One Eh Em



Something more than this soft fabric
Or missing solitude
Wanting solitude
Or denying solitude
Solitude solitude solitude
I don’t mean to be rude
But I crave some solitude
Technical static
Silence out west
Where is silence out west
I miss crickets
Discover me and I discover my mother
Discover the other
Brother lover mother
Language is a silly game lacking my meaning
Structure and form derail brain
At the intersection
Intersection between brain and rhyme
Do I rhyme
Technology corrects me, capitalizes me, makes me proper
Self edit
Self edit
Giving me credit
To become what I am really not
So many capitals
It doesn’t make sense to you because it doesn’t make sense to me
Homage to the no reason

I stole that I think
No reason
No reason
No reason
Repetition finds substance
Substance substance substance dance something new give me some innovative idea some mode of self expression that makes some iota of sense some semblance of substance
sum of my parts, giving away hearts
Nothing and everything are one.
You can be connected and disconnected with companionship while feeling alone.
Where am I and what do you want?
What do I want and where are you?

That solitary night in Cadiz. AddiePhotography. All rights reserved.

In this collide-scope of professional reason I wonder where I stand
A red jewel bleeds into yellow orbs while spectrums of dissociative colors mingle at
an awkward party
Chatter and scatter
Chatter and scatter
Chatter and               scatter

Delete, backspace the unintended, mutilate the pieces that do not fit til they turn into an invisible powder that you hide sniffing up your nose
Swallow the truth of yourself.
Communication is messy, text me so I can clean it up.
Softly swept the linoleum glistens
Spilt milk never existed
The paper towel I used to clean the floor exists like a magic auto-correction


Crackle in my floor


Crevice in my floor


Crease in my floor

Clamber gather squander this moment like before

Crease in my floor. AddiePhotography. All rights reserved.

Repetition like a circle repeats the last action
Repeats the last action
Last action
Last action

Fix this crack in my floor

Sagebrush and counter dust
Grandma dances alone
Drowning on the phone

Sagebrush and counter dust
Mama pushes the vacuum
Drowning in the living-room

Sagebrush and counter dust
Daddy takes the bus
Drowning in the gold rush

Curly cue, smelly dew
Hummingbirds flutter
Curly cue, honey dew
Grandma uses too much butter

Little fingers wrinkled hands
Cracked eggs
Black toast
Feast for kings
Breakfast I love most

Stupid simple writing all the time
I destroy the white with black crimes
Fuck this
Fuck that
I can’t seem to remove this need to say cat
And rat and tat with tit tat on a flat wit dat ol’ fat bat

Life drowns away with yesterday. No record of yesterday. What do I say? You want to know what I’ve done? You want to know my process, my life, my creation? I don’t fucking have anything left. I never existed before today. I have no record of me. No record of my survival but myself. I sit in a room and cover everything in white sheets, a canvas, and just throw paint on everything. I imagine soaking it all in water. I take small canvases and I paint beautiful time consuming life things on them and then I set them in the creek like a stepping stone, I let the water wash over them like worn out weathered rocks. I film it. I photograph it. And I watch it rot. I call this art. I call this my life. I submit it to you and you call me crazy. Crazy to express. I want to lasso it Lasso every image and hurl it at your face. Is that violent? I’m angry I think. Still angry because I’m always beginning again. Beginning something destructive. Perhaps beginning is beautiful within measure, a marathon that starts patiently yet eagerly rampaging toward something worthwhile. Sometimes I want to welcome a long path to the end. I want to feel like I’m in a long peaceful, inspiring stride. I always feel like I’m just starting. Like someone just gave me the baton and I’m starting to run and then I trip. I roll over myself, see the ground, the sky, my hand, the ground, the sky, and then the baton which is being handed to me for the first time, again. Actually, it was never handed to me. I find my own fucking baton. So I grab it and I fall again. It’s like I hover in a circle spinning in on myself. Time lapses and I collapse and start over again.

1 am


One eh em.


Pouring over me.
Incomplete thoughts and swirls of pictures.
Images in my mind of everything I want to do.
Should do?
Must do?
Want to do…

I don’t know anything.

Simple worlds collide and I wonder if my existence is-

Why: Because I have to. To survive I have to something. Answer these questions…no ask these questions. No one has the answers. I don’t want answers. I want to ask the questions and watch thought self-combust. We know nothing. We must ask everything. Green squiggles demand I hyphenate. Green squiggles demand I grammatically subject myself to correction. Red squiggles tell me I am most certainly wrong.

Get along.
Sing a song.
Fall from the throng.
Decipher my brain
Decipher my heart
Decipher my art
Decipher my fucking useful fucking demeanor for your important fucking institution because I want so badly to be within some fucking radius of some fucking facility to fucking create

create anywhere, everywhere, always
I put my drawings in ice and float them down the creek
The paper is a seed
I know the words must grow
Why do I need you, your institution, your program, your idea to facilitate my own?



I think about sending this to you.

Who are you?


I want you to have this. I don’t know who you are.

I don’t know who I trust enough with my thoughts.
But when I do, I think that is when I start my art.

Courtney Aaron Photography

%d bloggers like this: