Ohadi

Video

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 18:57:01 -0600

Bus Ride, Why?

Wed, 13 Mar 2013 16:54:34 -0600

The bus arrived and we squeezed on swiping our bus cards for the driver. It was afternoon and when it is afternoon in Chengdu there are never any spacious buses. We were pressed against each other, on all sides of us dark hair and staring eyes crushing us together.

        “Please do not carry any explosives, combustibles, or flammables…” the Chinese recording requested over the bus speakers.
        “Why do you think they have to announce that?” she said. It was humid and we were sweating each other’s sweat.
        “Not sure” I said peering over the sea of dark heads out the window to another sea of dark heads on the pavement, waiting for our stop.
        We stopped and more people got on while none exited the bus. We were closer now. She looking up at me, my eyes out the front windshield of the jerking bus watching the driver play chicken with other buses. She wrapped her arms around my back when she noticed a Chinese girl in a black skirt that went up to her knees and a light blue blouse pushing her backside against mine.
        “how much longer?” she asked
        “the last bus stop was three before ours”
        “How long then? You know I haven’t been here long enough to figure that out.”
        “Oh, hmm, it is rush hour so add another hour to the original 30 minute ride.”
        “Please do not carry any explosives, combustibles, or flammables…” the speakers spoke again.
        “You know what I think?” she asked.
        “What about?”
        “That Chinese recording”
        “What?” I almost yelled to be heard over the din of the bus ride.
        “I think that there was an accident or something.”
        “Not a terrorist then?”
        “No, look at all the people! No one wants to bother or be bothered. It is an ocean of people that makes it easy to live alone in your head.”
        “ Hmm..”
        “I think that there was an accident. A bus with 3 people, one carrying explosives, one carrying combustibles, and one carrying flammables. There probably a lot of people on the bus, like this one. It probably started with the combustible somehow exploding up front in the bus because it was dropped or there was a wreck or something. But anyway, it causes the passenger holding flammables to drop and spill it and at the same time a guy smoking a cigarette drops it. He lights the place up. And low and behold some construction guy passenger on his way to work, demolition specialist, is carrying the explosives and WHAM! A lovely recording for us to listen to every time we take the bus.”
        “Isn’t that pretty? Hah, anyone survive?”
        “Nope. Not one. The whole bus of black and white turned to salt and pepper ash. Not even the young couple on the sidewalk next to it. The boy was carrying her purse and she was carrying his hand when it happened. Poof!”
        The bus stopped again. People spilled out and fewer came in as we came to the last stop before ours. She was looking at me, and then out the window at a young woman standing alone at the bus stop. The girl had straight black hair with long bangs brushed behind her ears. She was wearing high heels, had on black mascara, and a puffy skirt like the ones ballerinas wear. She was staring at her phone and pursing her lips.
        “Please do not carry any explosives, combustibles, or flammables…” it came on again.
        She sighed, “why?”
        “Why what?” I said
        “Why must they always have to announce that when it departs?”
        “Let’s walk, come on” I urged to get off before the bus took off.
        “No use, we’re there next stop,” she said looking away.
        “It is because they want to warn you. Remind you it’s a risk.”
        “We should’ve walked. It would’ve been faster.”

this is the best

Sat, 09 Mar 2013 00:33:44 -0700

I spend most of my time masturbating and smoking spliffs. Walking through my room, my head hitting the tin-arms that I’ve hung up above me. These are to remind me to chin up , cause I always walk scraping lips across the floor.

Yesterday I hard-boiled so many cartons of eggs it could fill a toilet up to the brim of the lid you sit on and read about black widowers.

“Did you know black widows float in hot air balloons?” I ask.

“I wonder what that would be like…” you say with your nose, “that would be the best.”

“Did you know the hatchlings eat their brothers and their sisters? They need the nourishment to survive,” say my eyebrows shadowing my eyes.

“that would be better” you say.

I smoke and blow It into your face sometimes, asking: “did you know black widows only need to mate once to lay all the eggs they ever will In their lives?”

But you just shit on a heaping toilet bowl of hardboiled eggs.

To the Star of the East

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 14:42:34 -0700

So many crosses trying to hang me

upside down

trying to drain

the blood through tear ducts

so many tear ducts draining their oil over me

trying to go dry like my desert

my cross

of sage and juniper wood

burning in an all around way

my aroma

cleanses their souls

when they partake in my poetry

roll up my bones

and tap the ash into their wine bowls

bake their bread

with my rising carcass’s yeast

a communion of my nakedness

to clothe them in crosses,

oh please please please

this do, in remembrance of me.

Poetry

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 14:39:00 -0700

My religion

is that of bright eyes

of hands in my pockets with my chin up and head higher

my lips where they belong on those of my lover’s

my religion is the wind past my ears

is watery eyes

tears from thorns through clouds like a crown

my religion is sunbeams

mistaken for fishermen’s’ romantic baited nettings

when they saw the sun for 2 days

dead in the horizon

and on the third

rise

and mesmerize them

my religion is that of lies

that of which is known to not be

which is to say

truth

yes my religion is blue

it is that which is above me

that clouds swim through

and that which is below me

that the ships sail and

perhaps that is why there is blue within me

blue in my song and blue in my feet

as I slap the strings and hum to the blue beat

my religion is is

am am

are were will

my religion is existence

in a black and blue thrill

of the empty sun and

dying and birthing

igniting and smoldering

blue moon

is of candles in the black fire

flickering for funerals and wax falling from the breathes of all those that

wish

my religion is blind

without the sun there is no night

without the night I have no red eyes

of unraveling thread

of prayer flags into sky burials

by the four winds of

earth’s shamanic breathe

through a prism into

solar storms that water life from

boiling brothy lakes into

cells that grow from mud into

leaves falling from trees and back to

the mud

into blue blood

my religion is mud

of veins pumping a sacrificial flood

drowning every dead thing red red and blue

blue is the first breath stirring

my religious primordial stew.

Heterochromia

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 14:36:00 -0700

January gave me my eyes
dry lips and chimney breath
green leaves of my iris
bitten brown and burned naked
but all I see is white
through my autumn eyes
and the leaves of my lashes
still frozen to my branches
like the day I came into this world
carrying an urn of hazel ash
sprinkled from the cloudy whites
the barricades (laughing at the night: light is ours to conceal!)
the cycles of the constellations
numbers one through twenty-three
crashing on the twenty-fifth
Yes, January gave me my breath
punched off bottle caps and friendship cigarettes
leaky pens and singed eyebrows
from a pouch of black acid in my back pocket
wishing it was green-glory
rolled up with the glue of my tongue
to blow into the gorge
of leaping tigers and expat love
when Mary was as young as Jane
as cheap as burning burley
and as soothing as our green bottles of beer
emptied over a two week long
running of the wild-eyed dogs
into the glass lake
that swallowed our skipping stones
that two week long caravan
that hangs in my eyes
the ripples of January’s
hazel moon.

-Jordan Boise 2013

kj444: Why Idaho is awesome

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 19:44:59 -0700

kj444:

Why Idaho is awesome

Heather Brooke: My battle to expose government corruption #TED : http://on.ted.com/jOLv

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 00:32:33 -0700

Heather Brooke: My battle to expose government corruption #TED : http://on.ted.com/jOLv

Chimney Sweep

Sat, 05 Jan 2013 17:09:18 -0700

I think that red hair looks lost on you

like the strands split over your opening eyes

deep shafts of lonely gold mines

and I am the yellow bird feeling light headed

for some reason I can concentrate

straight-faced like your pictures of leafless trees

like the waxy river

too cold to light up the wicks of your hair

too cold for old jackets

and too old to sew anything

even the buttons I’ve collected in tin coffee cups

but they sing a beautiful song

as I flick them down old gold mines

and imagine a yellow bird with wings held together by buttons

flying out to perch on the lips with me

to help me use concentration

and trip into my chimney.

"In my younger days when I was a nihilist, I could never get past the thought that we are all..."

Tue, 01 Jan 2013 11:01:06 -0700

“In my younger days when I was a nihilist, I could never get past the thought that we are all essentially born to die. Life, to me, was not worth living. Realizing that I could ultimately leave no lasting impression with my existence, I became enveloped in depression. This was before I realized that in my illusion of apparent singularity, I am actually the natural evolution of all existence perceiving itself. My legacy will remain in this eternal life force, the legacy that has never been mine alone. I will remain in whatever manner of existence should take my place. Death is merely a part of the natural cycle of sustaining existence collectively. We pay our mound of flesh to sustain collective conscious existence, which we have come to understand is through consuming the physical. Life feeds on itself endlessly, evolving and transcending. There is no difference between life and death necessarily, they are merely varying degrees of existence. In this understanding, way may claim that we are immortal.”

- Paul John Moscatello (via liberatingreality)

up

Thu, 27 Dec 2012 11:01:02 -0700

Returning home is wanting to leave home

to hostel freedoms

and meetings with foreign strangers

It is a cyclical history of humans

being there, missing sage

blinded by busses and trains

with no windows only beers to keep you sane

but beer is only what you have and

what you wait to appear in crystal necklaces

autumn is here

and memories fall

reminding me of home

and to make plans to go.

the transit of venus

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 11:01:18 -0700

The wind choos in the trees

and I mistake If for

midnight revving gasoline machines

hunting for my head

like when Venus skimmed the sun

and I was in a train in transit

to cicadas and dripping giants’’ teeth

all green from seed planting feet

there was no sun, and no sign of Venus

and now there is a lost train and no sign of Venus

steaming its way through crumbling karsts

and mammoth monoliths

to my dry desert ears

that are calling for dewdrops

Into green seeping tea cups from

the tea girl in high heels

that are calling for yellow fevers

clawing on fading Buddhas and BodhIsattvas

cut into cookies the size of Venus

cooked by the sun

and fed to me

while I get lost In Venus

In transit

I get a train

Lost on a train.

people dont look

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 11:01:13 -0700

People don’t look up

I stare at their

skinning knees

then they

plop on a couch

and enjoy

their aroma

on their asphalts

I skip

then plop on my shingles

In a pile in my

pipe

and enjoy a

home

people don’t look up at

then

I stare at my

aroma.

dead leaf tumbles

Sun, 23 Dec 2012 11:00:55 -0700

A dead gingko leaf tumbles across

asphalt that is freshly fragrant from

rain that is lost

like the punch line

I’ve been turning over

dead gingko leaves over for in the end of alleys

my fingernails look like

sun killed shingles

crusty chapped lips

waiting for the delivery of a fist

of relevance

a palm of crumbled gingko leaves

rolled up to lungs and matches

and blessed by the flame

to smolder out old jokes and

holy sweaters losing the scent of

tobacco smoke in draInless ventless bathrooms

or outhouses inside

but under the roof that

I sit on and get some fresh smoke

to exhale through my nose

a vision of perfume on bus rides

and dark eyes that

peer out of busses and back to

my shrinking smile

like the shrinking

shingles

beneath me.

desire leaves the scabs

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 11:01:03 -0700

Desire leaves the scabs picked away from

scaffolding and shingles in skeletons

I was always a nickname that you called:

a glass house that barely

balances upright and suspends for

centuries to undress back into

mannequins and hanging trap doors

each without doorknobs or the skin

of a lazy flock of shed feathers

has it ever been back to visit

ancient spinal fluids that dried up

was this ever a brick?

to wrap a ransom round and scream:

Its brittle bones are shaking!

that level of infatuation that leaves me satisfied

Fri, 21 Dec 2012 11:00:54 -0700

In a pile of leaves sleeping in the gutter, on my roof,

I hear what I pen but I can’t see the steam vamping off

bare butt hot tub love, but

my ears tickle with their lips mackIng

making me of their lives

but not in them.

On my roof I hear what I don’t see

a jet streaming, rattling tin street lamps

lighting flames to fire trucks that are howling.

I think of tonguing what I taste but

all I taste is a tongue rolling breath into

silky smoked cigarettes

that whisper to Pot Belly Beer:

“He’s got, like, the biggest lips…”

On my roof I cant silk what I web but

I feel as I fall into that dewy songless nest

for mute crickets and juiceless beds

littered in twigs that look like spidery leggs.

“Charley! Come In!” commands Pot Belly Beer.

My lips are frost bitten, black bitten

cracking and crumbling to the shingles.

“Charley! Come In!”

I didn’t mean for my back to give out

I didn’t know I’d become that jet streaming to the moon

and I’m sorry about the hardboiled eggs.

“Charley! Come In!”

Damn It Charley go Inside.

wanings and wantings

Thu, 20 Dec 2012 11:01:07 -0700

I am sinking on my roof while the sun is

shunning me, so I reach for its rays,

I feel it sleeping in my shingles, and I feel

Like the moon propelling in a black sea,

a steamboat howling warnings to the lanterns

but they don’t budge

to the warnings

and neither do I

steam right through them

rafts and skiffs

the lanterns empty oil over my hands

dripping in wanings and wantings

but they don’t budge

they steam like the shunning sun

half full of salty shadows being torched

but like

the moon

I feel it

the shunning sun

char each hand from

my crescents

to my troughs

and turn to new moons

but I don’t budge

a steamboat

sinking in a black sea.

old jackets

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 11:01:03 -0700

my old jacket zips up my chest

sewing up flesh and

anchoring visible breath

of lines that write but never speak

of sneaking out of high school homes

into the cold crunch of our balding trees

that always stretch tall regardless

of their thin skeleton regardless

of their old jackets deserting them

hung up on hooks

into the fireplace

where your TV. stand stood

a turntable, a walrus, singing

Coocoo for you!

Coocoo ka what left

me in foliage

a sweater to the leaves?

bus stop night

Tue, 18 Dec 2012 15:26:00 -0700

On the balcony of my plateau again

seeing a ghost modeling sexy for seduction

in the tea brewing rooms

reflecting bus stop happy endings

my green apple greets her

with songs of hourglass smoke sucking on her lips again

the city lives off me

my mosquito blood smeared on the walls

of the city smeared on

bus seats I rarely sit

on to my jeans it smears through me

into a glare out the window

out of the bus skidding roads to

stare at her shoulders

that kiss at my lips

and I loooooo…..

…lost in her mist

with songs of yellow smoke

soaking on her fever again

in the population brewed glowing pollution of the city

that I see from silent shingles

where I discovered the meaning of place in the stars

I saw the code in those Braille-esque holes

and I saw “god”

with a lower case

falling like the sound I love of

spit splattering on the asphalt

after it leaps from my 11^th floor window

asking me:

“do you ever remember not being alive?”

but I just spit again and

blow kisses of hourglass smoke.

i am on the roof every night and no one notices me

Tue, 02 Oct 2012 03:05:00 -0600

i don’t know what to write about by moonlight

by the warmth of cigarette heads tumbling down roofs

i want to contribute to the evolution of pens

maybe my fingers could evolve through

my kin into pens and

or i could just Aurora my finger tips

stitch words with my inky oily threads

sew sweaters on roof tops for the shivering chimneys

i want my clothes to be poetry

crocheted by the breeze of the leaves

sunk into gutters for vibrating vines

to feed off of and steam into tendril tessellating rings

around my pulsating pens

to write me back to

warm moon breathe again

in my nest between competing beasts

i want to trip and test my feathers

but if i do

only pens will flap in flusters

and i will crack

back into my autumn egg

that my sisters and i raked so well in our childhood

when i first tumbled into

the curse of the red giant’s waning warmth

and stared through the canopy at

the baggy bloodshot eye that stares back at me.