Found, Found Text Piece.

I am creating unique and individual ceremonies: the celebrant and ceremony design. Mind spring in times of change. Between your middle and index fingers, save your property, your possessions, and your sanity. Hold it with your thumb. Open the tips of arrowheads, a substitute for knives at the table. Equaled with acts of aggression – water, smoke, fire, mold. You’ve been through enough.  Please complete: peel and save. Adopted and modified experience today. Change due. Urgent restoration. Trash in a bag.

Notes on Spilled Milk.

I see you -
    dipping fingers
    into piles of gray ash
    cut up and
    collaged then
    stuck.

There is a mechanism here -
    a series of threaded spools strung
    strung out
    through beer can tab eyelets
    in the shape of a geranium.

It is a machine for seeing -
    where particles of memory
    triggered by the sound of falling
    falling acorns
    travels through fibers
    refracting meaning at forty degree angles
    until synapses diffuse and the image is
    revealed in a post-nasal drip:
                                    

   a brown haired savage

throwing tarot cards from the roof

singing about sunshine.

Notes on Nevada

I.

Time peeled away beneath sandstone cliffs, exposing pulpy present where I was seed, waiting to be spit.

II.

Sped through Nevada's vertebrae - the ribbed connection encapsulating pulse. We were synaptic, holding hand like Thelma and Louise (only at the bottom of everything, looking up rather than down).

III.
People often discuss the importance of inter-connectivity: of the impulses of atoms colliding across demographics. The fractures deserve the same level of inspection. It is the disconnect between people that make us feel human - fallible, obscure, isolated. Connections have their merit, but it is only a person turns off a television that they know its design.

IV.
Taking pictures of abandoned houses in meth country is dangerous. Ten minutes in a stand of abandoned houses is all you get before gun-totting men in pickups kick up dust, clouding your lens. The aperture compensates like my fear, capture it. Make me convex, make me vexing, make me snap, shutter, release, advance.

Notes on Postcard Writing.

Dear ___________,
    We've moved to San Francisco where I've vowed to reconnect with my pen. The sea lions have vanished, the sun won't stop shining and the cable cars are always full up - like our bellies on lentil soup.
    They said coming this way, immersing ourselves in the crux of technology, would better prepare us for future lives in the 21st century. But here we are strangers mistaken for __________. Here we count change before store clerks as others pay with food stamps. We find respite in knowing that we are better, will be better because we are young, white and educated. Inside we resent and envy the ease with which they (you know which they I mean of course) handle the hardship. Here, they keep sunflower heads floating near the door of the super market and I pocket one each time I exit because I find the smell of decay comforting.
    Our apartment is quaint and lovely however, as we have filled it with past treasures accrued during blissful coed years at private institutions. Second hand chairs sit well with me.
I've taken to altar building (but this you know) and push myself to hear, to see beyond this constant stimulus. I wonder if people are really happy here or, if they are merely adept at maintaining facades at least until personal quakes shatter them.
    On a happier note, faraway lover has planned a visit though I can't imagine crossing state lines to see myself. The parting was so cinematic (me driving away distraught as he stood in the street sobbing until he melted into the rearview, evaporated or something more poetic) that I had longed for a Super 8 to capture him, us, us and the time where the reel needn't be switched and the tracking of my melancholy would never be off. When he arrives, we will eat mussels on a park bench before repeating the scene in the Oakland airport (but this time in opposite roles). For this I am not excited.
    But the fog will hide the impending despair and I will be thankful for the din of the city. Maybe the seals will come back coated in food stamps and we will smile.

Notes on Altar Building

Tonight: altar building though I know not how.
At Wal-Mart in Oakland, purchased:
    one Bic barbecue lighter (the long kind)
    a vile of red children's glitter
    three Catholic prayer candles (because they're pretty and cheap)
    a bag of Red Vines (for chewing in consternation)
(though I'm not Catholic and the Lord's Prayer is the extent of my recital knowledge)

On the bedside table:
    St. Jude - "most holy apostle"
    Our Lady of Perpetual Help - "Mother of good counsel"
    Powerful Hand - "Powerful Hand of God"
    (Faith contained in Chinese-made glass cylinders bearing bar codes instead of stigmata.)

I remember your house and the stunning altars there. You spoke of affecting outcomes by harnessing energies and performing daily divinations. Hints of Hudu, Santeria and Christianity disintegrating into new forms like bones becoming ash where you are urn. At the time I smiled and agreed while you aimlessly fingered a trinket box containing your grandmother's incisors.

But somewhere along the line - a disconnect occurred my notes became illegible - caught between the fervor of your sacrament-coated tongue and Maurice Blanchot.  Now I am in an Eastern Bay attempting to arrange a spatial meaning only to find
                                                                              the accumulating of ether doesn't guarantee ignition.

It all just looks like clutter.