belong

where are you purple flower?
you are a natural, lonely pose

an endless stamen
between shameless petals,
your saccharine nectarie shows

your moon peeps
from behind rocky boulders,
settles above smoky peaks
shrugging his lonely shoulders

lights up the night
the search for you is all he knows

and he never seems to wait for us,
he just goes and goes,
stealing all of our time
warping the days into nights,
flashing a guiltless glow

spinning circles around the earth,
tranquility is for the weak of heart (this he also knows)
in the dark his madness empowered
searching for his purple prose

in white

white walls
white walls
white waiting-welcome walls
we were there, do you remember?
wearing our beat-up overalls

white paint
white paint
a dripping monologue
we had a dance, do you remember?
waltzing in and out of dialogue

white words
white words
careful, special scenes
we had no tapes, do you remember?
just our fragile memories

navy blue

she rises clear above the range as
a silent moment brakes and
we focus on her flight

moving slowly, dressed in a strange

disguise of fog as

she changes in the night

your shadowed face is plain and as
predictable as her movements

shifting in and out of sight

the only color i see is navy blue,

swimming between me and you
turning quiet moments bright

sitting thigh-to-thigh

I glance your waning eyes

filled with sudden might

pressing your head against mine,

our eyes locked tight

a sweet kiss revealed

beneath her pale moonlight

copy-cat

i make things that look like things that other people make
i am an artist
i am inspired
but i am also a trembling fake
what would it look like if I was not among the rest?
would i be uninspired and irrelevant
or would i be at my very best?

Drown

Last time we went swimming
the sea stood up and hugged you
as though you were responsible
for keeping it blue

Bianca Stewart, 2011

summer thunder

beats like thunder,
words are echoed
i'm not fully aware
resounding in my mind
sometimes
sometimes
sometimes i'm here
sometimes i'm there

falling to the ground
i'm nowhere
falling without a sound
i'm nowhere

blackness
blackness
i'm happier there
gracefully by your side
you don't know it but I still care

time is convulsing
it's not me
it's not me
summer thunder is
blissful blackness
i'm still here don't you see?

Every Word You Say

Your words are branches long and limber

I leap from comfort to hang from timber

Someone once told me I was Godless and brave

I'll hang onto every word 

you say

Your words come from far and travel deep

they drift up and fall down blue hills, so steep

I'll keep a bookmark in the best parts of my life

To hang onto the words

you say

Your words tell a story, a beginning - an end

They grow from a gentle tree, around the darkest bend

I'll water them until they bloom the utmost conviction

So I can hang onto the words

you say

On making it, says Ira Glass

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.” - 


Ira Glass

The Cult of Dying Adonis

beauty like Adonis, bearing
nothing but a simple frown
born from foam, he left to roam
and in her arms he drowned

searching for his Venus,
knocking down pitted castles of sand
left him nothing but the nectar's blood
from Nahr Ibrahim, to his drummer hand

Medea dips down to drag him
tosses him towards the ocean's waves
Persephone's Eleusinian mystery teaches
him naughty ways to behave

never if he followed a fresher trail of flowers
could he be more fire-and-ice
from Cythera to the Cypriot, as she danced her way about
Venus calmed his solemn cries

forgetting where he came from
the fruitful belly of the ocean's crest
he fell to Sirens calling on his lonely
crashed and burned his boat just like the rest

The Only People For Me

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

-Jack Kerouac

Wolves With Guns

I have waited for you day and night

You find a way to creep around my sight

You fill the outer edges of my retina

Is it a dark ring or is it full of light?

I can't tell between what's wrong or right

Leave me in trouble now, I will be alright

I am waiting for the wolves to yell

to take the prisoner's will with my own might,

I am waiting for the wolves to yell

To kill the queen and have a story to tell

Broken windows, just to get to you

I am running, I am hiding from the truth

You won't touch me, you won't kiss me anymore

Who is gonna love me when I'm lying dead on the floor?

I am only one of many queens

Behind every throne is a treachery

I am only one of many kinds

Of foolish lovers that will steal and taint your mind

When in the dark, there is no shame

Another hope lost with every story gained

When losing sparks, no one's to blame

Another love lost with every story gained

The others think I'm crazy, they think I'm having fun

They don't see past the fire, that I'm not the only one

I sold myself to freedom, and now I'm done

No one is gonna love me with my head stuck to my gun

i don't want to be in love, i wan't to be in sadness

i don't want to be in love
i want to be in sadness
an only space that has no place
surrounded by my madness

how will you feel when i touch?
my weary eyes that stole your badness
let me discover you, sullen boy
so that i may hide in you my crassness

not the brilliance of a thousand slivers

not the brilliance of a thousand slivers
of silver and gold
of bright things and bold,
not the last rose
in it's loneliest pose,
with its bittersweet poise,
making its covetous noise
could take my eyes off of you.  

The Discourse of Power & The Fabricated Self

(A short clip of a longer essay by Christina Issa)


Based on the ideas presented by Foucault in his book "Disciplinary Power," it can be argued that our identities are highly fabricated products of an invisible grid of power-relations, which constitutes the mechanism through which disciplinary power operates. In the greater sense, this is the basis for our inescapable arrest to which Kafka so subtly alludes in "The Trial." As our lives and identities are threaded through this lattice of power-relations, we perpetually reinforce ourselves as effects of power. We are systematically bound to a machine, which we ourselves fabricate and inadvertently attach ourselves to. We do this through, among many other things, awareness and ‘self-consciousness." Ergo, ‘The Self’ is a function of disciplinary power and we are just effects of this power. 


How do we break this? We cannot. It is impossible. For as long as the techniques of disciplinary power continue operating through our conscious and even unconscious awareness - through our struggle to assert and re-assert our identities, through our struggle to give meaning and definition to the world, through institutional operations and their assertion of power over the people pressed into the service and ‘improvement’ of the many - no one can avoid the grasp of power, and no one will ever be freed from the grasp of power. In this way ‘The Self’ will never cease being an endless subject of power perpetually being organized, examined, and observed. Moreover, as the individual reacts to these techniques of disciplinary power ‘The Self’ will never own itself and be its own justification; (To Nietzsche's disappointment...) it will only be owned, as a function of another operation. 


Among other things, this reality is why revolution is hopeless. This is why rebellion is just as absurd as the dictatorship in which it seeks to overthrow. As one attempts to reverse the dominant discourse they merely re-establishes another discourse under which he will be bound and existentially contingent. As one redefines, they merely re-subject. The most he can do is hope to have more power than others, so that he may enjoy the power of domination more and experience the effect of subjection less. 


Despite the transference of more power into the individual’s hands, we will always remain caught in the webbing of power-relations. Accordingly, our identity will always remain a figment of our imagination, evading us more and more, escaping us quicker as we tighten our grasp on it. Identity is hugely fabricated in this way, and exists as just an afterthought; in the present we remain to be effects of power.

when neurons are fleeting, Neruda never fails me.

I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving

but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.

Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973)

coin-slot eyes

Coin-slot eyes steal glances in the still of dawn,
sometimes tender, sometimes bare.
We sleep with windows wide open.
Light falling on freckles and you trace my arms, my neck, my back.
Waking takes eternity, if ever we are not in dreams.
Rolling skin to skin feels brand new every time, like the baby’s first cry at the first chance.
And your baby-face profile can be drawn with charcoals of reds and blue - somehow I forget too much, to say, that I love everything about you.
Waiting for a new moment, or just the same one again. Waiting brings me alive when it’s your thoughts I’m waiting in.
Waiting for the right second to steal looks or smiles.
Saving them for when your far away, many lonely miles.

throbbing loud and hard with fervor

Throbbing loud and hard with fervor
making risky ripples inside
Do we at once, turn and walk away
or stay and take the ride?
A risky endeavor
that cannot be measured
but in leaps and bounds of selfless action
feelings are crisp
like edges of aged leaves
poking through our feet, providing traction
certainly indescribable,
for lack of better or worser words
which seeking for would be as fruitless as the sinners' tree
and as isolating as Kafka's absurd
Writing in colors without definition
in books without binding or edges
filling it with songs absent their rhymes
hanging it off hundred-story ledges
On the tide of tricky desire
burning up gems of blue and gold
bars and flakes and hearts that break
riding as brilliantly as the bejeweled we behold
Swimming steadily in our emotions
through endless lakes, we wail and swallow
loving from belly to thigh, from drunken eye to eye
inciting physical sensations, within we wallow
Grasping the electric while we are able
leaving behind the stable but useless words that restrain
rather we ride the current throbbing cable
since what we are together, is what love is to pain

truth-less reality

For his project in Chandigarh, Le Corbusier asked his head engineer “What is the truth really?” Then he drew two parallel lines, with a wavy line in between. “Truth is like a river,” he said, “it flows continuously, changing course, modifying itself, without ever touching either bank”.

Hafez on Selflessness

A Persian poet once said...

"Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
You owe Me.'

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky"

(Hafez)

soul feels older

soul feels older
while heart feels young
i crave your breath
to fill my lungs

winds push forward
loves sink west
burning in the suns set
feels like our very best

laughing is so easy
when secrets are concealed
between apologies and flattery
only in haste ever revealed

like paper through the wind
truth flows through the wicked lyre
steady paths will light the flame
and words set them on fire

backs turned to light
a hardened steel glow
still we press on with might
lingering only in shadows