2001-09-20 - 11:08 p.m.

mental state: goosey and otherwise tired.

bush addressed the world. history is being written. how will the world change now? it's unnerving living in a metropolis (LA). everyone says we have nothing they want. but i'm reading about LAX and our studio's being suspected of planned attacks. in my circles people are maintaining calm dialogue about not being racist, not killing other humans. i'm scared. i'm distracted by the matrix of my life that keeps me from unbearable realities about the world. ...here's some about my matrix.

this weekend i'm in a poetry reading a some nice art crawl thang in the uber gritty art scene. how i agreed to this? i will never understand how strong that hit of crack must of been. i used to think my writing was all amazing and powerful. i'm looking back at all my pieces i had been so prowd of, and i hate them all! i'm embarrassed that i submitted them for publishing consideration! (i did get two of them published by some renegade home published artzine). the only ones i'd consider are way too upfront and personal. the speak of my deepest places! and that is too nude for me. so i have a four piece series that i may do. it's about women and a color. three colors of women. it's safe, obnoxious, and loud.

i'll type the poems below..but first i must tell u i went on a date with a man with the worst breath that has ever baked the fragile hairs found in my nose. he's great otherwise. ok....great is such an exaggeration. but nice and nice looking is appro po. i don't like that he's in my industry or that he grew up in LA or that he's 35. i like that he didn't say anything aggressive, offensive, sexist, or racist. that he has a boxer dog, that he is a dare devil, is tall and sexy, is close to his sister, and had some things to say OTHER than his vast likes of bubbly water and certain auto's. i'll see him again.

but what i really wanted to do was kiss that damn republican again. it was such a sweet kiss. life has just been. i got offered some silly job producing a motorcycle show. and i'm passing. i want to try something different, i am ready to give myself that chance. i want more. i want to teach english in costa rica for 5 months and surf. i've got the bug now and no one can possibly extract it from me.

now here's the poem that got published that i don't want to read at the poetry reading: (ya'all can vote on which i should read this weekend).

vagina:

my legs spread apart and i love the deep, fresh smell that meets me.

Oh, was i not supposed to say that? did i throw you off because i said i like the smell of my primal baby drum beats wild rising red natural oceans pouring from me like a liquad gathering between my white vanilla thighs?

we all have it.

some admit it

and some linger in it with a smile.

the other one i won't read:

violently:

i throw you up wiolently. i think of all of the faces of the men that claimed courageous love and then left. without a word.

its not about "thin" anymore, that's for amatures. it's for hate and anger and rolls of tears i do not know how to cry. it is to finally be alone where your words can't scorn me, burning names into my skin, branding me a bitch, a victim, a slut. i get to throw all of you up, violently till there is absolutely nothing left. and i am nothing anymore.

and yet another one i won't read:

pedestal:

pain, numb, deep submersed and constant. i feel rage waking, erruptive, dormant, striking swords of anger. rage red, fucking rage. screaming, crying. breaking glass.

screaming

crying

braking self.

hating myself and suppresing the rage. why do i have this rage?

it is red, it is that black image i randomly got when i was young and would shut my eyes and see nothing but it. black ink engraved like a durer carving. intense, scary, scattered, claustrophobic. rage feels like stomping my feet, slamming the door, pounding my fists screaming in a soundless room till my voice stops its screech. red eyes, pink face.

black.

knockin over tables, breaking plates, she was raped.

"go break some plates".

break the porcelain silence in your bones, feel the shatter breaking at your feet

beaten, broken

you're a bitch.

i was seven.

i could not break any plates.

she was in high school, he was never kicked out. i held the rage, tightening my insides, needing to be purged. she was locked in the room at the party by the same guy. he stayed at our school.

i was in my bed, the only place of safety besides the fucking closet i used to huddle in as my parents fought. i was crying, i said stop in english. he did not.

i never broke any plates.

i broke myself.

never heard.

never asked.

i stopped speaking.

pretty face

pedestal,

you can float on by.

>>>>>>>

oh shit birds i just read over the 'safe' poems about the women in color and they are so crass they read like an novel oliver stone would write about whores and sex. what am i going to do?? i wish i could read someone else's writing. i wish i wrote one god damn tame-ish piece. nothing. i can find...oh i have some egg piece that might work.

but i like work that slaps the way my mom used to on bare, baby girl skin, leaving a raw red mark outlining the length of her fingers.