shards and glitter dust on my green heart

I did the garter performance for white trash tonight. Pure-bred white trash. Then I remembered Abdul was getting 4k for it. For Abdul then, not for white martians.

For three days now, you have haunted me. I have written a poem to laugh about it. But I find nthat it is not funny, nor is the poem any good. I hate you for that. Consider the word use -hate.

Edward Hughes: It is hard. You know it’s gonna be hard. My first book…
Sylvia Plath: …won prizes?

I want you to sweep me off my feet like he did. I want you to hold my hand and sit by me so I can rest my head on your shoulder. I would like that.

No, I do not know Saint Sebastian. And yes, Sir Munds knows who that is. I’m sorry. I haven’t read about him nor have I seen his works. The garter performance isn’t even my idea so bugger off. You smile like heaven but that remark was a downer. Especially for someone who danced for a full seven minutes without a single person offering him water after the performance. Leche.

You do the dancing, try moving in your emotional sphere in front of quasi-people who care about nothing but their white boyfriends or their young and beautiful woman escorts.
Do the dancing and then give me that look, compliment, or smile. Bugger off. Hawa Ngari.

I will read, work-out, and love my parents more from now on.

“Never complain to God, anak”- ma. I actually agree with her on this.

I have air-conditioning. Now, I’m afraid what it’ll make of me.

How could I be so immature…

I want to write so bad right now. But there is only so much I can do. That goes for dancing, and performance, and visual art as well.

I’m a fucking Buddhist. This is enlightenment –Alarm Call

I want to be on a mountaintop with a radio and good batteries and play a joyous tune and free the human race from suffering -Alarm Call