Friends, Fronds, PHrends


It’s easier to encounter a comet than have real friends. I have been so emotionally exploited that I feel almost people used me as an emotional prostitute (emostitute) and it was mostly people of my own sex and even people of the other sex too. They hardly ever tell me what they are going through. Even the telepath needs to listen in to the thoughts closely and engage in conversation. These people thought of me as this crude PH strip (stripper pun intended) that will unconsciously, like some bladder wizard, know exactly when they need an emotional pissing and expect me to put up with it. Why? You guys can have meltdowns, get angry if I say something wrong but I can’t? I am not your ideologue of perfect please, well maybe, not all the time. Sometimes I mess up really badly and I apologize or after a while but I don’t intend to do irreparable damage. That is not my modus operandi. But people expect you to be perfect in a really plastic bag suffocating way. People only give you time when they deem it fit and expect you to play subordinate to that. Why? When I cry or feel sad about these things nobody comes up easily and says “Hey, let me wipe my tears.” I have crushes tell to my face that they won’t date me but try to act so normally but then act really abnormally and expect you to go with that flow when a meeting happens. I have had crushes partners act out on me just because they know I had a crush on their partner even though I hardly come near their partner. Why?

People ignore me or talk to me for the strangest reasons. They take long periods of absences to just try to be themselves without sharing anything with me. Then come back and get angry or cry over anything I say or do wrong.  It’s not fair if the other person tales advantage of peripheral factors and acts ways that are silly and then just ignore me. Why should I be kept in the dark or light of some anger or hate or sadness you have? Talking through things hardly registers to these people. Avoidant culture is more prominent than engaging culture on both micro macro levels and I am sick of being the “odd one out” unfairly pushed to the side of you because of the ego of the world.

I think I prefer some alone time now.

Duely noted


that you incorporate readiness parasites
virus plethora; pandominium on the maximum
my first and last kiss? Please go check out from the cliche counter
you got your hymens I got mine
you got your swords I got mine
please don’t go Noh on me
and think that is the pinnacle of “cooldom”
cool down hyperbole parabolic collision
you think death of me is the ultimate solution?
getting at me, to me, is a consolation construction  conceit
bare your bones you are skin and mucous
but you can’t even ace as a Jell-O
the thin lines of black and white
that geometric outburst of stars that hub as a conscience
are you a collapsed galaxy?
seems so for you only duel in shrouds and mirrors
your reality is a diluted concentration of going down
I know the aeronautics of permanent flux. ▬

You’re Just Not My Type.

Eleventh Stack

Dead Ole' Pancreas

There is an inspirational meme that goes around Facebook every so often that says, “Live every day like it’s your last.” It’s usually sparkly or has rainbows or a black and white beach scene or some equally pukey thing. That’s so adorable. In theory. In practice? It’s a damn depressing way to live.

A year ago I wrote about being diagnosed with type-2 diabetes and what a downer it was. (Lousy Anniversary, June 2012)

Oh, what a naïve little kitten I was!

Believe it or not, I found something worse! Being MIS-diagnosed with type-2 diabetes. I’m actually a type-1 diabetic. [insert my favorite curse words and some insulin here.] You know when it’s awesome to discover said misdiagnosis? When you’re on a long distance bike ride/camping trip! You know what else is awesome? Not being able to breathe because your body is in diabetic ketoacidosis

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I lost my mind


suddenly it started feeling weird; slump slump slump slump in chest
rickety rickerty — oh ok I hate you I love you I hate to love you I
love to hate you — WHAM BAM thank you fucking traffic jamm jammmmmm
/ D drive incodex missiing alt +cltrl+deel system restart install OP
Mac Jac Window on crack crack crack — dam damn dam break …..<cough><cough>
<cough> <cry> CRY CRY CRY I DONT WANT TO BE HERE! imput file Trojan ulcer
worm nuggets sign sign in oh too integrated stock market crash fuck fuck fuck
….^__^^^______/\.\./\/\^^^^/\\/\/\._______________ @@I…can I begin again?
Even if I can’t go back I know I can begin again.▬

ink argosy 4

Sometimes, the act of friendship is difficult and really so exposed and there that it is hard to understand. I have lost friendships before but usually it was the other person’s problems with me that initiated the so called breakdown. Either it’s talking too much or not talking at all, to not talking the right things or the wrong things I don’t get some people at times. I remember that one friend systematically avoided me for two years and my efforts to patch the friendship were soon tired. If I did wrong I would like to be sometimes told because we do not always know and if I should know then give me the chance to make it  up to you. It so happens that some people when resolved to do certain things will do them despite the reasons or non-reasons behind them. And you can’t always change their views about that and don’t take it so hard on yourself if you can’t because seriously all you can do is sincerely apologize in a fight or misunderstanding but other than that you can’t do anything else. Quite recently, an old friend of mine stopped talking to me; I made her cry by being harsh to her and I accept that I should have been more controlled and coherent about these things. But then when I sincerely apologized she still decided to end things with me. I understood that maybe I had hurt her a lot but I wished that there could be some resolution amongst us but these things need both parties not just one. I am also tired of always bringing out the olive branch in fights — I know miscommunications happen but it is usually left to me, even when I did do nothing wrong, to bridge gaps, say sorry, put some bandaids on the cut. Some time back a friend and I had an argument; instead of keeping it personal he decided to blog about it and though he made me anonymous he represented me to be a bit idiotic and seemingly did not get what I was saying. I blasted at him and was mean to him and his expression was a “meh” — his “meh” really hurt me because that is what many people I know do; they mostly put their own subjective/objective views and feelings before others. At that point, I realized he couldn’t be my close friend because he was closed off from me both cerebrally and emotionally because any friendship requires that but he was pretty stubborn to act as though nothing had happened. Truth be told even if I had stopped being friends with him then and there I don’t think he would’ve cared because in a way he is always surrounded by people to a certain degree so he doesn’t need the  friendship with me. How people evaluate and value friendships are hard to tell or understand at times; that is why he falls in love with films and movies even like Brokeback Mountain because love and friendship there happens more easily and by this I don’t mean there are no difficulties but if we put those two men in real life context you’ll see that even the sex might come to them easier than the love. In fact, the dialogues that they both eagerly participate in might even take ten years to happen. We like many romances, slices of life dramas and even action movie because they translate things easily. You want a drama that takes reality’s pace more or less see Lost in Translation; it’s not mainstream nor is it easy to watch nor is it direct dialogue heavy. You can even see Fight Club for that to some extent because the love between the protagonist and Tyler is hard to understand. Sexually, Tyler wants the girl but as a full fledged relationship he wants that with the protagonist ending with that odd woman to be his biggest rival. Those are  difficult things to deal with and not pretty; the saddest parts in Lost in Translation is the parts where Johannson is all alone and just watches a sense of nothingness outside and we hear that hollow in the room reverberate and it can scare. It’s very sad indeed. Sometimes my heart gets too filled, it screaming but all around its perfect quiet with white noise and warm light. When I feel a friendship failing it feels like that. I don’t know people as intimately as I want to — I wonder if anyone has had these same desires as well. To know people more than not know them.


the feeling is both friction and smoothness
softly yet roughly; feels dry yet not too much
the poilshness is a plus; the wood on my hands and feet
feels much like air ironically; with it’s different layers

I like holding pens in a certain way
my synapse and muscle memory prefers a 35° or 40° tilt I suppose
where the finger\s mid mimics a shoulder bayonet or bag or some useful thing — like a relaxed expression; it is then the ink’s frothy mix feels organically my extension; I want to see and decode the crisp of it as it knots and unknots in paper — like a meditation stance the art of writing requires subtle kinesthetics

paper itself must be touched and coddled; smelled and inhaled
from textbooks old and new, novels aged and young — the ink and paper joined in its coordinations seems to speak to you as much as the content; like water filling the jug and I am feeling the essences…

Night air is good for understanding the wind; the night seems to be less air traffic in wind streets and can compose itself in a nice way — I smell with caution, for sickness and apparitions are about; but I get the atmosphere summarized more intricately then just referring to weather devices of temperature; the numericals need sense beyond a little box.▬

Dead nail

You cried today as I hugged you friend;
clinging to me, it meant to be, performance best
but I made you stress out, I’m stressed out
rubbed like eraser by diamond and coal
I am like sparked ember, of depression
I hurt you sorry — I had a lethargy of dullness
upon my heart; I’m sorry, I feel so wrongly attired
but thank you for showing me mercy by hugging me. ▬

In this room

where I had learned to retire for the days and nights
as stars range and roar in their clustered orbitals
oh no, learning is not non independent nor codependent
true tutelage has grasped with inclinations as mathematical bearings; and crisscross the opulent displays of dark and light

this room has been more sacred as a confessional; for the priest
was me and many other people; sometimes true, fictive or manifestations of informations — I had laughed and wept here
gossiped with my other halves — I miss bodies here; ironically,
I have had long romances in this room, bordered on me, myself and own daydream but a true lover was out there in the streets and fields — probably once and twice looked this way as a separate or lingering view of landscape — remote fingers caress curtains and air; how I wish I could be emulated in certain sighs and gaspings that you had.

The cathedral palms with their coconut domes look like great symmetries; their barks look inspiration for cubism and the leaves
a notice for braids; how I wish I were the clouds that plaited these lovely stalks — and the soft glows of honeycrust sun that aches and shudders like both an orgiastic body and swells like a drowsy scientist to a composer in balance

and the budding seeds in my arms and abdomen
my novels — scribble onto my fingers like vinelets and lovely flowers; metal and coal; steel industrial and steel organic
and the mattress soft cotton cheeked where I feel at times God is holding me…not only while I am sleeping…when I look wide awake

it’s true that I don’t always love you; you are not permament but neither are you really solidly temporal — the spaces that you have naped, chewed and mouthed into my bones may last because I loved the slender way you touched and ebbed; like silk ripples or chalk fibres upon the wrinkled ether…do spaces exist as personfications? Does that mean if I bring my lover here it’ll be a menage a trois? Sorry, carried away naughty — but my lover will see a repository of emotions an oxy-diary in here; both cave and atrium and cloister and pearls and webs and pulses and more when we stay here; let us complete this matrix, dear; even if it is shorter time let us writ in spaces of voluminable mass and insoluble parameters.▬

“Can I Use the Bathroom?” and Other Public School Memories

Nice intro-spectionals

Dysfunctional Literacy

My daughter told me this week that she asked her teacher, “Can I go to the bathroom?” 

Her teacher said, “I don’t know.  Can you?” 

Some things never change.  40 years ago, we asked the same question, and our teachers gave the same response.  I’m sure 40 years before that, students and teachers did the same thing.  I’m sure nothing will change 40 years from now. 

One side of me knows that precision in language is important, but another part knows that a teacher has to be kind of a jerk to use the “I don’t know, can you?” response.  This isn’t being judgmental.  If anybody deserves to be a jerk without being judged, it’s a teacher.  I’m sure teachers at some point became tired of explaining the difference between “may” and “can” every time a kid asked to use the can, so this was a short, snide, and sweet…

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