, but instead a Pansexual. This was my second life-altering revelation. I discovered a part of myself that was attracted to men, women and anything in between. Yes, I said in between. Because gender isn't a binary, there is more than black and white, male and female. There is the obvious physical “in between” of the intersex (a person with gender ambiguous “parts”) but then there are those of us who were born in a gender specific body that just don't feel like their gender identity in their head matches their physical sex. This is called being Transgendered. And here comes the third earth-shattering realization: I am Transgendered. I am a man living in the body of a woman. There are more of us out there then you could ever imagine. We put the “T” in “LGBT,” and we are the unspoken minority. While there is the “L” for “Lesbian,” the “G” for “Gay,” and the “B” for “Bisexual,” “T” for “Transgender” doesn't quite fit in with the rest of the group. You see, all of the other words describe sexuality while Trans describes gender identity. We are like the kids in the back of the class that no one talks to but are always forced to do group work with the popular kids when it's time for a project. Though the idea of being an outcast worried me, it wasn't this change in social class (“popular” Lesbian to misunderstood, “unpopular” Trans guy) that scared me. It was the fact that I am the thing that I have dreaded for so long. I am my own sworn enemy. I am a man at heart. And no matter how hard I try to fit my male role, I will never physically be male. No matter how much testosterone I shoot up, no matter how far I go with surgery, or how tightly I bind down my chest, or how much body hair I acquire, or the muscle mass I gain, I will never be born with a male body. Because you are only born once. And I was born wrong. This was my latest, most heartbreaking revelation, and I can feel in the pit of my stomach that it won't be my last.

            Life is a maze that we must fight to navigate sometimes. We find ourselves at dead ends and obstacles more often than we'd like and it's discouraging to say the least. But, through the heartbreak and the turmoil we all end up fighting our way out eventually, only coming to a complete understanding of this labyrinth after we've untangled ourselves from it's thorns and hedges. So take time to enjoy the journey and remember that it'll all make sense in the end, even if you're enduring roller-coasters and closed doors. The pain of the revelations are what prove them to be true. The tears are what make the little facets of our personalities glisten and shine. But, most of all, the promise of self acceptance and understanding is what makes all of the torture bearable.

dis. ease

fallen to dis. ease
once easy to give in to the morning light
(now harder than ever.)

March 24, 2011

Sour smoke rolls off his tongue. Stale. Frustrated, Jay mashes the cigarette to the ashtray, crumpling its paper shell. His restless, white hands writhe, finger roughly and unsteadily gripping at thin air.

Nothing. I have NOTHING...

Years of toiling over this... this man... (cuz that must be what it is...) for nothing...

That Goddamn Batman...

March 23, 2011

licking the lip of a broken bottle.
splitting the skin of an overused muscle.
beading up like the pearls rolling down your neck.
smile of rubies
            like diamonds
                 like coal

throw your head back and drink from the fountain...

Murder Mystery: mirrored picture frame, Judge, Hair salon

The taint of velvet stands dormant on my fingertips. The girl lays lifeless in my arms, a reminder of how fragile these bodies are. Paper flesh. Glass bones. Rigid. Breakable. She's been missing for weeks. Her family's struggling with the loss. They insist she'll be back.
"She always comes back... she's run away before- but she ALWAYS comes back!"
Sorry, Mrs. Johnson, your daughter's gone for good.

  This used to be a hair salon back in the 20s. Since then it's been everything from a 7/11 to a whorehouse (come to think of it, there isn't much difference...) But now... now it's just an empty box. Lined with cobwebs and rat's nests, no one's been in here for decades. No one except predator and prey...

   No blood. A mirror at her side. She's always been known for her beauty, her vanity. Blonde wisps of hair cover her neck- cover her wounds. Teeth wounds. Claw marks on her arms. Bruises. No blood. A hot, sweet breeze caresses my bare back. The feel of fluttering wings and the scent of hungry fangs. The succubus Queen: Judge of the Underworld. She harvests the lives of young girls to keep her soul alight- a licking flame af hate and sizzling jealousy.

   The succubus rises, baring her fangs. The demon's red eyes gleam in the gunfire. *brakka! brakka! brakka!* of my automatic fire. In one clip, the goddess of lust lies dead in a pool of the blood she's stolen from countless beauties laid to rest. May they finally find peace.

March 9th 2011

Fading like a lover's dying passion.
Fading like a child's respect for innocence.
Fading like a soldiers hope for survival.
Fading like the life in the eyes of an old man.
Fading like the lust at dawn.
Fading like the pain of loss.
Out of control.
Out of my mind.
Out of patience.
Out of time.
Spiraling, dwindling, spinning, falling, falling past the point of no return.
Where did I go wrong?
Where do I go now?
What is left for this empty shell?
What is left of this ghost blows, blows
down, down, down,
to the furthest reaches of outerspace.
Out of time.

March 7th 2011

A swirling cloud of silver hair gilded her, floating as if the atmosphere had liquified. Her eyes locked on ome invisible spot, transfixed...

A Passage From"Body Traps"

Music. It's the only thing in this world that keeps me going. Calloused fingertips strum, pluck, pick shining guitar strings. Acoustic. Vintage. My caramel-finished, wooden miracle. The evening December breeze carries my voice away like silver ashes, scattering them amongst the rushing yellow cabs and the streetlamps slowly, slowly flickering to life. New York City rings with my song- or at least this corner of Manhattan. Cigarette butt tornadoes start to collect at my feet, harsh wind licks my face. Taunting. Disheartening. No one's listening. Empty bodies pass, their eyes blank and bored. Oblivious. My willpower to continue playing dwindles. Calloused fingers go limp, my last chord lingering, heavy, dissipating. My coffee can sits- empty- at my feet. Another evening of petty begging and heartless passers by. At least I earned some alone time... it's hard to come by lately.

            And so returns the cacophony of tires over broken glass clashing with the calls and cries of angry men clashing with the thousand tiny beads of light rushing at me clashing with the clak clak clak of heels on frozen pavement. Smog and noise are the lifeblood of my little corner of Manhattan- my little slice of heaven- but they're not the reason my heart is dragged back here night after night. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafts from the shop I share my heaven with. I know that every night, like clockwork, I can catch a glimpse of her face. Cinnamon mocha beauty. I swear, her chocolate eyes lock with my own brassy, amber and- I know it sounds odd but, I feel with every timid glance she sees deep into the depths of my spirit and... and she understands. She understands me like no other. Yet we haven't breathed a single word. The clak clak clak of her heels. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. This is my moment to break our silence.

Rising Action practice

Indigo:

A tiny room.Locked. Filled to overflow with filthy people. Eventually, the conversation gets boring and the bodies quiet down. Silence so deep that they're no longer human. Just bodies. Flesh with no meaning. The carcassess of the memories of the people that used to live in these shells. Long, Long Forgotten. Dust falls quietly from the rotting rafters like black snow. It covers the flesh in a thick crust, layer after layer, creating a second skin.