Garden of the Jellyfish

Poetry, essays, anecdotes, rantings, ravings, whatever else comes to my mind in the middle of the night or during the day when I'm supposed to be building my life from the ground up, seeking the American dream.

[jellyfishentity]

Cumshot Ceiling

Longing for a time that may have happened tomorrow, a week from now or never

Saturday, a blanket dream warming the noose in the sky at high noon

Western winds blowing down sandcastles and weapons

My heart assaulted by sleep

Grasping hands trigger something in the dark

Something won, brushed off the table

Memories unsung, shower sludge and mildew erosion

Glass tears plinking softly into the grime of the sink

Sewage bubbling from the drain,  pustules of destinies bursting

Warts and all: names carved into walls boxing in my peace

Dental floss loosening teeth from pink pockets

Doilies toasted in fires choking memories of Great Grandma

Danish Home for the Aged, 1993.

Star Trek toys at Christmas and uncle Ham’s bone unformed

Nuclear siblings

Electronic jealousy

Sitting on the stairs

Thinking about stuff

Deeds, upstairs tenants, sandpaper skin and gravestones

My father’s head and heart wired to the orange skies of Long Island

[jellyfishentity]

Cancer Cloud

Cancer cloud

A stem wrought peaceful cambrian malice  sick undercranium deficit lacking tangible understanding Sephirotic horticulture...sewage goblin of Declan's rice field. Time flabbages and gainly unifications sunward grow!

I yearn and I starch the doughboy suits because I can, can, can!

Evil trapping of task manager eyes the stinking undercity railways of Jordan

Drastic reimaginings course crabalicious Mikhail Gorbacev!

[jellyfishentity]

Red Eye and a Cup of Coffee: A Freewrite

Freewrite...ready...set...go into the forest where the king munches on a diamond slipper and blasts artichoke chaos across the palindrome universe for sight and spies and ovarian Appalachia for the one true being evident for the right reasons the streamers will fall and the choral floral die cast dick patterns will mount the orbs of the sky and lick and caress the nobody lonesome city afternoon virgin sunflower raining into his heart....his heart of cold grease...his beating, stoned, solipsistic heart wrung dry of tears and slap ham noodle menus dedicated to fish castles and cancer labia gardens and parasite porticos in evidence locker shoe shine red corn gain patrol highway men and minotaurs spanking butts of the cactus needle epicanthic folds domineering the stained window market every time the underway gets pallid...even the stephanopoulous facts gets dirty at times like these and who the fuck is stephanopoulous? I don't know...perhaps she is the first creature to molest my head for the sake of science and scatterbrained scat porn constituting the brunt of headache ice cream palisades another day. My dick needs an outlet to plug itself in so that my balls will glow supercharged and stomach the tin roof politics of day...days of sense and coherency available to thee...another mars red day to try and eat the medicine off the Cornish game hen table once in awhile...I need...I need somebody...I'm a desperate Dan in the body of a begging Brett...a tired Thomas...tank engining all the way down the track just to spill my cargo and leave rotor the walrus in the dust from some other cartoon nightmare...thoughts about thinking...thinking about drinking and destiny and diamond piss nuggets...who will see this and who will comprehend it? Somebody with the brain of a spider...the eyes of a backgammon piece disguised as a Chihuahua? Nobody will ever know the cane sugar mutiny betrayed by garden politics and pug dog walking shit stamp susan bates in the fish motel eddyings of the Capricorn wandering too far from the autumn house...

[jellyfishentity]

Mud Pies

Three is the number emblemized in hard stools and hernias

A teddy bear brown as the earth softened by cancer and tap water

A piece of gum stuck to the hide of a rhinoceros

The spines on the fingers of a Hollywood outcast scratching the back of a fly-eyed tiger reminds me that the pictureshow behind the curtain of the paper moon is forever singing with me as I tear the plastic mesh from the garden of my chest and ameliorate the sunrise.

I surmise it is best to say that I have dined on the mud pies of ten thousand afternoon play dates with my sister

I have scraped the stuck-on pebbles from my shoe

And have gotten drunk on the wine collected in bamboo shoots

Saved for occasions such as this

The unfettering of my restless second half

The heart that beats above my third vertebrae

The nerves and muscle fibers cradling it dissolve

And let it slide further and further down

Until it enters my inguinal canal

And I birth it out of my scrotum like a pile of empathy

[uutpoetry]

wordrummager

traversing hecklers spew siren catcalls

tracing lead-colored veins cargo list detailed by rote do you moxie over the third rail or do you melt over the ferment

when delvers cavort with cloud-swallowers pretty shapes will poke into other dimensions

whirring swishing evening...

[jellyfishentity]

4:05

The rings of Saturn loop themselves

Through the holes in my heart

Made by children poking with pencils

Playing surgery beneath the eye

of Teacher and her rulebook slammed against the desk.

Arrested hearts disintegrate when afterschool graphs

Are slated to be finished

Before 4:05 arrives.

That's when the bus will pull up to the curb

And deliver daydreamers to places

Where wandering attention spans come back into focus

And homework is displaced by Tony Hawk's Pro Skater

And weekend plans to stay up late with dad

And watch Wonder Years and Saturday Night Live

Are made.

[jellyfishentity]

Thoughts about my own writing and the inadequate nature of peer critique.

I've been sending fiction pieces out to publishers because it's something to do. I don't care how many rejection letters I receive. I don't trust the opinions of my peers when it comes to critical feedback. But, something that has happened to me twice already (and might continue to happen?) is that publishers, though unwilling to accept my work, return it with helpful criticism and feedback which, before, I could only get from a professor. These are people who are already in the industry as opposed to a group of my peers who are still writing stories about goblins and elves and vampires and anime fan fiction. The fact that I have no "literary" friends means that I'm forced to milk feedback from prospective publishers based on the fact that my work is "unique" but not necessarily publishable (yet). Is this a bad thing to do? To reject the opinions of people because I somehow feel that my writing is "above" theirs in terms of literary quality? It sounds incredibly elitist and snobbish, but I honestly feel that I am in a different league than the majority of my peers and need to find writers who can read my work and provide feedback within the context of work that transcends the sort of 'DeviantArt" writing that many people I know seem to indulge in. To be fair, I may hold my writing in too high esteem for my own good, but socially, I am a total fuckup. I sometimes feel that I am a big fish swimming in a pond filled with krill. Usually writers emerge from obscurity and become well known by the time they reach their thirties or forties. I just need to find a vehicle for getting my writing into the hands of people who would appreciate it and whose heads it wouldn't wash over.

[jellyfishentity]

HEY!

Hello. How art thou this fine evening?

[jellyfishentity]

A Sun Dream in a Cavern of Snow

Last night I dreamt a sun dream in a cavern of snow

I dreamt of a place we should never be allowed to go.

We tell ourselves lies to keep us inside

The dampness of ovarian summer sleep

Gliding up and down our spines

Glistening with the dew of a thousand spiders

Listening, spinning webs of yarn

And tales of a gray sky moored to a dock

Next to a ship bound for the eastern wall

Of the ocean we call the psyche.

We wish secretly for a stallion wind to carry us above the clouds

To the apex of the formations we construct with our hearts

Structures known only to centipedes crawling

Beneath the waking mind.

[enjoythemonologue-blog]

[braiker]

pretty much

[jellyfishentity]

Plan A Failed

Plan A failed

move on?

no chance.

exit the room of your grief

paint the doorstep of the next place with the eyes of a thief

establish your zone somewhere warm as a turtle shell in 100 degree Texas apathy eating the brain of a llama raised on some farm where your old man bit it one day while training a horse to eat carrots using its hooves as little mobile fingers

[jellyfishentity]

Pinball, Speedball, Wrecking Ball

A candied apple held before your nose

is a treat too fragile to acknowledge

when your arms are tied to a tree

and the veins in your neck are crying at you

having dreams of sterilized ladders

descending into hotel lobbies turned upside down

where mirrored existences become known

and opposites emerge from the rubble of Hotel Syracuse

and become the institutions you will know

when your golden casino pinball machine fantasy

drains the dollar bills from your nose.

[jellyfishentity]

Requiem for Briq Ballast

Yesterday was a ballast tank explosion

a chip in the side of a boat sinking

off the coast of your heart

an island in a sea of salt and grief

[jellyfishentity]

I wish I never touched you

never put my arm around your shoulders

I wish I could have told you in a different way

how perfect I thought you were.

Words could have sufficed.

A sentence or two and then a wave goodbye

but no.

I had to expect you to hug me goodbye

squeeze me so tight that I could feel your loving heart beating

Instead you bolted through that security door

bolted faster than any lightning I've ever seen

and for what reason?

because I touched you

because I had to let you know through my fingertips

how I felt about your presense

of course I had no intention of doing anything you didn't want me to

I'm not a date rapist, I may have perverted thoughts

strange paraphilias, but I would never rape anybody

I don't like violence

in fact, I don't even like moshing...

I only do it when the crowd is thin anyway

because my glasses will just get knocked off

and I really don't feel like having my nose or arm broken

but now my heart is a pile of shattered glass

the maraschino cocktail cherry soiled by various grains of floor dirt

I feel like you crumbled away from me

slipped through my fingers like a handful of white beach sand

the time I had with you began and expired within five hours

if only I could make the sand move back up the hourglass

if only I didn't try to force something that shouldn't be forced

but it feels like I'm running out of time

or rather, I'm living on borrowed time and that my future belongs

to the keepers of the keyring that will lock the doors of the institution

I will one day end up in. It makes me sad to think that I may never feel the touch of another human being

unless it's a doctor examining me in a cold clinical room

or burly men restraining me in a full nelson

my 'get the fuck off of me's howled in vain.

I move fast in life.

How else should I live?

If I wait too long, the desirable becomes undesirable

and the magic of the moment expires.

Okay, I admit it, I have a problem with craving instant gratification

but that's because I feel like time is constantly slipping away

and to wait for things is ludicrous

I've been waiting for nearly ten years for the first girl I even fell in love with

every love since that has just been a shallow imitation

even the girl I was with for two and a half years

I didn't love her nearly as much as I ought to have.

Oh well...

I just want to find somebody who's as broken and fucked up as I am.

That way, we'll need each other and won't be able to live apart.

I'm sure that person will come into my life at some point or another

but the waiting is so damn long and hard.

Who knows...by 2019, men may become obsolete as artificial insemination continues to gain more popularity

and women these days are deathly afraid of most men

and I totally understand why

the age of the internet has allowed all the creeps and scumbags of the earth to post online anonymously

and if we are to believe that 90% of everything is shit, well, then there ya go.

I don't think I'm shit...but then again, that's probably what all guys say.

I must've looked like a complete shithead...snaking my arm around her shoulders...she probably thought I was gonna work my fingers down ever so slightly and grab a hold of one of her 'assets.'

I hate how the requirements to earn somebody's trust are different for each person.

Like, the one girlfriend I had for two years, we were kissing and tickling each other on the first date!

Maybe I ought to set my criteria for girls like that...ones who are okay with the idea of forming instant bonds of trust...love at first sight...yeah, that's my ticket...the old school romance thing...

[jellyfishentity]

The Barrel Scraper

Sadists in love

cradle telescopes

and follow the swirl of blood to the center

of campfire chat rooms, electronic continence

subtlety directed through frames by the will of a fire ant colony

masquerading as an infection

a parade of green aphid Jesuits

recounting episodes of Happy Days

bellies aching in the TV morning

complacency elevated to candy land victories

bells ringing atop chutes and ladders perpendicular to life

and all that is green and white

and pale as ghostly fingers

palpating the soft stomach of the barrel scraper

the new blossom

that is now

and forever

a clumsy retribution

[jellyfishentity]

Home

Follow the mouse trail to my heart

see what the darkness conceals from the sparrow bone

spiteful in its hidden symmetry.

Let me explain to you the other side of the dime

the side that is gloom turned inside out

a pinwheel forever spinning, bubbles blown

soap, non-toxic, intoxicating in a different sort of way

a way that can only be described as flying

weightless effort lifted, wind rattling soda cans on a porch banister

paint peeling echoes creaking in daylight by the lake

a ripple born of your will to change

to make sense out of the ragweed hamster ball you call

Home.

[jellyfishentity]

An Omen Artfully Crafted

Love is what love is

a fountain pen cracked open on a jagged rock

a sliver of light beneath the skin of time

a passive razor bouquet of hash

a somnambulism

a painkiller

love ricochets off of the rafters of the sky

like a bullet trained to find its way to my core

and stay there forever

and nest along with the rest of the garbage

that has been piling up since the story began

the story of my life

a piece of twine stretched between two flimsy logs

bobbing up and down in a lake for half a century

an omen artfully crafted.