– good morning. how can i help you?
– hello. i’m here to claim my place on the throne.
– right this way, dear.


breathe life into art

when i returned to psych after two and a half weeks and realized i was completely uninterested in him, i found myself wondering: what’s the point? when something can go from being an actual thing to nothing at all, without anything happening. when it’s not even time that makes you move on, but mere circumstance. was it even something to begin with, wasn’t it anything at all? i was, once again, struck by the finality of impermanence. but just now i remembered this post, and realized that there it was. there was the point of it. the experience itself, and the remnant of it, is what makes something worth it. there is solid proof that it was something, right there. because i never could have written that if it hadn’t happened, if i hadn’t really felt it. the reality of it is what makes it so inspired, and it’s only life itself which can breathe life into art. so live – let things begin, let them end – and see the world surge through your creations.


the world is blindingly bright. the ground has been bleached a starch white, attracting light magnetic. photons crashing down, ricochet into a frozen disorder. enthropy. some land in your eyes, iris and energy colliding, wave cutting pupil. like a deep gasp after breaking the icy wet surface. good morning.

january 13, 2014. 01:58 am

you’re hugging him. you’re clinging to him, letting your weight be carried. you burrow your face in his neck and breathe in his warmth. you’re pressed against him, his body soft and hard in that way that’s so distinctly male, and you rest your cheek against his shoulder. his t-shirt has just gone through the washer for the thousandth time, it smells like detergent and comfort. his hands are steady on your back, holding you close, leaving him-shaped marks deep within. your chests rise and fall, fitting against each other. rise and fall, breaths in sync. you could stand here forever.

i never said that they were completely unfounded

i never said, i never said, i could have mentioned your name. i could have dragged you in. guilt by implication, by association. i’ve always been true to you in my own strange way. i’ve always been true to you in my own sick way. i’ll always stay true to you.


ps. this is extremely problematic for me as i consider morrissey to be an arrogant prick. unfortunately, i can’t seem to stay away from his music. god, i love the music. consider the art thoroughly separated from the artist, like über-high-centripetal-acceleration-in-a-centrifuge separated. that (genius) bastard.


pieces fall, tinkering softly
sound fades into nothing
no bottom reached

the void’s eyes bore into yours
sharp points paired, truth
flashing through them
deep into your being
the void sees you

floating, suspended
by forces abstract, negative gravity
rational existential deterministic
you want to drink the world
inhale thoughts of dead astronomers
philosophers, feel
the universe crawling under your skin

concrete abstract, interwoven
cross-stitched into your helixes
etched into the atoms
art science
shoots through nothing,
unknowing dripping thickly

slashes through perception
blade puncturing membrane, viscera
spills out leaving you gaping,

you fall at its feet, merciless
blinding, harsh beauty
freedom in truth, surrender to
the void

chinese buffet anthems

I think I left my last genuine laugh
at the Chinese buffet
the way we unclenched our jaws 
and clutched our stomachs
faces turning red, or maybe it was orange
because of the poor lighting but despite that,
we still looked so radiant underneath it
and that’s how I like
to remember you
and me, so full
in every aspect of the word,
in every aspect of the world
we were immaculate
and what these memories conjure from me
are feelings akin to
sweet and sour

and I think I figured out
why my mother insists that I come home before 12
come home before I get too drunk to
remember what month it is, come home before
I remind myself that my
dignity had unprotected sex with 
every poisonous entity in my life,
under the influence of misery

Come home before I remember
the way you drummed your fingers on
every surface it touched, the way
they felt like petals rubbing against my skin
I’m clenching my teeth just remembering
how your hands were able to dream like
cherry blossoms awakening in the presence of spring,
thriving underneath the fragrance of the sun
but even after you detangled your legs from mine
you still had to have thought of me
with each strand of my hair
sleeping on your pillow
my pantyhose lying dormant on the back
of your chair
my fingerprints on your car window
the glitter from my dress coruscating
on the surface of everything it ever touched

I’m reminded of you.

And I think to myself,
you sure do know how to bring a girl to her knees
you sure do know how to make her weep
into her own taffeta gown,”

You think that to me,
you were merely a phone number etched
on the inside of an 8th grader’s palm,
when really, you were 
bible verse murals and
prayer hands of ceramic figurines
resting on bookshelves,
your name resonates

with the sound of bookshelves
toppling over

a silent thud,
or multiple silent thuds

of your fingers drumming on everything it ever touched

my dignity, my soul, the silent thud

of my self-esteem

by mariko bean

daddy issues

my father called a while ago. i missed it. we’ve been doing this cat-and-mouse chase since my birthday. he calls my main cell, i can’t answer because the mic doesn’t work. i call with my other cell, he doesn’t answer because it’s an unknown number. or so i assume. he calls back anyways,  maybe because he realizes it might be me. he says we should meet and i say sure. we can’t figure out a date so i say that we could just do it later. he calls again later and i miss it. he calls once more and i don’t miss it. he suggests a date and i say sure. i don’t have the energy to figure out a time and place so i suggest that we could just do it later.

he called again an hour ago, and i missed it. i called back just now, but he didn’t answer. we’re supposed to meet tomorrow. to be honest, i think i’m the one chasing myself, and i think i’m finally tired of it. i’m tired of holding grudges and asking why. i’m tired of feeling incomplete. what’s the point? it is what it is, and weighing myself down won’t do me any good. i think i’m ready to let go of the resentment and move on. i can’t help but think that i’ll look back at all this further down the road with regret if i don’t. life’s just too short, you know? it’s too short.

and this is painfully honest. and when i say it i vomit,

i know it don’t seem difficult to hit you up. but you not passionate about half the shit that you into, and i ain’t having it. and we both know that i don’t mean to offend you, i’m just focused today. and i don’t know why it’s difficult to admit that i miss you. and i don’t know why we argue, and i just hope that you listen. and if i hurt you i’m sorry, the music makes me dismissive. when i’m awake i’m just drifting, i’m not complaining. it’s just to say that i stay pretty busy, lately. and i could be misbehaving, i just hang with my. i’m fucking famous if you forgot, i’m faithful despite all what’s in my face and my pocket, and this is painfully honest. and when i say it i vomit, on cloudy days when i’m salty. i play the hate to the laundry. state to state for the profit, it ain’t a stain on me. my momma raised me a prophet, i play for dollar incentive. and where i’m walking, it’s studded, and half- i stumble to where she park when she visit, i grab the bottle and chug it. i see the car in the distance, i know the dark isn’t coming. for the moment, if i could hold it. she, she seems that…

all my dreams got dimmer when i stopped smoking pot. nightmares got more vivid when i stopped smoking pot. and loving you is a little different, i don’t like you a lot. you see, it seems like…

i’m coming back i gotta handle business. vanish to my sleeper seat, left you at terminal three. i’ll meet you down at baggage claim in a couple weeks, a fortnight. and you parade my homecoming, don’t cry. you know i can’t live in any place i visit. to live and die in la. i got my fleetwood mac, i could get high every day. but i’d be sleepy, ocd and paranoid. so give me bali beach, no molly please, palm, no marijuana trees. your hickeys on my aorta and tattoos you could only see. when i’m playing surfboarder, put whiskey in that salt water. i emptied every canteen just to wear that straight edge varsity you think is cool. they thought me soft in high school, thank god i’m jagged. forgot you don’t like it rough, i mean he called me a. i was just calling his bluff. i mean how anal am i gonna be when i’m aiming my gun. and why’s his mug all bloody, that was a three on one? standing ovation at staples, i got my grammys and gold. polka dots on my brit, i’m not supposed to be stunting. it’s all melodic this song, i catch this vibe in my sleep. but i’m just jet-lagged is all, and restless…

all my dreams got more vivid when i stopped smoking pot. nightmares got more vivid when i stopped smoking pot. loving you is a little different, i don’t like you a lot. i mean… fuck

i don’t know what we’re about. what good is west coast weather if you’re bipolar? if i’ma need this sweater, i’d rather be where it’s cold. where it snows. i see how it goes. i put the flowers in bowls. i know they’re coming in droves. you’ll only miss when it goes. yeah, i think that’s it. when it goes…


the air nibbles callously at my cheeks as i walk, coat flapping in the wind. my shadow spreads its wings, ready to fly as my feet stomp their way forward. shards of glass lie scattered on the ground, stars fallen from way up high, shattered by the impact. they shimmer in pieces, catching light artificial, releasing beauty more than natural. ready to cross the street, a car whizzes past. my eyes meet the drivers’, time slowing, stretching into the thickest of honeys. as it drips, the music echoes in my ears, words seeping into my mind. now she’s gone, love burns inside me. i enter the bus, scrambling to find my foundation. equilibrium is hard-earned here. people stumble in one by one, together we stagger towards our destination. no one presses the stop button. we may be shaken, but we’re sharp. my mind ambles, remembering when i dropped my keys down the elevator shaft. one slim slit, deep magnetic. they were swallowed, devoured in the blink of an eye. i peered down into the darkness, wondering what lay there. i imagined an abyss, a portal into a different dimension. i felt its stare, saw, in my mind’s eye, my keys being crushed, pressed together into a singularity. one phone call and an instant later, the keys were in my hand again. the bailiff got them for me, fished them out like it was nothing. the master of the abyss, i guess. can the abyss even be mastered, or can it only ever master?

yayoi kusama, kusama’s peep show or endless love show (1966)