Unedited Raw Material from Tripping on Mushrooms in Spokane, WA, April 2010

I wrote this poem on the ninja curves of your ankles
and the colors of the curves going up into the curtains between boys
and girls. Drawing like something from a museum painting, draping
marblesque, not Kafkaesque (Brendan’s word), marblesque like a statue (right now he is talking about you as a Greek statue, seeing the same museum at a different moment in time, both of us weaving futuresque dreams.) Jessica tells me to write Brendan’s diary so he can stand up to read it Hitleresque (not the right word) to the public. (Draw a curtain between the girl/boy space outside.) Listening to Lykke Li so that it sounds and tastes like “lick” and not “like” as in the “love”-not-“like” in a friendship girl/boy way.  Draw the curtains in a blue way, a marblesque way, to shade the stage, to raise the lights, and narrow us into nothing. Back to CocoRosie singing “God Has a Voice (She Speaks Through Me),” Jessica’s voice weaving back through the mustache on the face of God if God were a woman, except that that would be a cliché.

(Jessica is on the floor.  Seems like a good idea to establish the reality of Jessica on the floor in the red glow of the Christmas-tree lights.  I will parentheticalize this sentence so that it doesn’t make it into the rest of the poem.  It can be part of the diary, the DVD Extra portion of the poem, as if poems have McDonald’s DVD Supersize menus. I just said to Brendan that I was parentheticalizing the prose.  I would not read this in public.)

We can’t save this as a landscape song.
It would be the wrong colors as if we were painting bodypaints
in Negative space, weaving back into the spaceship sounds of the spaceship womb
that burst/birthed me out into the desert sun.

The water bottle between my thighs
(It does have electrolytes)
seems like a metaphor
that we don’t want to Freudialize.

(Jessica says, “Stop.  God hates rhyme.”)

You can still taste the rhyme on your tongue.