kris ex

::she told me this with tears in her mouth, none in her eyes::

the books were the lies made eternal, removed from the periphery, uncovered from dark clouds and smoked into stone for posterity. in there she was in-visible, unable to hide, too afraid to run, too addicted to move. it was all drugs and sugar and ice cream secrets with so much energy put into plotting and covering her tracks and hiding her lies that she felt too weakened to do anything else.

maybe she was begging to be caught, to have it put down and out of her hands; to have the weight removed, the cross unburdened. but the withdrawal was spiritual and it caused her to lash out when she wanted to open. she grabbed what she needed to let go of and thought about how simple it was when she was alone and empty and full of space until she forgot what she should have remembered, so everyday she told a story of a better tomorrow.

she saw the accomplices as cowards and the dedicated as evil. but where she fit in, she did not know.

_______ asked if I had a hobby in _______. How does it translate—that my hobby, my passion, my joy—is to love you and be your partner.

I used to do other things that took me inside of myself.  But this—this is a free fall into a sinkhole or rappelling into a cavern too deep and wide to know if a bottom exists.

Maybe that’s the point. Trust your instincts, your equipment. Check your fear at the door. After all, what’s the worst that can happen?

—07·02·10

that terrifying moment when you realize the Universe doesn’t like to be styled on and She looks you dead in the eyes, all calm before the deluge, and says: oh, you gon’ get this work.

then,
as the cold winds are rising
it’s any USB port in an electrical storm
charged by the static of torn hearts
and flying razors
and waiting for deliverance that doesn’t come

…like waiting alone As Seen On TV in those ungiving hours that stretch and repeat
like you pushed to clock back and got stuck in Punxsutawney

maybe anyone can wash away the flood of drowning in red wine in a city that doesn’t know your name
full of whiskey bars
that have heard it all before
and you want to say:

no, my pain is new and it’s mine and it’s unique

but you know you are only the terrain that other men have been over
and they got over you
more quickly than you got over yourself

because they saw you
as you were never willing to see yourself.

she spoke the truth with the kind of happiness that would smile down an army. and he swore on all the flowers and sunny days that no harm would ever come to her.

no matter how true his aim, no archer can hit himself in the heart.

(·•·)

a cum rushes over me…

she used her intelligence as a barrier, her sarcasm a mask, the secrets they shared were her arsenal. and when they pissed hieroglyphics onto the side of discovery, they did it together.

but for the times she ate him whole and spit him out rebirthed with the pain of all the lives he had lived in his one body, he yelled at his demons until he was hoarse. and then he would ride her like a horse until she yelled like a demon; and heard the truest words she had ever spoken—for she was the road and the path and the obstacle.

like Arjuna riding into battle in a story that was neither sacred text nor hollow myth nor historical truth, he knew that you either answer to call to adventure and meet the dragons on the road; or ignore it and wait for them to show up on your doorstep.

she asked what the sense was in doing something half-wrong and i had no answer. it always made sense to go into things full bore; discarding partial measures, throwing prudence to the fallen leaves and letting providence be concerned with where the pieces landed. but what she wanted was wrong—and the truth was she had no heart for it. what she wanted was the story, even if it could never be told—the narrative would take too long, the pinch points would be too tight, and the turning points would set off her motion sickness.

but, again, she asked: “what is the sense in doing something half-wrong?”

and, again, i had no answer. so we skipped to the third act, just in time for the climax, and we played our roles.

there would be no happy ending.

i told her that i did mine before i saw hers; and i know she couldn’t have seen mine, because the only people that see mine and the ones that i want to see mine. and so we stood, two halves of a mirror across time and space and dream and reality, transfixed by the singular image of our own reflection and the removal of illusions of uniqueness, originality or cleverness.

but let me not confuse what i’m doing here…

she had a sweet voice given to cruel words.

and the truth is we’d rather chew and swallow our own lips than hear the truth from those of another.

things change. like deportees. your feelings disaporic; your heart everywhere but in your breast.

you don’t see her lipstick or her panties anymore but remember what they tasted like when she would wake you up in the middle of the night. you hear about her tales from long-forgotten friends and see more of you in her than you remember being in yourself. when it’s silent, you hear the echoes and shadows of her turning in bed during unforgotten hours. even though it’s been a hundred years of solitude for you both, you know that re-meeting her would be anything but awkward. it would be like falling in again and losing time and scribing a New Testament via divine dictation.

but she flirts with you to push you away, and keeps you at bay to make you long for her. she runs so you can find her. because she knows she it’s not worth it if it’s not hard. it’s only in your pursuit of herness do you realize no man has ever mastered her. but she allows them all to fool themselves—because if she were not able to be caught and captured and controlled, no one would be stupid enough to chase her. and if no one were to chase her, the Big Bang would finally cease banging and Winter would come…

i had a dream that i spoke to one of her former masters—a man who had assumed that mantle and bore it to the world. only this wasn’t a dream and i wasn’t talking to one of her masters. it was real life and i had gone to meet my guide who didn’t know he was my guide. and we were in a diner. and we were probably high. and this conversation may have never really taken place.

…but what’s important is this:

we were speaking about something else and he told me that i would never master her just as he had never mastered her. she was not fickle or uncontrollable or jealous—she was just expansive. so expansive that she was beyond human emotions and trappings and all the things we put on the energies we have no way of containing in our minds.

“i was just her servant,” he said, with his eyes low and smile slight. this nigga had an ease that made you understand what he said, even when the words were barely there. to this day, i know he’s a genius and a mutant and the birth of a new species. one hundred years from now, we will find out that his grandfather was a Starjammer and his parents were named Summers and Grey. even without watching, i keep a close eye on him and i know what he means when i don’t hear him.

…something about making yourself worthy to her, about Faith beyond Hope and Trust beyond Belief; Knowing beyond Science and History beyond Myth. it’s about investing in her to invest in yourself, not making offerings to curry favor. it’s what they wrote about in the sacred books and what we’d read if we ever got things right. and even though she’s never said it, i now know that the Books were about her and me and no one else.

they all say the same thing until real life steps in and they turn into actual women. they’re all master theoreticians until their feminist existentialism meets with a woman’s existence and a dick is hard in their cunt and they open and let go and catch feelings with cum on their hands.

because it’s only easy to steal when you’re not willing to leave behind any DNA.

·•†•·

“you can change anything you want,” she says. “you just have to know what it is and want it bad enough.”

but the rub is that i don’t know how to want it bad enough and haven’t in years. as if i saw my handwriting on the wall from when i was six and the curves are still the same and there’s a voice in my head that sounds like everyone i ever knew and it’s saying that there are some things you can’t change about yourself no matter how hard you try—even though the one thing that you’ll never change about me is that i won’t listen to what everyone else says, never.

i’ll flow like ice, rocking in tumblers and melting on the Night Train Express, pulling out on a quick ride to somewhere lonely and cold where the seasons change and hair grows auburn in the Fall and silver in the Winter and i still won’t have any answers, but i’ll have more than an idea and the voices will maybe be gone.

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which I will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh…And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

—e.e. cummings

she refused to fall apart for anyone’s amusement, but the harder she tried to hold herself together, the more pieces of her fell and flew from her until it was too painful to watch and we all turned away

because what was fun was not the disintegration of a human soul, but the drama contained therein. and when she began to fight for it (to fight for her right to life by any other name), it was futile because the die had been cast and the gods had long washed their hands of her in the waters of their own Rubicon. and that,

that was not funny. because it reminded us all of our own mortality and folly.

too see her bargain with the inevitable was not a good entertainment. no.

we all turned away.

and we’ve never spoken of it until now.

running on the hot sands of an ancient beach as a brick sun toes into the ocean. the language has long since been forgotten and the colors were never known.

above me, a horizon of glass ceilings and patterns—things i can’t quite see, can’t quite break, but which hold me down nonetheless.

i use the sweat to hide my fears and obscure my view; so that i can’t tell what i know i’m running from or what i think i’m running to. the noise of my feet makes it hard to hear me doubt myself.

the sweet burn in my body’s fiber reminds me that this is not a dream, a poem, an exercise, or a metaphor.

this is my life.

i no longer think about you at night.

not since my heart was stoned and i re-discovered the secrets of waiting for the sun. not since my dreams were caught in a web of exposure and i wore 40 Belows on the zabuton, back when i thought i could balance my scales like it was all Libra Love. not since i lost myself and found all the wrong answers in the darkest places where there were no lights and no mirrors and nothing to look at and nothing to see or be seen by. not since i learned how to put one word in back of the other and look at the path behind me to sometimes only see one set of conversation and recall that those were the times i was listening.

i no longer think about you at night. because i do it all day now.

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Naturally, I’m referring to this guy.

Because there’s definitely something off about both men. But there’s also something very on. And I don’t think the people who are referring to Sheen as bi-polar have the credentials to do so. And those who do are not referring to him as such because, well, that would be irresponsible. You don’t watch a 15-minute interview, listen to a few radio interviews and come up with a professional diagnosis. Not in the real world, anyway. Maybe on Lie to Me or some other procedural where they have to squeeze a story into a formula, but not here. This is the Charlie Sheen show. And it probably won’t last for long.

There’s a total lack of responsibility in his hilarious, poetic, defiant words. And his energy is extremely unreceptive to outside observation. It’s entertaining because it’s troubling—and that’s what we human beings do with things that scare us: we ridicule them, if we can. Call it God, call it Sarah Palin, call it the embattled leader of Libya—we’ll make a joke of it because there is power in laughter. Laughter can disguise denial, pain, fear.

But Sheen is troubling, nonetheless. His statements are wiping away fantasies, challenging paradigms and strafing the status quo with full metal spitzers from a jet going under the radar in a no-fly zone. He’s the Red Baron of this shit right now. It’s important to note that Sheen was well-known as drug and alcohol abuser who’s had documented episodes of violence against women. He also liked the company of porn stars—women whose time and presence he purchased as one would a hooker. Which all seemed to be fine and good with his corporate backers—until he started referring his show’s creator by his Hebrew name and giving inside baseball interviews outside of the locker room. Then, and only then, did Sheen become a real liability. Before that, his conduct was bitchin’ and his condition was perfect.

He’s making his legend as he goes along, each statement adding to his own greatness and solidifying the madness that was said—it’s like a rapper bragging so well about how good his rapping is to the point where the bragging itself becomes the proof in the eating of the pudding. Charlie Sheen is awesome because he keeps coming up with awesome  ways of saying how awesome he is while telling his multibillion-dollar checkwriters that’s he’ll give them one piss test for free—but the next one goes in yo’ mouth. The fact that he hasn’t been sniped down or blackballed into silence or wound up like Marilyn Monroe means that he’s winning. Every moment he breathes air and can exclaim that he’s winning is evidence that he’s winning. Each time he claims that he’s a warlock proves that he indeed does have something greater protecting him. This is a guy who’s told one network to lick his feet, promised an exclusive interview to another—a promise that he reneged on in order to give that network’s competitor an interview as well. The only reason Fox hasn’t jumped to get some of Sheen’s sheen is because Charlie is a serious lefty who hangs out with Alex Jones (who may or many not be a counter-intellgence agent as far as I’m concerned). Sheen’s got Twitter, Facebook, the whole internet and traditional TV going nuts. (Meanwhile, Gaddafi/Kadafi/Qaddafi/Gadhafi’s material is not nearly as entertaining.)

Unfortunately, Sheen’s stance of give, give, give and no take isn’t sustainable for an extended period of time. He’s pre-emptively defensive to the point where his protective maneuvers seem like offensive strikes; he moves like a man who knows he’s wrong, but figures that if he can possibly convince the world that he’s right, his opponents will cave in and he will be rhyming with winning. He’s not being receptive to any information except what comes from his 10,000 year-old brain. Those who cannot get him are retards who can’t think outside the box. Those who have come before him and failed are fools, trolls, weak, defeated. Which may all be true, but this universe—forever expanding, ever changing, never static— is not a closed system. And if Sheen continues to pinch himself off from it if he won’t continue to exist in it. Science won’t allow, neither will physics. When and how the end will come is way beyond my ken, but I do know that he can’t keep at this rate in that direction for long. Because nature abhors a vacuum, he cannot become one and remain. And, because nature abhors a vacuum, his truths, now created, must continue.

That’s good because his truths are fascinating, compelling, entertaining—it’s like the best of Kenny Powers, minus the dancing and clumsy, reluctant introspection. It could be because he’s far from having run through the $1.2 million (about $2 million with “backend”) per episode that he was getting from CBS. His position is the logical and radical end to the monsters that Hollywood has created for decades. He’s not the first and he won’t be the last. But, usually, we have to deal with caricatures or premium cable facsimiles or self parodies of these gods amongst men. Yet here is Charlie, coming as a real life wild man at this time in this space where we can exclusively watch him watching his “exclusive” interview as the results of his drug tests are revealed by RadarOnline.com, an entity that treats Tila Tequila with the gravity of world dignitary. And, for most of us, it may be our first time seeing someone snort a lit cigarette. That’s some tiger blood, Adonis DNA level shit right there.

In this world, at this time, Charlie Sheen is not just a high priest Vatican assassin warlock, he is a gladiator. He’s the god of our arena, no homo. These are good times. Too bad they can’t last.

Stuff like this upsets me, mainly because Steve Stoute, whose creatively profitable career  has been based on getting a percentage of the profitably creative careers of musicians, should know better than most people that the people producing the Grammy show and the voting body behind the Awards themselves are entirely different entities with separate goals in mind.* He even says as much. Which makes his whole argument pretty much bullshit.

Not to say that Stoute doesn’t have extremely valid points—because he does. The NARAS’ ability to be out of touch with the driving forces of culture is something of legend. Which I feel everyone pretty much understands by this point.

Which leaves me kinda confused as to why Stoute: 1) felt the need tomake this argument in such a public manner; 2) why he’s making it such a shoddy way. It reads like he had his panties in a bunch. Either that or he realized that Lucky Strike was gonna dump him and decided, No, we get to dump you, a la Don Draper.

Now, I’m not to say that Stoute’s being disingenuous, or that there’s anything wrong with with him making millions by getting 10 and 15 and 20% off rap artists and flipping that into making big coin deals telling clueless corporations which negro to use sell their cheaply made products. As a matter of fact, I kinda admire the guy for that. Someone’s gotta keep those sweatshops running; it might as well be Reebok or HP or Samsung or whomever. And if he can get Jay-Z or 50 Cent or Drake some of that blood money while sucking off a few drops for himself, so be it. We’re all guilty in this interconnected world, and if his part in the game has him in a Maybach, more power to him. No matter who you sleep with at night, you always sleep with yourself. Or something profound.

Back to the point: It’s mindboggling that someone with Steve Stoute’s depth and width of experience in the music industry (and business at large) writes an open letter as if he has no idea how the music industry works. We have blogs for all that, Steve.

——————————————–

*I’m pretty  sure there’s one very old, very rich, very wrinkled white man who controls all of it, though.

I was the crackhead in Jungle Fever. I was two weeks out of rehab. I’d been smoking cocaine for a year and a half, two years, and I understood the nature of the disease. I had done the research. So when I started talking to Spike about it, I said, “You don’t see him high that much. You always see him when he needs something. He’s on a mission to get some shit. That’s what I wanna do.” And that was my breakthrough. That got me into Hollywood. It was the perfect marriage of experience and opportunity.

—Samuel L. Jackson

What’s great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca-Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca-Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca-Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca-Cola, too. A Coke is a Coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the Cokes are the same and all the Cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it.

—Andrew Warhola

MJ gone—our nikka dead.