2/4/13 (ft. Zevais)I am the plasma you are the mercurywith your flesh in my skinclawing from underneath all the scrapesburns cutsitches slicesI'm the dream in the worldyou'll never forget. cannot rid me of you;Your skin holds me in, my insides rupture,a covered sinkhole, a seeping earthquakeempty and deep, shakes and groanslike new wiring, like and old building,awakened by touch. tired in the spine;nothing pleasant all the rageis easily contained is carefully releasedwithin your open mind i
2/4/13 or better yet 2/5/13you are quicksilverglittering against curtained dark,and when the crustof my earth splits openseeping rupture in world,down, you drip,extinguishing sparks,glimmery against grass;you stay there,nestled in my skinsoaking the dunesof my arms likedesert rain;i too like a singlesphaeralcea ambiguareverse myself in time,closing like i opened.
2/4/13 (first draft)you are the mercuryin my skinall the scrapescutsslicesin the worldcannot rid me of you;my insides rupture,a seeping earthquakeshakes and groanslike and old building,tired in the spine;all the rageis carefully releasedin dosed amountsat other, bigger targetsacross the riftyou turn awaybut it doesn't matteranymore, does it?if all i can feelis the greedy angerwhat's the pointin staying?you will fadelike summer afternoonsand i will dissipateinto the still waterthat claimed meso long ago;but in my capillaries,arteries,aorta,like little branchesof liquid frostwill hold yourhand and mouthso tightly withunderstandinglittle frozen riversof shimmeringancientsilvermercury.
1/29/13 (sweet)sometimes you can almost taste itsometimes, it sours before the surfacebecause fire destroys us,time rips us apart,worse yet ice torments us--return me into the atomic statein which i belong,the divided and conqueredreligion that places faith inravens.anti-matter rusts matter,apathy devours energy,devote an empty,abandoned old templeto night,but leave it built in thefrozen wastelands of Neptune,where such thoughts areeasier kept.
1/29/13 (the writer)the charcoalsticks to my fingersfaceslinesshadowsfall on my paperblanketing like black snowI cannot translatethe images, my thoughtsinto real, aestheticallypleasing visuals
1/28/13 (que tiempo hace hoy?)i have an informal relationshipwith the rain--estás lluviosoit is almost a part ofla familia;it does not ask to enter my house(mi casa es su casa)it is always welcome inside.
1/28/13my words are agoraphobicthey do not want to leave my mouth,they suffer from separation anxietypanicked, they cling to my lips--they do not understand themselvesas collections of repetitious ancient marks;they do not see significance in their appearanceand they cannot fathom the value of being spoken.