mytremendouslydangerousstudent

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

in case you were wondering

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

Frozen Ass Sunflower Ass

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

Memory of a Critique

I was so upset when I was talking about the poetics of objects and a rich heroin addict recently taken to stealing my friends by showering them in secondhand gifts piped up in protest to assert that we project poetry onto the natural world, that it doesnt exist outside of our perception as some objective Thing.

In response i asked him to remain silent but he would not.

We communicate in the realm of the mind and ego. Poetry is as much a force to be interpreted through a medium as Our souls, existing as another force on another plane which informs our functioning.

Withhout pause he began to negate this and this was the beginning of a decades long discovery of a soulless world, and in effect my loss of innocence, the end of my childhood and the beginning of clinging to my childish ways.

(I do not mean the world is soulless, I mean there are worlds within worlds.)

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

window shopping dreamer

swept away at the first chance

wearing the clothes of an adult

but still just a child

with all the sweet stinking love of

the design

i am the only woman alive

there is no one with this identity

girldom is a fabric in the wind

no tether and no country

an arrow giving a show

some meat, strung up by the truth

an arrow with somewhere to go

when you wake up in the morning

full of a feeling like this

when you wake up in the morning

with your mind and your time

and your instinct dismissed

when you wake up in the morning

in a dry, hot fog

that clarifies the way

the heel hits the floor

and pushes forward

and pushes forward

and pushes forward

and pushes forward

(what i am forgetting standing in a stream

when a moment ago i was entering)

when the frogs are on your back

without swimming in the lake

when the moments go by

like sidestepping strangers

when the room around your eyes

is a chamber of weight

recall the little flower

and the unfurling leaves

pushing up against

the force of everything

recall the little flower

and the unfurling leaves

pushing up against

the force of everything

recall how i will never leave you

we are too aligned

i'll never split across

to the other side

oh no i'll never split across

to the other side

-

Cactus pear

Sleeping into the side of a sofa

waking up to the lines of the sheet

mexican blankets hung from the ceiling

a television with 3 or 4 stations

past the line of trees

to the old plantation

where i'll climb upon

slave homes made of seashells

lost to time

throwing horseshoes against the pole

cactuses in the sand hold the sweetness inside a spike

hold the sweetness inside till its time to split apart with curiosity

something comes along chasing something

you see its tail in the pines dissapearing

fighter pilots pass above the speed of sound

in an angel array but theres no one around

past the line of trees

to the old plantation

where i'll climb upon

slave homes made of seashells

dressed in kudzu vines

slowly leaving

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

Stories I Heard Today 11/18/23

My mom's 80 year old aunt told me a story about her mother (my great grandmother) that I had never heard before. We were in the car on the way to a family dinner. She told me my great grandmother had a sister. When they were about 8 they were walking and sat down on a log to rest but didnt realize it had been on fire and was still smoldering underneath. Her sister was consumed by flames and died.

My friend told me they did online dating once, in 2001. The internet was brand new. The guy was in the military. She had been considering joining. He invited her to a bar. She got there and he was with 5 of his miltary buddies. She tried to fit in and at some point went to the restroom down a long hallway. When she came out she ws cornered by 3 of the military friends, physically trapped. She broke free from them, went straight to her date, grabbed the pitcher of beer before him and chugged it. She slammed it down and said to her date Never contact me again. Then got in her car and drove in the wrong direction of traffic. The story ended with saying shortly thereafter 9/11 happened and she lost all interest in joining the military.

Ive been so lost and trying to pursue all avenues of productivity and life that I can to combat it. I'm using a dating app now and am inundated with mediocrity. The only suitor I have considered is a hot mailman who claimed to love cinema and honesty. He reached out to me but did not ask any questions or acknowledge my attempts to insert myself into my replies. He told me he recently lost his drivers license due to a DUI and was waiting to get his hardship license to go back to work. I asked him if he was on the app to pass time while he was off of work since he didnt seem interested in me. His response was: "Mel Gibson got a dui, that didn’t stop him from creating beautiful art."

I will never stop laughing at this. The thing that's broken in me is something so absurd and stupid totally charmed me cause im fascinated by people and wanted to know how this person could be. I fundamentally want to and enjoy wasting my time.

At the farm, a lady told me about how she wanted to see the plants but she was afraid of lizards so wouldn't step foot in the plot. I reasoned with her, saying I hadn't seen any lizards, and anyways that they don't do anything, they're tiny. She laughed and said no, in church someone had tapped her on shoulder from behind and she thought it was a lizard. She said she jumped up and screamed "Lizard!" until her whole congregation was scrambling around in fear and the person who hd tapped her just watched. I had never heard of anyone being afraid of a lizard and couldn't stop teasing her about it. She was sure of her fear and unphased, seeming to find me foolish for not fearing lizards, but pleasantly so.

Similarly, a volunteer marveled that I never wear gloves while working in the dirt. She asked me if I was afraid of disease and I said no I consider dirt to be medicine. She said dirt has made her sick before. I said ok i don't like gloves or umbrellas. She comes all the time and I can't stand her. Later on she said she and her partner were looking at property to buy outside of town. She flashed a zillow ad at me and i zoomed in on the location. I looked at her and said "This is on my street!" and she said "I know!" with a smile. Definitely never told her where I live.

Thanks for reading.

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

a doctor who dreams

to have a full ledger

whose patients are waiting in other hallways

other men assess the cankers and feelings

and he too waits

for these appointments

to fill the rooms

gettysburg apartments

cloister off the freaks

a tourist in winter

completes the scene

in the surgical ward, in a room

where no one even pretends

you have something to say

the sunday moon pulls the ocean

to the foot of the bed

the sunday moon pulls the ocean

to the foot of the bed

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

I loved you. We were somewhat estranged at the time of your death but my boundaries are not what drove you there. It was the described long, grating hours of lying in your childhood bed, not knowing what to do, while knowing you should. Time was spending all the while which you knew as well.

Your mother has those forged together by your death come by her apartment sometimes. She sits with a notebook, grimacing as she writes, sometimes with intrigue and sometimes with a seriousness that seems to take moisture out of the room. I asked her if she had ever considered how studying philosophy was not a wise choice for someone with an inherent nihilism and sadness. She did not quite understand how academics could do anything bad. It wasn't this, anyhow, that brought upon your death.

I can't bring myself to see her again. She harbors every emotion and I can't endure the torture of coaxing it out, racheting it down. There is no end. There is nothing for her in the small piece I was. We wonder if she will ever allow herself to know what we know. The last time I went there was Halloween night.

What is it we know?

Were you wise to go away?

What is to even be gained by knowing?

I will think always of the pain you caused me when you lived, the rejection you felt, the joy we shared, and ultimately my unwillingness to abide by your harming love. I will forever wonder where my voice would have found itself inside of your final months and moments.

Your father ran his fingers through my hair as i openly wept at your funeral, rubbing my back and shoulders like a fucking pervert on full display. It was a public act, an illucidating one for all of your family and friends who did not know that this was the man who had violated you so thoroughly. It became so clear, so late that your father had brought us to that grave site that day as much as you and your own choices, maybe more.

He rhythmically called you by your dead name and we corrected him in unison like some fucked up chorus. It felt better, to allow the rage to take over the deep sorrow. It only festered into a tarry, central disgust that remains.

What to do? What to think? You will be with me forever, I hate you and love you. Are you with me? It's a beautiful thought but I am sure you are nothing. Even though your body was able to be buried naturally, it is in the cemetary fertilizing the mossy grass that others step upon to bury others. Our friend keeps planting things in tribute in the Hadley commons but deer keep eating or squirrels keep digging up the bulbs. I wish we could have put you in a dog park or a garden. A man at the homeless mission I grow food for died recently. At his request and the approval of his family, we used his cremated remains to ammend the fruit trees he helped plant. There was value there. Practicallity. Tree ash is used in agriculture for this purpose all the time. I wish you had a choice. Selfishly I wish I could use your absence and loss for a purpose too. Something to make me glad instead of horribly dismayed, year by year as life goes on. It remains an unending rope I braid and follow simultaneously. I'm so mother fucking sorry.

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

All the lovely things clouded with compounded savings. On the bottom line, a floorboard giving way. Its goose won’t stop honking in the distance. Calling home, you’re honking on the keys. Will you stop that noise. Can you keep it down for the sake of earthly gain? All the pianofortes constructed to ring, it’s like you’re cuckholding their whole thing. Whats your deal, and what’s the end in sight if you play a wonderful role for a captive emoting, rotating crowd. What is your deal?

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

You know what your problem is?

I keep wanting to write to my ex and shake their shoulders violently with my words, commanding them to cease their foolishness. That their life is fueled by an aspiration of foolish pursuits which bring them no fulfillment or joy. That I see them so clearly now, sputtering around in strange ovals, full of wonderful possibility squandered on things they do not want, in the image of a person they do not need to be. They continue on in this pattern that is a mystery to them. The compulsion to tell them these things is the final cobweb of love knocked loose. It is painful not to say it. I see so much. I’ve seen so much! To imagine them realizing these things much later on- the feeling of loss associated with that makes me ache. This aggressive form of duty and care could never be taken in earnest because of history, and all of the bitter things. My words, whichever ones I could choose, would fall flat and dumb. I don’t know if this thought is new. My intuition operates in such covert, maniacal ways. I wonder if our entire relationship was not just a replacement for the words I could not come up with to shake you from foolishness- I wonder if I had resigned to showing you how to be through love. I never felt the need to fix you but I wonder now if it leaked past the barrier of feeling and into the queue of action. You are not even an unhappy person. Oops my narrative voice changed. Back to my tumblr audience. Just kidding. There’s a guy I work with who reminds me of you. He is a Nice Guy Victim sort of leftover from the pop punk surge of Floridian 1990s. He’s my friend but I do not trust him at all due to his appeasing nature. This is behavior I’ve come to find dishonest, mostly thanks to you. This guy tells me all kinds of stuff about his life while we work. He tells me he appreciates my feedback even when it is critical but I just don’t know. I see him move through situations just like you, amiable to a degree of dishonesty. It pisses me off to watch someone put aside their concerns due to a pathological need to be liked. I see the root play out in my mind- you are a child standing in a room, crying out to MaMa, saying you will do anything, crying out for love. It pisses me off to watch myself judge you. I pretend to be the Law so often. It is hilarious. This is probably what they mean by Madness. I am always mad, then laughing at it. It is trench warfare.

As I write this, I feel like a parent at the kitchen table, having just seen you off to the school bus. I am there holding a thing you have forgotten, thinking “Oh well, too late now”, encouraged by the fact that you will never realize it is missing.

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

As soon as I got there what could only be described as a male jail bunny, a large twink with a permanently arched back, who had been given the privilege of freely going around the holding area during booking randomly scrubbing things, calmly said  “Alright,” at a distance. I looked up and immediately regretted doing so. When our eyes made contact he glided closer to me, Mr. Miyagi style using the fake general motions of cleaning things along the wall to gain ground.

“When you go back there there’s gonna be a girl named Sabrina Peters. I need you to tell her ‘It’s alright’. Tell her it’s alright. She got me in trouble but it’s alright. She can still call and write to me, it’s alright.” I barely nodded my head. I was sitting there trying to look as mean and serious as possible. I thought that it would matter. In a way I was pretending to feel doomed though I knew it would be out soon. I was too sensitive to the misery around to behave in a flippant manner. Perhaps I also was just fitting into the scene around me, painting a mysterious air. I laugh now at whatever was going on inside.

He slyly nodded to me, backing away in a little strut, wingspan fully extended clutching a spray bottle in one hand and a rag in the other. It looked incredibly stupid. King of the bathroom. It was apparent he ran something there but I had no care for his fiefdom. This initial room where we deposited our possessions and received a claim ticket was the rare part of the process where the genders were allowed to intersect, so he had taken his chance. For the upteenth time that day I pitifully asked, “Why me?”

The next 9 hours were spent in a holding cell for women, a 10x10 room with two benches and a toilet. The air vent appeared to be growing hair. For whatever reason my phone code was the only one that would work, so I was able to pass the time playing secretary for everyone, calling their bondsmen and boyfriends, intervening when their acrylic nails prevented them from dialing. A white rasta girl in Sanuks was withdrawing in the corner, oozing and rocking all over the place. A meth woman named Ali with the energy and body of a peaceful tiny bird, fluttered about, confused in a very enlightened way as to why Trespassing was wrong.

-

Up in real jail, where there was a centrifuge of officers monitoring and electronically opening doors, everyone was on lockdown. They were only letting people out on rotation. I called my bondsman and he said to wait. I was put into a cell alone, but the toilet was broken. It smelled god awful. I sat in there and quickly became desensitized. I sat in the empty bunk and quietly sang and explored the acoustics of the metal furniture and concrete blocks. Everything vibrated. It had been a few hours of peace, finally able to access a pencil and paper to document my thoughts. Then the dope sick Sanuk girl showed up, assigned to my cell from booking, dragging along a mattress, squinting in lieu of smiling or some other expression.

“Oh there’s gnats- Jesus fuck what is that smell?!”

“The toilets broken. I’ve told them about it.”

They soon assign us to a new cell, cell 57, occupied already by a young woman over at the phones with bright pink dreds, who was being beckoned back into the room by the guard.

We gathered our mattresses and walked over. Sanuk asked me if I wanted the bottom bunk and I said sure. Then she put her mattress down on the bottom bunk and climbed into it, smirking. It didn’t piss me off. I did not care. I climbed up into the top bunk and embraced the feeling of dissatisfaction.

The resident woman of the cell burst in just as the doors clanged shut with a lock, introducing herself as Mama D.

“Thank GOD. I’ve been in here all alone going crazy. Now I know what she meant about being in here alone. These C.O. bitches… think they can just keep people locked up in here all day. I've been here for a whole day and was out for HALF an HOUR and just got to call my people. You can’t treat people that way! Didn’t even have time to shower, brush my teeth. No time to even wash my pussy y’all. And you know that thing needs it being in here all day. I just want to go home. Ooh god help me.” She buried her head into her blankets and dived back up. “I gotta just calm myself down.” She turned on the sink and let it fill up. “I’ll just wash my face, wash my body. Ooh Lord I wish I was home.”

I wasn’t party to any of this. I was on the top bunk, taking in the noises from below with my nose pressed into the cold cement wall. There was a rectangular window right above me, about 6 x 24 inches. It was a little slit and out of it I could see the Maxwell Coffee House factory very near, its neon blue and yellow sign. In the corner of the window the very dark flickering of the St. John’s River was looming. There was pencil graffiti all over the walls and ceiling, in many different handwritings, all of them in the same genre of bubbly letters and loops. It said- FUCK 12, Don’t come back!, Skylar + Aaron + Ocean + Asia = My Life, Don’t let them get the best of u, Don’t let them provoke you, I want a 3sum with 4 mid set thick black women, Money $stack$, You can be anything!, lots of Pokeballs, balloon drawings, social media handles, phone numbers.

“I’m sorry ya’ll but I got to do it- I got to wash my pits and pussy off”

“Euhh um.. Go for it”

Much like a lot of my time outside of jail, I had a little guitar riff flowing freely in my head, rehearsing itself endlessly. I drew the tabs on the wall, feeling like a twee idiot, likely confusing the fuck out of future women to lay there. I felt deeply swallowed inside of a tessellation of rooms. I felt like I was on a prison spacecraft. The correctional officers wore ski masks over their perfectly made up faces, lashes and all. They came in at random intervals and banged on the doors to assure we were alive.

“Damn, I’m gonna have to get butt naked to do this.” I heard from below, the sink going on and off and on and off. My head was searing from clenching my teeth all day. I knew I could not fall asleep. I kept being reminded of being in a car as a child, no liberty to leave, no willingness to be there. I had a similar sensation on a trip to Greece with a bunch of people I had grown to loathe. I felt chained to the auspices of people who could not care less about me- my cellmates as well as the institution.

I had cried as well, being driven to this building, imagining and wondering about it eating me whole, never leaving. It happens all the time. People dissapear into capture.

“This is so damn degrading.” I heard her say down there.

By the time I turned over on my side Mama Danielle was dressed and looking out of our cell like a cat watching the people let out into the block.

“How does that girl keep getting out! Look at her! How does she keep getting out?”

It was a kind looking woman with oval shaped reading glasses and straightened hair.

I suggested she could slide through walls like flubber but Mama Danielle just got more agitated.

“These C.O. bitches think they can just keep random cells locked up all day. For what? These other people have been out here tonight for-“ she moves her body around to look up at me, “ONE HOUR. One whole gaddam hour. I’ll be a mother fuck.” She snuggled back around to her perch looking out. “Oh ok, you see this bitch? The one standing at the table looking all spaced out? She OD’d on fentanyl this morning. Yes just thing morning.”

“She’s on that inside here?” I replied.

Her body jumped in laughter underneath her wool blanket. “Oh yes! Child, it’s a mess.”

After a few moments of continued staring, in a totally different demeanor, wistful and sad;

“I wonder what’s wrong with her.”

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

Everyone keeps baring their souls to me. I am a seemingly neutral vessel. Wise enough to let it happen. Responses surface in me but I let them go to silence. Aquaintances are teething on my fingers. I am passively being served.

I asked Monique if she had a narrative voice in her head and she told me she had many. She said that her own mind was not only hers. There was a meeting of Bantu seers in Texas that she attended last year. They made offerings to the river and she saw a mermaid appear. Every day since, she has seen dead people in the periphery of her vision. She was so sweet and sincere, saying these things as we sipped fresh carved coconuts with colorful plastic straws in them. I wasn't prepared to hear this tale but felt no need to react. I was listening purely, or really attempting to be nothing, as a way to insulate my private thoughts from a self ascribed psychic. The more she spoke the more my mind would test it, staring into her eyes and imagining more and more atrotious things, like one and two second microwave ventures. I didn't want to think these things but my mind forced me to because she implied she could hear them. Is this the trick? There was nothing new to see in her eyes which continued to vibrate and skip at an imperceptible velocity, a mirage heat.

She removed the straw from the coconut and placed it to her mouth, drew her head back to the sky as i watched her neck make the motions of swallowing. It looked a lot like praying so I tried it myself. You couldn't resist taking a loud, tonguey exhale like a hiss afterward. I think now of times people I don't know too well have piled it the fuck on- drunken stoop sits, manic street people. Vulnerable moms, broken bosses. Girls in bathrooms in general. Those interactions would drain me for days and leave a hangover of wasteful feeling as if I was some spiritual whore that only existed for others. They were one sided exchanges I allowed like a charitable institution. But sitting with Monique was so filling. I believe she is overcome with intuition. I can't begin to qualify her visions. I'm sure they are real to her. Anyhow, she feels everything first from unknown sources which is something I can certainly relate to. Like emotional radiation from the ground. Mood swings like swingsets- there is a point of attachment. Bracket on the door swinging open and shut. Wall that fits the door. Wall inside the world. Blah Blah Blogging.

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

These cones keep moving around and its always an encounter.

I have been reading a lot about fungi- how their spores fly miles up to comprise a lot of the matter rumbling around in clouds that help them bulk up and be anything at all in the air that could distinguish them from the other air. Then, with genius, they rain down with the water and plant themselves to spread around and fruit etc. Just be fungus in general.

Been encountering as well the metaphor of mycelium and hyphae in writings about community and connection. Ideas as mycellial networks in the underground with unseen mass. It's a nice way to think of tangles. I take a long walk with my dog through the woods behind my house every day and see all these different things with the same form. Standard hippie comment. Dewy spider webs, moss, canopies, It is a visual trail- moving forward. Time as hair, rooted. Makes me think as well of an old art exercise: to draw without lifting the pen. True cuz everythings like that. Blogging!

[mytremendouslydangerousstudent]

How can I contribute?