I Could Be Wrong About This

This is the thing that wakes me. From the oh so sweet slumber of a warm bed. This is that which bothers me and will not let me sleep. That and I had to pee just now. The think positive crowd have to be the most annoying set of creatures to walk the Earth. Yes Dear Readers, this is one of those rants where everything is brought into question. Really what is is to think positive? I keep feeling like this is really an uniquely American idea. Looking on the bright side of life and ignoring all that sits right in front of you. Sometimes I feel like we are all one step away from suicide but we smile and try to get over it. Now me I fail at dying, so I get up everyday and do the living. It works out just fine. But much like the Instagram photo is a bastardization of actual photography, the think possessive movement is destroying actual living conversation. No one ever wants to face anything. Or that is wrong, facing things or not is no choice. But real discussion has been abandoned for the it gets better crowd. Isn't this why people drown themselves in drugs and alcohol or pack themselves into night clubs full of strangers who can't see or feel from all the makeup and Molly that has been popped? I really need a Russian right now. In Russia there is a saying, I'm not going to tell it to you in Russian. However here it is in English. "Life is hard right now, but what are you going to do?" There is the truth of it all. We all want it all to look a certain way. Like the Los Angeles pretenders who glamorize this shit hole that I desperately want to leave. But look at that. Even that is bullshit. Who wants to leave a place but stays? You know what happens when one stays in a place they should have left a long time ago? When the very first of my personal artistic caravans headed East in hopes of...well anything really. What happens to the fearful who stay? It's fucking decay. I feel and smell decay. I believe it makes me a better writer, but it is not doing a damn thing for my artwork. 

Have you ever been attacked by nothing and then you finally realize it is yourself? I can not be among so many and feel so separate. Mainly because we are all being so positive. But get a drink in you and the tears flow. I put all my pain on paper or pound it into a keyboard. So by the time the light of day actually shows up I do feel a ting of positivity. But Dear Reader, I thirst for something bigger than all of this. I hunger to smell new smells and to run free. I never really feel free. Like I have felt a bit of freedom alone on the mic somewhere, but not real freedom the way I dream. I am in the business of turning what I see on the inside to that which is tangible. I live in the same city of many of the great writers. I feel the burden of their past upon me even now. That is what keeps me going. They are alive in little rooms typing away at great works, or sitting somewhere reminiscing about how it was all going to be so beautiful. I'm not really into too many positive writers. So what the hell are so many of them doing on the Best Sellers List? Who the fuck put them there? The think positive crowd that is who.  You blind bitter bastards, the lot. 

It's not even really the Best Sellers List that bothers me. But yes it is. You see there are virtually no real bookstores left so we have no Men and Women on the from lines of literature. Telling people what to buy are at the very least pointing them in the right direction. So pretty much everyone is left to there own devices which leaves us as a culture utterly fucked. So you have Adults reading novels from the Young Adults section, people reading way too many self help or pseudo spiritual books, and then there are the Graphic Novels.  I love Graphic Novels. Like I can't even begin to not love graphic novels but still, read a book every once and while people. The poor pathetic Graphic Novels. You know the thing most movies are made of these days. I won't get started on the state of American Cinema in this post because well. American Cinema at one point was created in the bookstore, or other gathering places of intellect. Which seem obsolete now, so we have a entire nation packing into cinemas to see cartoons or things based on Graphic Novels. Or books that are not very good but no one is around to stop any of it from happening. What ever happened to the bitter screen writers? They were replaced with lazy fucks who hope to become rich and famous and who will read any crap and turn it into a film. Re-invited Biographies are the norm here and I won't even get started.

So what is a writer to do? Sit among her peers and absorbed the beauty that is the craft. Look bitterly out into the city by the sea and wonder is it the pot or the juice that makes everyone step over the bums and smile? You see they are looking on the bright side of the homeless epidemic. Or is it really a shared delusion? One that can not be ended because we are in a spiritual time and intellectualism is not the norm. Truth has become really subjective. Most people live in relationships that are lies. I live in one full of truth. A truth that even I don't always say. Togetherness is the norm and separation is a illusion. All we really have on this rock are each other and the animals. So be kind. That does not mean be positive. Positivity leads to fascism really. Mainly because you have to only look at the good things. Ignore the sick and the old or the poor (especially if you are one of them) and the dying and just smile and take another hit, or drink, or pill or change the fucking channel for God's sake. Don't even get me started on God. But I am trying. I believe things can be better and also accepted. How bad is it really? What if you asked a stranger how her day was and she just looked at you and broke down? Just told you every truth without holding back? What if you just stood in the middle of it all and gave her a minute to let the real tears flow? Standing there among it all hugging a strangers in real tears. Well it happens to me all of the time. Maybe I just have one of those I can take your heart faces. Maybe I am always on the verge of jumping off of something high and the whole world knows it. But the real truth is I don't want to die. I want to fly. Now ain't that a conundrum.

This is Josalisa and you have just experienced a RiOt. 

I See The Dead and They Are Gaining On You

The Karma Police are a series of intangible ideas made real by you the viewer. Similar to the Dream Police who go to work on your subconscious wants. The ones you share out of fear or deep rooted respect for the listener. Depending on who is listening the idea can be somewhat deconstructed but never really destroyed. Those who do not create can never honestly destroy anything at all. They are only capable of giving something a bad name. The element of destruction though often coupled with the creative element, does not live in the same sphere. Those who destroy are often lost or neglected. Mainly by themselves, but dig deep enough and you will find a small child abandoned by a cruel or thoughtless parent. I want to destroy everything often means. Mommy and Daddy were not there and now I am still lonely. I sometimes direct these types to my guru. Father is quite gentle and he does oh so often make house calls. Yet as you may not know he does not accept applications and the self destructive must meet him half way up the road to Dreamersville. Also madness is not  recommended as a cure for itself so maybe stay clear of certain Shamans who wash their blood over the likes of me. 

Have you ever wondered what people really want? The ones who come in search of me or who I have casually allowed under the big top. I wonder about these strangers who would seek out strangers. What the fuck do you all want? To join the show and chose a character. I see you playing them out. Los Angeles is a very small city when your soul was created here. I see you all claimer to return to the same places and pretend you are having new experiences. Oh my God that shit is too funny. Let me take a moment to read that sentence again. How can I judge you at a distance? I can't really but if the boredom that is does not affect you then you know what? It is you. Thoughtless drifting floating by high on stupid things pretending you are someone else to anyone who will listen. And those with the memory bored watching the parade of souls night after night ascend again and again. 

I am the most gentle Black Witch one could ever dream of. I gave away my past because dear readers, that part of me is dead. Only alive in the memories of those who experienced and witnessed the debacle that is my life in ruins. I am now only a writer climbing the staircase with my lover. We are going to some secret place we created long ago. We see the destroyers, but remember your first instance of destruction? When you were a little child maybe you built a sand castle. I won't assume you had Legos or Lincoln Logs...those are for the cared for. But maybe you did. You made your little building and tore it down. Now remember...even then dear child no one gave two shits. But you must have learned the lesson. Destruction can only come from creation. And one can only kill oneself. Now you are thinking of ax welding murderers. Or the haunted. You dear child are not one of those. You are the  weak and the frightened. You probably have not even fucked the living this month, have you?  Poor thing are you even alive? Or are you that fucked up witch that lives in your head? 

As  for me the damp with pity. I shed not another tear. I dance not to another song I did not create myself. I see too much with my eyes closed and I do, oh my dears I do often wonder way too much. I contemplate the nothing like it is a thing of substance. What I really want to do, well it is being done now is it not? So why do I search? For people I have lost so long ago. No not the ones like them. I mean the dead. I search and speak for the dead. It's kind of like my job. Given to me so long ago I like to pretend I was not there. But I remember and I do it well. The sad part is if one can call it that. I feel a separation peeking behind the curtain. I feel a stillness that helps me see you the living wicked. The part I hate the most. How can one being be purple light and silk and the other be voice and empty still? Why does it anger me? My own gift upsets me. Because it will not let me forget what I have seen and heard. But most importantly it will not let me forget my interpretation. The thing that is in my head. Calling out the empty, searching for the the dead. Laughing as children dressed as men kick over sand castles. This is a another morning in the metropolis. And I dear souls feel sorrow and joy at the same time. Such as life. I have seen the Karma Police and sometimes they work so swift their victims don't even know they have been paid a visit. 

Turn another card and you are dead. Looking for a speaker like me. Turn another card and you are forgiven but not by the likes of me. I do not forgive and you do not forget the dirty things you create. Everything you see is real and shall be played out in your own life. All that you think you stole was a gift from your most wicked relative. Tell me about it soon. I shall listen then consort the souls for interpretation. But can one really care when her living soul has been given to another? Only for a moment do we trade hearts with our Masters. Most will never see the stronger people in this world because they want to be them. The secrets of this day are not the same as the past ones. This vortex vibrates on it's on. Ask the Angel wearing your dead Aunt's clothes. I know things you are too greedy and afraid to ask. I'll tell you one. Look to the future not the past. It is all happening right now. And it can not be destroyed. 

I am Josalisa and this is a cypher for the Cyber Punks. 

Reaching Towards It

It feels like everything is being taken away from me. Everything I never cared about. Being replaced by secret things I am ecstatic about. I have an endless supply of secret hobbies and books that must be read. Secret thoughts that must be expressed. Both the bored and the dead things have begun to shun me. To peel away like dead skin. I understand what is happening all around me and I am thankful. Still as I grab on to the lost like cold wet clothes that have been discarded after walking home in the rain. Do I miss anything I do not have? Do I desire to be closer to anyone? I do, but is that a real feeling? Or one of those things people say is the right thought to have. My madness has freed me from so many of my burdens. I still feel unknowable guilt. But the disconnection, I crave it. Seeing the world at a distance and still knowing I am part of it. Ticking away deep in my heart. What can be taken away anyhow? Is it not all an answered prayer? Should we really watch what we ask for? Or ask away knowing you just might...well...have to get it. I am drunk with hope and alcohol. And yes I still judge every person I have ever loved. I think they are all liars and insincere with every movement. Is that a reflection of me? I have never really gotten over my need to judge every single word said to me by my friends and enemies. Do I really have enemies?

I feel distant and everyone else looks closer to the others as they have ever been. Tittered to strangers in hopes of forgetting themselves. And it worked. Many seem to have a forced amnesia. Why I sit here and remember then react and judge. Pushing digital words out of a keyboard like pregnant women having miscarriages. To me it is better to be among highly intellectual strangers and dying rock stars with a boner for it all and nothing. Bleeding gurus dreaming of a psychedelic past they never were old enough to participate in. I follow masters of doctrines long ago forgotten, especially by them. I create art while some are archaic. But the rituals must be done. The songs must be sung and I must remember all I have forgotten. In order to appreciate my own life. Learning sympathy for strangers is a classic thought of mine. But what does it bring? Something, it all brings something. But if one stares enough at anything does it not become grotesque?

What are we really but spinning astronauts. Is that even a right way of seeing things? Why look for a way anyhow? Why not just mow down a path to the dreaming? I see the things I dream in my daily life. That is all it has ever been. Does that make the entire world a dream come true? Is that dear readers, the reason it is all happening right now? We can believe in it all. Have it all. Know it all and see it for what it is. Beautiful, unknowable life. Yet still we may wonder. Is this truly an ancient miracle? Inside of me something is starting to boil. Father was right to tell me to abandon it all. Every action is unnecessary. For the real magic happens in between our own actions. We the power visualizers....do not force the force upon the world. We live among the thoughts and see them for what they are. Invisible strings pulling us towards the nothingness. Insanity on one hand, great clarity on the other. Never shall the two meet without real compassion. The kind we are suppose to have for ourselves. Beyond this there may be nothing or something alien to me. Why does creativity weigh on me so? Why must I think and think and think? Why must I never forget? Remembrance of things long ago considered. Comparing and contrasting to see if it all fits together. What story is this I am living? How long must I spin on a giant ocean towards a giant ball of gas?

This is Josalisa live from Planet RiOt.

I Rarely Like What Is

I shall complain as always. I shall scream and shout then break things (mostly my own). Only my own. I shall fight but really just fall and injure myself. I shall laugh but still be very angry. Still this will not remove the thing that I believe should not be. I shall wander and run. I shall sing loudly with beautiful rock n rollers. I shall sing sweetly with humble church ladies. I shall make songs about the love of dead things. This will not move the thing I feel should not be. I shall write on machines. I shall scribble on paper. Make lists in journals. Confess to the ones I love. Judge the ones who bore me. The thing lives on. I shall confuse myself. Numb myself and then remember everything. I shall feel dizzy and drink lots of water. I shall eat three very healthy square meals a day. Yet the thing lives on. I shall stab at my own heart. I shall sit in a quiet room alone in the dark. I shall see my elders and join clubs. I shall look to people who march and those who have many children. I shall visit the saints and the sinners. After all of this the thing will persist. I shall go to rich men's cities and dine and dance. I shall go among the poor and pity and laugh. I shall live among the middle class. But the thing oh the thing which should not be is still here inside of me. I shall speak to the dead and shun all the living. I shall win all my dreams and think about quitting. I shall go out late at night and stand beneath the stars. I shall walk at the first hint of day. I shall see you all the sneaky conformists and the gay. Still the thing lives on each and every day. 

Gunshots shall rain as I type. I shall make music so gentle in the dead of night. But I can not be convinced of any less than this. I do not like it here. I want out in out in. I am not your friend. I never understood you. You have studied me before. I have become a metaphor for your life. I have gained nothing. Not even the smallest insight. I shall weep but I am not really sad. I shall beat the thoughts right out of my head. Answer all the stupid questions put to me. This...it just should not be. I shall reveal it all and say nothing. The reality is plain to see. I don't belong in this emerald city. I never wanted it. It has always wanted me. This is the place the vampires feed. And I kill things with words. Last of the dying poets. Still alive today. To witness all that is dressed up and boring. To filter out the pain (yours and mine). I would become a cynic but I never liked becoming things. So I'll stay this, a bitter writer staining things. Maybe it will all be so clear one day. As for now all I can see. Is the thing I know that should not be

I am Josalisa and this is a RiOt. 

I Accept Myself

I have a desire to do things then I just flake out on myself. Like am I a self-saboteur, or am I just going with the natural flow of my heart? How does one ever know the answer to these things? Should I even allow such thoughts to weigh heavy upon my soul? Life is good and that is a fact. Even if you are living in a war zone. Which I am not but even if. Life is still good because you have existence. You are thriving. I am thriving and this is a dream and a blessing. Every moment in life is an opportunity to make a dream come true or to create something. That has to be what it is all about. Making the thoughts in your head some sort of reality. So even if this morning I have flaked out on my own plan. Maybe I have not. Maybe there is some other dream that must be made manifest. I can sing. I have my voice. I want to sing out loud and project into my strange destiny. Maybe not this morning as I have planned but maybe today as I have dreamed. 

So much this or that but not too much confusion really. I had a dream last night about many things but I know now it was about my sexuality. Or my sexual freedom. It was very beautiful and telling. I am quite a strange and beautiful creature. I would like any of this to make sense. But I am a bit sleepy and even more crampy so it will lay where it lays on the spectrum. The real point of all this is...My voice shall be lifted and I shall fulfill my own destiny. The one created in God's eyes and the one created in my dear dreams. I regret the things I have not done. But why? Because I have heard of regret and think it is real or because I feel I have missed something? I can never really miss anything. All that I desire is mine or walking in my direction. All that I am is here within me. Nothing is ever missed or forgotten. I am a dream come true. The choices I make are always the right ones. Today is that day. I can feel the light shinning on me even now as I lie here creating these words. I understand myself. All is well. As it has been forever...

I am Josalisa...and this is a RiOt of understanding. 

A Poem Of Unanswered Questioned & Stupid Concerns

you wanna know what makes me write

other writers

 not the readers

readers will read anything

I've even read the back of the air freshener container

reading is a distraction

some sort of addiction

to the passing of time

but writing is the great work

or so it feels 

in reality for me 

it is the great madness

turning white black to feel something may have been accomplished

my garlic for the people who believe they are vampires 

wheater they are vampires are not is no real reason to not avoid them

some people think they are vampires and just behave that way

I blame all the really boring mainstream literature out there 

that romanticize fantasy

we are all so easily influenced

out of boredom I hope

but really what if we are all just really dumb as hell

subject to the whims of any writer with a platform

we program reality after all

our own reality but the lazy can be lead in any direction we choose

that makes me sad and now I feel lonely

we speak our own lives into being 

as well as lead the dumb

what a burden

and what of the ones who surround me

are they even real of just one of my own constructs

that is why they call...the bored and the dumb

to have me remind them that they are still alive like me

yet I don't really believe that anymore

I am alive and they are all dead

until you create something in this world you are dead

being lead by the creators

that is the separation I feel

I make shit and say shit

and the others do shit with that shit

I call them les frimeurs

but that is wrong

they are les acteurs

always auditioning for some play they are destined to star in

writen by creators who feel words

and live in the land of imagination

words are real and they make people dance

but really so what

what can it all really mean anyway

today people died and I am still alive

that is all I can really see as reality

people died and I did not

so I am thankful because I can be

that is all

I am Angelisa Joalisa...and this is a RiOt.

For You Who May Understand

All of this can never be said

it can never even be shown

yet I attempt to shine light onto my aliveness

onto my survival

each idea is not really an idea at all

it is more like a thing I have survived

I do not write the words 

I survive them

live to write another day

sometimes just another line

existence is a gift and a struggle

for the ones like me who over-think

we over-think reality

over-think the dreams

could it have more meaning than this

is there something else left to say to know to live

each word is like a breathe

but I'm not sure I want to breath it

yet I have to

digital words do not stain like ink

poetry written in ink leaves a mark on your hands

these digital words leave only a mark on your soul

an already beat up soul I carry

yet the words flow

like water like an old friend who died long ago

a lonely poet who said it all and got paid

but never really felt set free

maybe no writer is ever really free

 we are all slaves to our work

to the words that fill our heads

and wake us at the strangest hour in the the middle of the night

or the day if you are one like me who tends to sleep

in the daylight with the blinds closed

closed to the world but open to the net

attempting digital suicide

or a run to freedom she can never quite see

because her eyes never adjust to any light that is not artificial

This is Josalisa live for Planet RiOt