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Monthly Archives: March 2013

Contemporary Wanderlust

Publishing Dilemmas.

The Temptations Biopic, a bottle of sweet wine, pens buffing.

I am anticipating another epic
Beatnik Weekend.

What is a Contemporary Beat?
(Beatnik for you Gen XYZs).
Poetry, music, alcohol, composing, originate, photograph, write.
But, the difference is the physical isolation.

The Great Beats of the 1950’s
created genius but with companion debauchery.
As the Beat Generation died and withered underground, that lifestyle was deemed sinister, even as far as bourgeoisie.

By the early 1980’s, On The Road found itself trashed, erased, unknown.
A. Ginsberg was the only soul left, and he was flying far away from his 50’s ego maniac.
Even my own era was oblivious to their magic.

So, returning to what a
Modern Beat is.
Same revolutionizing ideas(with feminism now), with different cigarettes and fashion.
To be a Literary Renegade is all but dead in a technological world, so keeping the movement breathing is
as Ginsberg would say is ”Outrageous.”
*I keep my six degrees of separation in a box.
I had an English Professor in my Undergraduate Studies who met Allen Ginsberg at one of our Invite Only University Parties in the 1970’s.
The story is fantastic. 🙂

A Beat Girl Then.
1950’s Superb.


A Beat Now.
*December 19, 2011.
Me in Barcelona, Spain.

Antagonist Delight

I opened my heart to this week, and I have once again been burned.

I threw a quaint dinner party last night. I spent $100 on preparations, and many hours in the kitchen. Homemade Pad Thai with Curry Coconut Lentil Soup, and I watched one of my guests look down at her plate with fear. She took one bite, and complained the hours away. (I emailed her the Dinner Menu in advance).
*Last Saturday, similar behaviors took place, giving me nothing.

Devastation, no.
Irritability, some.
Bitter, mostly.
Insulted, always.

Epiphany knocked on my conscience.
How could I become afflicted once more?
I don’t.
(I’m generally and absolutely disgusted by human nature).

The easiest concept of interconnecting humans, is not to.
And, if individual mechanisms break down, move out.
Withdraw slowly, dislocate quickly.

This life is not built for others to detonate.

I am mortally gratified without the infinite personal assembly line.


Juice Me

How complex is it to stay away from my indecencies?

I continue to trespass inside, no Passport needed, just classified debauchery.

I have tried it all:
Detox Diets, Juicing, Raw Foods, and I remain forever interminable.
(Cleansing was the blueprint to this failure).

No, I don’t have some glutton fast-food disease(not possible. I’m a Recovered Anorexic).
Rather, my shortcomings are more in the form of genetic intoxication and relapsing autonomies.

The second of the two, will never change. My happiness depends on separatism.
But, the disease is
defecting all Monogamy.
I loath friendship.
What Anonymous Room would exist for wanted solitary?

In conditional time I will translate/write about my first born, my dominant routine.
Adide by me, I am not ready to be driven under.


Retro Harvest

Have you ever had a present moment electrify a specific past memory?

A summer day.
Will Smith & DJ Jazzy Jeff’s
‘Summertime’ on the tape deck.
Kids swimming at the local pool.
I’m in the basement with my crush.
He sits close to me.  His brown skin so beautiful next to my pale wrists.
He tells me stories of his Father’s struggle for a Green Card.
I listen with my own immigration scarf I hide.

He holds my hand, sweat beading on his forehead.
Nerves meet his mouth as he kisses my cheek.
I fly.
I wonder what ever happened to him?

How seasons during our adolescent years gave us tempting transitions, promises of forever young.
Being wistful can allure what we once were, and what we can never get back.


Midnight Maladies

I can take everything back, and nothing changes.
Circle me.
All these goals, and no present travel.
Is this the definition of stuck?

My future a constant hemorrhage.
My time a consistent misfortune.

I like many other Thinkers suffer from the Midnight Disease.
”Hypergraphia: The driving compulsion to write; the overwhelming urge to write. Hypergraphia may compel someone to keep a voluminous journal, to jot off frequent letters to the editor, to write on toilet paper if nothing else is available, and perhaps even to compile a dictionary. Hypergraphia is the opposite of writer’s block.”—

Not necessarily confined, but without current motion is my ability to have Hypergraphia.
I’ve been keeping Journals/Diarys/Short Stories/Secrets from childhood, and I have papers with writing/numbers/theories above normal volume.

I think my fear of EST kept me filling the pages.
I never wrote on toilet paper, but I have communicated on a few bar napkins.

What does all this make me?
A literary zombie?
A word hoarder?
Language mafia?

The explanation might be available in the new Journal I purchased titled
”Wreck This Journal” by Keri Smith.


Obsessive recording can lead to terminal vacancy.

Spring Break Down

I have to be careful with what they see.
The illusion is sweet.
The mask fits well.
The dream, never hollow.
The walls, bend sometimes.

These are little Post-Its I have scattered around my home office.
Some hanging on to an eleven year old desktop.
Some concrete.
Some glued to dusted moments.

I was supposed to be in Florida, visiting a friend from College, but my Hematologist said
”Absolutely not.”

Dead answer.

Now, I have a week to do nothing.
Not as glamorous when poor health is digging a grave(metaphorically for now).

So, what do I do?
Red plaid pajama pants, shades of blue stripped tank top, white slippers, and out of caffeine.
I will have to go somewhere right?

As I contemplate in (one) of my native languages(Hungarian), I don’t want to leave like this.
En semmi mast adni, es en vagyok elegedve vele.
A ketrec az enyem.
Engedj el.

So, my first Springbreak Assignment:
Search and discover.
First, get dressed.
It’s what matters most.


This is Me.
Now and forever.

Dream Reaper

I am not lonely.
How could I be, when inside my Dreams I am flying.

I was mobile with a former student of mine(Barbara), and we were on a walking journey through Central Italy.
I was happy.
She was not (Weeping over a boy in a public bathroom as I sat in an
Internet Cafe alone).

The details of this unconscious ambition is so magnificent, I want to keep all the hope and desire to myself.

Instead, I opened my eyes to burning red numbers.
My escape was over.
Reality melancholy reaching in under the Jacquard Comforter, pressing down on my soul, reminding me happiness only comes in visions of waking departure.

My dream reaper kissed my forehead and disappeared beneath torpidities wings.
My sadness clings to his last breath, as I anticipate his return. .