Saturday, March 19, 2011

Reena's Somatic, etc

Firstly, my major performance/project-- called 'Body Marks'-- is here at my story blog. Those who want it as a pdf, that is available here. Feel free to leave comments, though I really doubt anyone will read this. Oh well.

Secondly, here's my Somatics exercise #23, wherein one visited a graveyard:

Only on an afternoon when it didn't matter
Could I walk so slowly
            that you reached me
I apologize: I can't see but stone
And I can't hear but wind . . .

Since it depends on graphic elements, I've attached it as a pdf, here.

I've also included my own Somatic exercise. 

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

8 (by Pete)


It seems pretty harmless at first.  Little fortunes nestled in spittle, or lodged in early morning pillow drool.  Good advice will come your way.  Do not ignore it.  Loogies glazed with contrived nuggets of wisdom.  Your aura will inspire those around you.  Pretty soon the Prophet becomes an involuntary response.  Hcwwak-THUUP!  This is the sound it makes.

I wake up on train tracks, moaning and hung over.  Bruised and missing a tooth.  Hcwwak-THUUP!  99.9% chance of precipitation tonight.  Sitting at home, listening to the thwack thwack thwack on the window.  I step outside.  It is hailing.  The ground is littered with teeth.  Hcwwak-THUUP!  An opportunity wasted is the relinquishment of rights.  I pick up a random tooth and place it in my vacant hole.  It fits perfectly.  It doesn’t need any adhesive, it just sits there.  “But whose mouth goes without?” I ask no one in particular.  There is no answer.

Hcwwak-THUUP!  You will sew the seeds of misery.
“Don’t you mean ‘sow’?”
Hcwwak-THUUP!  Wrong again.
Down at the fabric store I ask, “What kind of thread should I use when making a quilt?  It’s a gift for those who need it.”  Frightened glances dart in my direction.  “The, um…prophecy,” I mumble.
“Are you alright?”  asks the cashier.
“Sew-sew,” I chuckle nervously.
No one is amused.


“Sway” is playing on the radio when the alarm goes off. 
I can hear the sounds of viol[ence] long before it begins…

Hcwwak-THUUP!  That which lacks physics infests the physical.
I happen upon a secret room.  The door reads “For Writing Instructors and Literary Critics Only- All Others Keep Out.”  Inside there is a scoreboard which reads:  Use of the word ___ (I can’t even say it because it makes me physically ill).  “I knew it!” I say.
Hcwwak-THUUP! [vis-er-ohl] adj.  Describing a raw, internal feeling, often a reaction. [vis-er-ohl] adj.  Of the guts.
“Adjective!” I continue, “Pertaining to anything which takes up space and has mass, or anything which does not!  Adjective!  Frequently used to define what is art in relation to non-art!  Addicts of the adjective believe it paints them in an intellectual light! But in reality it tends to have the exact opposite effect!”
Hcwwak-THUUP!  Tell us how you really feel.
“If this word was a living entity I would choke it to death and laugh at its corpse.”
Hcwwak-THUUP!  Oh my!
“Confidence eats us alive.”


Hcwwak-THUUP!  I’ll give you three guesses.
“You are a gourd whose core has been infested with hungry insects.  You are a glory hole.  You are a human head.”
Hcwwak-THUUP!  I am a tangible construct.  My insides are designed such that, if you were to split me open, they would cease to exist.
“Don’t drag me into this,” I say.  I take a drag of whatever I’ve been smoking for the past couple minutes.
Hcwwak-THUUP!  Don’t be such a drag.
“Drag?  Like those long old-timey dresses that drag across the ballroom floor?”  I watch the NHRA drag race on the tube.
Hcwwak-THUUP!  Like being dragged into the streets and beaten to death.
“Okay.”  About five minutes drag by.
Hcwwak-THUUP!  There’s a hatchet in the corner.

The Prophet is incredibly well-organized.


Competition is healthy.

I sculpt a Jesus Christ from prepackaged dough and the cheapest red wine available.  Bread-and-wine Jesus is a disaster.  He flakes apart at the slightest breeze.  His blood oozes from cracks and crevices.  He is a sad pile of mush.  “Kill me,” whispers the poor creature.  Whoever heard of a prophet who can’t stop bleeding all over the place?

I build a moderately successful Muhammad, but he disappears immediately, into thin air it would seem.  I ask if Invisible Muhammad is shy.  “Just tell me when it’s over,” says a soft voice.

Finally, I construct a balloon animal in the shape of the Buddha.  “Life is dukkha,” says Balloon Buddha, that big, shit-eating grin plastered across his face, and for a moment it’s just too beautiful.

Hcwwak-THUUP!  Cute.  A spoon.


July 2006

Dear Madam Chief Justice,

I applaud your decision to uphold the ban on same sex marriages here in Washington State, and I am in full agreement with your reasoning.  The fact that your decision to deny same sex couples the legitimacy of legal matrimony enjoyed by heterosexual couples is based on your hesitance to “discourage procreation” is not insulting to the intelligence of your constituency in the least.  If there’s one thing that the human race doesn’t do enough, it’s making babies.

(At this point the Prophet grabbed my wrist and forced me to add the following…)

To rectify this debacle, it is imperative that we end the debate on abstinence vs. safe-sex education, and abolish both.  If you’re old enough to walk, you’re old enough to copulate.  The lack of reproductive capabilities is no excuse; the pianist must practice for many years before a proper concert recital.  How many potential new lives are we losing to the hopes, dreams, and insecurities of adolescence? If you are serious about encouraging procreation, then you will endorse the change in policy I suggest:  we must teach sex education to our children from the book of Caligula.  Teach them truth:  that abstinence is a derelict of duty, and that condoms kill.


A concerned citizen


As the Prophet grew stronger, saliva became an increasingly depleted resource until one day the prophecies came in full-on regurgitations.  BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  This is the sound it makes.
I attend a party, although I have no idea how I got there.
The party is dull.  The guests are intolerable.  I start towards the door.  One of the guests stands in my path.
“So you think you can just leave?  What if you end up somewhere worse?”
“I’m willing to take that risk.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Some of us don’t have a ride.  Besides, the host will be offended.  The host threw this party for us!  For you!”
“Doesn’t that make us parasites?” I ask, completely serious.   I continue toward the door.
Selfish prick,” someone mumbles.
BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  You have it so good.  At this point I choke and hack up what appears to be an insurance policy, should I leave the party.
BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  For those who need it.

“And then what?”

BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  Get drunk and dance near the door.  Convince someone to push you out.  I don’t have all the answers.
I tear the policy to shreds, and regret it immediately.
I’m still here at the party, spending far too much time contemplating how to shove the other guests out the window and make it look like they’ve left of their own accord.


I take a tour of a history museum along with a camera crew filming a reality show.
The tour guides smack and poke me with boards and sticks as they regurgitate repellent facts.  The film crew is very detached and professional.  Here comes the curator with a shovel.
“Wait!”  I say.  “Hang on!  My descendents were laborers!  Servants!  Not one of them ever owned slaves!  They worked the fields and the houses…that’s where I got my name!”
“What are you saying?” asks the curator.
“I ought to be exempt from this!”
“Then you’re not even listening.”
And she swings the shovel at one side of my face with the force of a freight train.

The pain is unreal.

“Wait!” I cough up some blood.  “I’ll cut it off!  I swear I don’t even use it!”
“You’ll do no such thing.  The villain must be intact.”
“But…I’m on your side,” I grovel.
The cameraman points his weapon at my face.  “Could you look here and say, ‘Hail patriarchy!’  Or, say ‘The fatherhood will never die!’
At this point I’m blubbering like an infant.
“And if you could make use of a hateful slur, that would make my job a little easier.  The C-word would be ideal,” he says.
“I’m a human being,” I say to no one in particular.

BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  Expectations are filthy, disease-guzzling jizzbags.

“I guess that’ll do,” says the cameraman, but he sounds disappointed.


BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  You know, it’s just…the symptoms of an unrequited lust.  The money shot:  coiled like a rattler in the dust.

I crawl to the surface to speak, scrubbing, always scrubbing.

BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  Never be clean.
A crowd has gathered, holding signs that say “DEATH TO FALSE PROFITS” and “PEOPLE BEFORE PROPHETS,” and so on.

BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  My gag reflex and bowels release at the same moment.  Snot, earwax, urine, sweat, feces, they all fly, pressurized streams churning in overdrive like a foul sprinkler system, burying spectators in heaps of waste.  I try to make sense of the fluid-drenched crowd.

Burn your car.  Burn your degree.  Burn the petty semblances that comprise your so-called identity.  Burn the screaming paranoia steeped in the swamps of conspiracy, and burn the sick perpetual fiction bellowing utopian prophecy.  Burn it all.

“You, sir,” someone is shouting,
“Do you fuck like you’re bored?
All violent and numb?
Do you ever pray she’ll bite open your jugular
Just as you’re done?”
Another angry mob-fraction chimes in:
“Do you love like the widow?
With its mind in the grave?
Would you end it all
To give this world one more
Autopilot sex slave?”

“If that’s what it craves,” I stammer.
The crowd closes in.

BLEUUGHCT-GHACK!  When they bend to the water to drink, they’ll be kicked and beaten.  When they beg for a morsel to eat, they’ll be ripped to pieces.  All of the optimists will say, ‘Welcome back to zero.’ But as we sweep all the bones underneath, we’ll cry….

And the crowd does it for us…


This is the sound we make.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Butler/Spade/Body Prompt

Then it follows that my sense of survival depends on that paradox is a condition of its possibility not only living but occasions for flourishing I bleed a face with eyes that see because my agency is riven with paradox through my cervix the continuum of human morphology rehabilitates the recognition of intercourse with a fertile regular body I haven't noticed anything special I have no desire to be recognized two legs and one head an occasion for flourishing out of my uterus out of my cervix out of my vagina to the outside within a certain set of norms that my agency is the condition of possibility menstruate out eyes that see that my desire depends upon recognition of my options are loathsome my options are loathsome my options are loathsome my options are loathsome my survival depends upon escaping my survival depends upon escaping out of my uterus through my cervix through my vagina to the outside desire to be recognized as loathsome that paradox of my morphology means only that one head is the condition my body has all the regular stuff sense of survival options are impossible male bodied partner moves towards gender to rehabilitate a condition of morphology this category it tries to menstruate it means only that lives are flourishing with two arms understand completely my options are loathsome regular stuff clutching the possibility of escape partner completely tired recognition is conferred a face to be recognized by eyes that see through my uterus to the outside. make it work make it mean something make it work make it mean something make it work make it mean something.

After Staring at a corner and playing the sound wall in reverse order as suggested by CAConrad

Before this corner there
were mosquitos

here's a mosquito
It's MAD! It wonders why this building
is here
It likes dinosaurs better
It likes
the dinosaurs'
more than having only a cement
to land on

Before this came hypertension
all those ailments
the oregon trail
the trail of tears
other types of dinosaurs and betrayal

that monumental non


i am the illuminati [hey] - [no analysis] </me>
enjoy your sluggishly progressing schizophrenia /get under the table [bottle]
explicit: i like flippant
explicit: i am born [neck]
in his cock\

Pleasure of command   exist.

regressive whirl-hole in the bathtub

distract, perform the function  clothed, </return key>, “women have </non>….”
8th of…
in the living pool, mid-.
character black X. sits in there
she knows his.
speaks of…
what she can’t
he phantom mimes of girl in
the tree speaks of an cest telephone pole to the…!
and, push the button
as much as long hair

I have a nightmare: what is a family? Is it a colon?

Invisible brother and Invisible cat no longer know longing to the distant lands of lost-to-recollection real, beyond rite “adulthood”  passage to the </tolkien mongol… castles> !

Invisible dead man longs his beard to be white but-what-can-you-do
And instead eats the candy of his desire
To remember to be born is to be old soon. I went [to] there.

teenage ink-pen  around the edges of the eyes and smell of it on your skin in writing, you save paper and trees by –
shutting up their mouths with it
spit and wet, blue lines.
bloodshot distant bodies same-age pedophile.
You exist in the between space of actualized & dream-on - pipe – clit -.
the negative fuckholed by my physical body:
rather than reminiscing to remove the vulnerabilities of youth, transposed glued-on past-on “invincibilities” of the generation that won’t leave me alone
and fucks you with Mall-wooden-peace-symbols.

speaking to the character X, to grab you by that inside where the chemical is made to keep you from die-anemic, feed-you, heat-you, warm-you -  I love you but don’t you have a husband? Its rather the house that in dreams I fly out of and her eyes glass –like-
I knew she reads poetry in her negative-copy adolescence in the land where the numbers of the 20th century read backwards.
We’re out of order, say the characters… and “to” is all out of ordinance…  - meaning of the future and capillaries in your facial muscles, your eyes green with - I can only deal with one sobbing - - -  in my life, screaming babies, who for decades sat only in
In the sunny country, the prison sits cheerful, the non-existent “little” character screams into the burning eco-terrorism based narratives so that one day –
…And this is where I carry his cum back to Seattle, which was meant for Argentina, my [body] ass clothed in the airplane,
until in America I startle and put my hands up to my face,
in the continent-sized mile long streets of the family home,
the walls white, tall, peaceful,
like a movie made for one who listens
– chips – hardwood – Safeway select “fat people food”
Dear masters of the household,
…essentially signifying money, money comes from the cocks of…… Ooozes, flows freely like [dead]children’s laughter, giggling down the escalators and cresting all the waves! The bohemian business of the invincibles of    <non!> melanin   manhood   & Romance! 
ask any prostitute, which is where my grand tour… wherever it is… you picture in your history books!
of course he cried so much… they        cried so much… that all [architecture] [cities] [hardwood] became real again, & the forces the economy & the vulnerability of…
and the
non-chosen anti-matter of [this place]
re-placed by
one more… shot of… brain of… ludicrous facial muscles… become-the-Internet’s-female! so you can have the – drag the mouses over the clicker!
turned into europe, with me, finally as dead old man in the sky,
character x died when wrote long thing in red pen to…  tradition is to be dehumanized fully.
(character x mysterious amalgamation shadow brother of fully human fully -out, menstruation rounded in-),
To Your culture,
sick with worry
I will announce I will be an artist or a doctor
                                                                    , only.
“open discord and dishonor” full cup of coffee, despicable human with mouth open, lips fat like genitals nose sniffing life … obviously trying to be something … trapped by … dirty Mesopotamian riddles of schoolrooms corporal punishment mushroom-trips calculated by the mushroom trips by the economy … and my. … your … unknowable arms and s\
In the stigma I turn to less than human, not a woman to them not a child now, to the world. living in my body that is not good enough to instantaneously porn-star 18 years old, I turn into an old woman fleeing from the old man, my lips become drug store chemicals, I stand green tea and
…to make an armadillo do data-entry, a tiger riding a tricycle

[history] is –
my grandmother who was an Egyptian before she was born became disowned, an anarchist married a skinhead
remembered the passage through the birth canal and thus taught another infant how to
yelled at me for the _entire_ _twentieth_ _century_ until we could make clear, finally, that I was not Lenin

Not to analyze: debrief from  childhood     adults oh poor… [no] whining… in the real world… when you go to college… I have 5 years…I have 3 years… I have 9 months to get a job… when I am 18… I can’t live… until then, stop whining… everybody in this classroom, your parents would do anything… until then,
Note: all the big people’s tears & tantrums & power of semen, food & money. “mother”. “men”. beauty is:
semen is money
is food
is computers
is street signs
traffic exhaust is homelessness; is the legality of being struck, imprisoned is [non] [youth] [non] [lib] [non] [history]is [her fear] [history] [is why her tears her arms her inappropriate behind clothed doors away from the american teacher who asks if I am abused] or [retarded] [she] is character x because character x is character x and nobody wants to hear – the inky teenage daydreams, glamourous in nekobus – you don’t want to hear my dirty Slavic [fairytale] [stereotype] –

money is erotic and medical fecal matter in your brains and bodily functions, it enters through your mouth and holds numbers, hanging, on the long division, computerized cybernetic functions in your wetware, your semen spits life-blood at her face; pleasure is the re-assurance between the class systems. money is the toilet-bedroom-birthing room of the world, we all pass the wet sticky stuff between our hands, dirty like cocaine, to deal with it directly is obscene, they dress for the deed, a code name of body parts jiggling sanitized and glistening, titillating to appeal    to appeal to the senses, erotic value like value. every baby is born with a stamp on its head – to sell its head is to educate – obrazovization to the future – an obscene feeding of the shit through its mouth and out, if the feeding is obscene – a code of erotic values – erotic is math – erotic is programming – biochemistry – sexy – harvard – sexy – to love is given value – it’s dirty to deal with houses – to mathematically put on me a guilt – measure my owing – there is displaced envy – once more, erotic, fiscal killings [to elaborate – sexy, but tainted – what is more is what is desired is the love that is not money – what we all desire]– coded calculated fiction – the earth is given a name “mother” – this is given a value – the woman’s worth is semen which is her food – and baby which is her investment – she works, perhaps as an accountant – in a [civilized] country – she, perhaps is overgrown – among [the uncivilized] a bearable disgrace – or a neutral entity, a man, unworking, thus unmuscular – to alcohol or etc. is the world without money – disgraceful – without reality – which is real erotic reality – not to show your cock – not to   not have one – escape but escape killing the mind with mathematics – I come from the [uncivilized] – I am [uncivilized][as I am to them – a complete savage, an animal][and to you, too – poorly acculturated – badly mannered][and I mix my poor understanding of them – needed to survive –with my poor understanding of you] - something if understood by the child, it’s erotic value – the body becomes an in-out factory – touch is treacherous if the system supports your annihilation – if the system is understood inculcated early to be the “system” – systematic – therefore, to escape – escape becomes imaginary if the language doesn’t allow it – to tell them the language does not allow it itself imaginary if you as a speaker don’t properly exist, and do not properly speak – “the child speaks of______” –
-enter through another dimension. They generally fuck your brain, become the new imaginary, as away from reality as a child, painfully idealistic as an adolescent, as far-sightedly sentimental as an elder. away from it all you enter a hermitude. now you are really on the other side of time. money is on your face and in your mouth as food. to move around becomes as impossible as before but more so, now that the rules have become clear. before it was society that dictated where you stand with each other and gave you the context for your inaction, now it has to be you.

i am the disowned non-existence of;
a dirty symbol
foreign [architectural character spaces] writings
a house too delicate to be entered,
to freedom of the obeisance, shame, a constant, stimuli of mathematical, even non-fiscal… the unread, the unseen, the unlived
hinges on fulfillment of the final…
In the presence of the father, the child speaks of the rose,
In the presence of the rose, the doors close and the windows against
 [For the dead, flowers. For the young, the soil. Paradoxically every freedom hinges on fulfillment of… ]
For the out-of-doors, the shopping cart.  For the indoors, flowers.
linguistically [white poetry] translations of mathematics, economic systems, of garden gravesites Ecological teenage daydreams Roadstop to the future: i am the dead to the dead.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

an exercise by kaylani

Just before you’re about to go to sleep:

Lay on you back, let your arms and legs do whatever is comfortable. Close your eyes. If possible, breathe only through your nose and establish a rhythm of inhaling and exhaling to the full capacity of your lungs. Place a hand on your stomach, it should rise first as you inhale until the air forces your chest to expand. The process should occur in reverse on the exhale; allow your chest to collapse first and compress the muscles in your abdomen as the air escapes to force all remaining air from your lungs. Repeat this process a few times until you’re comfortable doing it without a lot of though. Open your eyes. Take some notes. Remain lying down and continue breathing as instructed. This may make not taking difficult, make some notes about it.

Breathe in until you think your lungs are full, then force some more are in. Breathe out until your lungs are empty, then force out a little more air. Do this every time you realize your breathing has returned to normal. Pinpoint two parts of your body: the least healthy and the most healthy (however you define health in your own body). There may be multiple options to choose from, pick just two. Take notes on this decision.

Keep breathing. Focus your mind on these two body parts. Allow yourself to focus until all thoughts pertaining to anything except these two body parts have left your mind. Allow mutual, equal meditation toward both parts. Imagine how they’d operate, what they’d be capable of, how you would benefit, who else would benefit and how, if these parts were in optimum pristine perfect health (again, health as you define it). Take notes before during and after the imagination process.

Finally, listen. Focus all your attention on listening. Listen until you hear something you have never heard before. Upon hearing this, take one final breath and sit up as you inhale. Take note of the state of your chosen parts. Feel free to create a poem from the notes. Use the words “give” and “receive” as filters while taking notes and making poetry and thinking imaginative, airy thoughts. 

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

somatic poems by Valencia

Written after immersing myself in the color pink for 24 hours. Eating some pink food, wearing some pink things, hanging out under pink lights...

                                                 I want to be

                                                one of those

                                              Rococo clouds--

                                     You push me ‘round the sky          
                                                   to show me a bird’s eye 

                                                 View of Paris.      

the Check  Out Lady
"My, don't you look pretty today!"

I scowl
and want
my black