kagablog

fever vein pumps crazy juice and visions into my system darkening my blood with fear. they strip me down and put me on a medical table. they hook my head up with electrodes and cover my eyes with bandages. the ubiquitous “this might hurt” is thrown into the room like an antiquated incantation, might as well be “abracadabra” or “happy birthday”. a nervous laugh is inching up my throat. this is so funny i might piss myself. and do.

in a flash of piss and white, numbers stream into my brain in black type (as if punched from spidery typewriter arms being tickled by a meth head who also doubles as a mathematical genius). i’m flooded with equations, theorems with sharp mouths waiting to be equalled… with flesh? how the fuck can numbers eat flesh?

at once the pain stops and i am speeding across the face of the world viewing everything at once. when i awake at the party the blur of these images remain condensed and are unable to be reconstituted. i don’t try. there is music here and laughing.

i amuse the guests, that is my role and i play the game that has been set out for me. the game is challenging. i run on broken glass, uprooted concrete, torn pieces of furniture, and end up running away from the guests on a length of sand. the party gets small, looks like a blemish on the distance until it becomes unrecognizable.

the sand sparkles and is cool beneath my feet. i feel as though i can run miles upon it. i can’t believe how fast i am moving. someone calls out for me to fetch them a drink. apparently, i have gone nowhere. the thirsty man thinks this is funny. he is my dad. others chide him for making fun of me but they are laughing too. i don’t care if i’m funny because i know in my heart i can run so fast that it doesn’t matter. after dad gets his drink i will show them how fast.

i see a road and follow its curve down streets that i don’t know. this running is liberating, it is lighting up my mind. i begin to feel that it is possible to fly. i see two women shouting and pointing upwards as i pass.

i stop and look up to see another woman who is not entirely human. she has become something else. she is standing in mid-air. her bluish face stares down at me from the tip of the tree she has become balanced upon. she is so blue she looks like shiva or kali, there is a geometrical pattern lightly etched into her face. i ask her if she will teach me. then, surprising myself, i leap straight up onto a wall at the base of the tree. i begin to suspect that perhaps i can do what she can do, but don’t allow myself to believe that. she is laughing at me because she can hear my thoughts.

“i will teach you what i know on one condition, afterwards you must promise to kill me.” without hesitation, i agree to the terms. she leaps down from the tree and floats to earth now looking less blue and more human than before. we grab each others hands and begin to spin. as we spin we sing:

she: “i don’t want to live”
me: “i don’t want to die”

we sing these lines over and over laughing and spinning until we fall to the ground like little girls playing a harmless game. as we catch our breath she begins to grow. she is now twice her size and has become a giant. i climb onto her back which is large and quite warm. it is then that we begin our ascent into the sky. i rest my cheek on the blade of her shoulder and wonder what will become of me.

i was dancing when i wrote my first significant poem
at least a poem that got noticed
i was nine and i’d wake up early
probably because i couldn’t sleep
and if i was careful i could put on the classical station
on the radio
it was a thin line from a beating
but i always took the risk
i began to dance
i was so fucking into it
leaping, rolling off the couch
prancing about the room
when the poem began to speak to me
and i knew instantly i should write it down
and that’s how it happened

new york’s got that summer stink
It’s hard to breathe but I have to
Today a bag lady told me to walk faster
I told her I’d walk on her fucking head
Then followed her for two blocks until
She ran away from me
Yesterday some uptight plastic surgery victim looked at me like I was a living shit
So I told her she looked like she was made entirely of plastic
She scurried away
Part rodent part mannequin

my psychiatrist had an epiphany the other day
he said,
you don’t belong here do you?
meaning in this country
(or on the planet?)

on a larger scope things are really falling apart here
it’s been gradual so people aren’t running in the streets
the cost of food has doubled sometimes tripled
petrol had almost quadrupled
and people are struggling
lots of people losing their homes
crime rising
businesses are closing
the economic structure is morphing
yet there still are some fuckers who own 30 room houses
that need to be painted
and thank fuck that i have the job

it’s dirty. it’s very dirty. it’s that grimy improv rock ‘n roll that will get your parents worried (if you haven’t murdered them already). it’s tricia warden on myspace with five cuts of prime grime. listen up here

dear k,

it’s funny when you get that point, i mean the point when you can
feel empathy for the ones who have hurt you so badly
i never thought i could remotely feel empathy toward my step father and my mother
or those who raped me
but somehow i did
and it set me free
it’s not all gone mind you
but i’m not a prisoner to hate anymore
which is nice
it still comes over for a cup of tea sometimes
after a piece of blood cake
it skulks off down my driveway
to scare off all the birds

no matter how powerful hate feels
nor how much pain love can cause
it’s love that is
steady like a heartbeat
sure like dawn

t

April 26th, 2007

Tricia Warden writes lots of stuff that no one wants to print. The stuff she writes is not marketable they shout! Fuck’em. Voodoo dolls need pins. She continues to scribble deliriously completing books that no one will shell the cash out to print. She is currently saving her own shells to print this tripe she writes. I am in love with her but she does not know it yet.

Right now in a small office that smells vaguely of cat shit and old paper, she is working on a novel about revenge and a book about poetry she dreamt about.

Tricia Warden has secrets, secrets so banal that you wouldn’t want to overhear them in a jail cell just to pass the time. Most people think she is quite normal because most people do not read what she writes. She hides among us looking quite quaint, serene almost. You might ask, “Where is the labia piercing and the dragon tattoo? Why is her hair that sad color brown?” Surely she must shoot heroin into her eye and lie to small children on a regular basis?! Nay. Here are the meager facts I have gleaned:

1. She thinks sausage although gross is quite tasty.

2. She is short and rather hermit-like.

3. She would like to be remembered as the last woman in America with pubic hair.

4. Shoes sent to her should be in a ladies size 6, the same size shoe the devil wears.

Thank you for your time, I should think it has not been wasted, but I could be wrong.

P.S. Meat and Bone is coming.

this article first appeared here

1.
a car on 48th street and broadway
ate a woman’s legs
because it had been running late
and hadn’t any breakfast
at home before it left

2.
she washed them
until their skin came off
so god would dance with them
when her husband came home
he asked
what happened!?
she lied and said
i don’t know…
skinrobbers?

3.
the devil ate at her table
and wore her face for fun
none of the neighbors
heard or saw anything strange
they stayed inside
and hugged their lawnmowers
sexlessly

4.
the butcher chopped off her breast
and asked her to taste
the fine meat
that he would be tenderizing
for the next two hours

5.
someone stole my howling ghost
and i’m afraid he’ll get sick
without his wallpaper shoes

6.
a girl scout found a flap of skin on the ground
she knocked on many doors inquiring
who might have lost it
finally another little girl claimed it
she was so happy to see it again
she danced on the month of june
and vowed to never buy cookies
from anyone else
they lived happily ever after
that was until the tax man choked to death
on their doorstep

7.
some people have to be taught
to be nice to others
too often they excuse themselves
by saying the did not know
others could say ouch

8.
i asked him for money for our baby
he put a bunch of holes in me and said
try drinking a glass of water now bitch

9.
cutting off one woman’s arms wasn’t enough
so the judge set him free
and told him not to come back
until he had done some real work
on those cunt bitch whores

10.
he loved her so much
he gave her his tongue
his brain
and his heart
she loved him so much
she made him soup

11.
he removed the hearts of children
and ate them
it was nothing personal
said the defense lawyer
a common vitamin deficiency
is all

12.
overcoming despair
is not as easy
as it looks
said the man
with a hatchet
in his head
sitting in a tub
filled with acid

this poem was first published on tricia warden’s site digital hammer

fifty-three people forget what they are thinking and they are thinking about god.

four kids kick another kid because his pants are unfashionable. his mother is a crackhead with a broken tooth. he survives on mayonnaise sandwiches and hope. hope like mayonnaise has no nutritional value.

women open fish in a sweat shop. fuscia guts slap against each other in a slimy metal can. they know more than you do. they are invisible.

waterbugs plan attacks on fat-suburban housewives with weak hearts and press-on nails. their husbands eat fried chicken and watch japanese porn with their girlfriends.

clouds slide into town like angry ghosts pregnant with rain. they bust cum shots on the unemployed while the wealthy sigh behind stained glass windows and die of boredom.

people worship guns, movie stars, and a new 10 day cabbage diet. they’ll pay for god if you charge them.

on the highway: jackknives, jigsaws, plastic forks, a broken xylophone, a hooker with fists of gold.

a rape in the schoolyard, a death in a fishbowl, blood on the avenue.

hard-ons weep. women scream. put more film in the camera.

lights are changing.

the guards are laughing.

shoe laces are caught. fat lips follows the dollar. our string is strong.
our hearts are mean.

a first kiss unties in the back of a car, beside a 2 tree park that stinks of piss. a day she’ll always remember. a smell that does not wash out.

your mother told you to never go. but you went and had fun for awhile. no one told you that you would bleed to death. would you have believed them if they had?

mascara carves black roads down your face. he says you are beautiful when you cry. you should run, but you don’t.

mountains of tires burn. i don’t like living here.

no one cares about the 2 year olds, they are appetizers for the cruel.

junk twists on the spoon and groans like sperm fried on a hot plate.

at the crime scene policemen adjust their crotches, their pistols cocked for the amusement of children and other virgins.

i have ten bucks, what do you got?

no one saw anything. no one ever sees anything around here. not if they want to live longer. not that that’s long any how.

you are warm beneath the green blanket. i smile when i see you. i kiss your mouth when i am lucky.

my heart is a shell
with a dead bird inside

when your hair and nails
grow without you
there are no beauty parlors in heaven
no clouds to sit on, no harps to pluck

please jesus
don’t let the bogey man get me
i’ll do whatever you want
see my magic amulet?
i can do a dance
sacrifice the virgin
obey the volcano

the fear is a newsman
his teeth are guns that whisper:
wrap the world in newspaper
see if it can breathe

maybe your wound and my wound
can get together sometime
we’ll leave them at the daycare
cowering beneath a colorful alphabet
and dance off like bad mothers
who wish their kids were never born
we’ll eat ice cream without them
as our hair whips in the wind

is anyone home?
they’re too small-
have ears like microbes
tongues like fleas

there’s a house
with a white picket fence
and blood on the floor
scars stitched in the skin
like zippers on the backs of dolls

they can’t see it
if you cover it up-
wear long sleeves,
turtlenecks,
coats in the summer,
beads,
eyeshadow,
the head of a goat….

turn the music up
they can’t hear you panting
it feels warm
after you’ve been hit
curled up on the bed
nails like a dog
scratching to get out

knock on the pipes, she says
and i will hear you

but it’s much worse
when she listens
it’s love like a torn shoe
in the desert
it’s love like a mouse hole
under the bed

more poetry by tricia warden can be found here

a.

i woke up my mouth was dry. i needed coffee, didn’t have any.
thought about a hot-buttered roll like a perv looking at a grade school girl. the sun was a misery. forgot to buy blinds again. thought about taping a garbage bag to the window sill-blot out the sun like god’s thumb.

b.
never thought i’d get used to sleeping on the floor. but now i am not so surprised what a human can get used to. floorboards and termites are nothing. it’s nice to have a floor, outside dirt gets in your teeth.

c.
i do things i hate all day long and no one stops me. people ask me how i am and i say, fine, because they don’t really want to know, it’s just another, nice weather we’re having comment as if our conversations have stooped to rhetorical questions instead of give and take. hey, did you see that show last night? that guy/girl was funny wasn’t she/he?

my bones are made of plastic my teeth are not real. sometimes i feel like doing a handstand on the subway, but i’ve never done a handstand before.

there is more work by tricia warden here

today tricia warden has found out that using standard pliers in lieu of tweezers to pull out nipple hairs is not as easy as it looks. brainlift and attack god inside are books of poetry, short fiction, and art (2.13.61 publications in USA & UK) that she wrote. reasonable offer refused (poetry and a play) and death is hereditary (short fiction) are new completed works. death is hereditary will be published in 2004 on eskmo press, moscow, russia. another volume of her choicest materials entitled, redecorating the cell, will be published by pine slopes press, south africa by the ever patient aryan kaganof. warden was born in jersey city, nj. she grew up in union city, nj- which then boasted to be the most highly densely populated city in the world per cubic inch. beat that bombay. went to nyu for a year, couldn’t afford it, lived by her wits on other people’s couches and floors, wrote a fuckload, decided to continue educating herself, got published, danced through personal and social turmoil, lived in jersey city again for about 10 years, mostly with joe her partner in crime and bad jokes, they had a fire a few years back but still likes to collect stuff, go figure. she has been living in montclair, nj for the past two years, the trees are nice and someone only threw rocks at her once so she thinks it’s all right. she has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies, notably: longshot, ny press, purr (uk), wide angle, bust, dick for a day (villard, this title was on the boston globe’s bestseller list and was published in 3 countries), bust guide to new world order (penguin, usa), best of 2.13.61 (2.13.61), revival: writers of lollapalooza (manic d). her writing was used in the film shambondama elegy by ian kerkhof, a film which won the golden calf special jury prize at the grand prix of dutch cinema. she is also a spoken word performer and has performed with many damn cool folks: hubert selby jr., john cale, ntozake shange, ed sanders, jack womack, exene cervenka, henry rollins, don bajema, blixa bargeld, mark e smith, and michael gira among others. she is also the voice behind the audio edition of jack womack’s random acts of senseless violence (a new york times notable book). there are actually a few colleges that have put her work on their curriculum. she has had three bands, liarface, clot, and vagina dentata and is in the process of forming another. she is also the editor of an online arts magazine, digitalhammer.com and is also chipping away 2 novels, and another book of poetry. she writes in lowercase because of a certain dislike of the shift button and not from a strange e.e. cummings fixation. she thinks sausage although gross is quite tasty.

more tricia can be found here