He's not so sure anymore and I'm indulging his misery like it's sexy. So maybe we'll get a drug habit or a large tattoo and pierce it right through the middle. Maybe he'll wake up missing one day and police will come crashing down my door. Freeze!
You know I love crunchy things. Crunchy things and peppermint ice cream.
Don't doubt me, just give me a minute here.
The solution is in the wedding vows I dream up every night.
Next to the wild rice stick stuck in my molar.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
On Evenings Such As These
It was a dull roar tonight. An aching unshared. Felt right above the two eyes, it was unmistakable as cold and she's in the bathtub, reading Peter Pan half drunk.
I wanted to ask him a million questions, with no meaning behind them but to gather tiny bits of his information, like trinkets on my memory's shelf. Precious little bits that might find their ways into fantasies or characters, created with my fingers. Winter days wasted on craft.
Smiles brought about by nonsense. I will build a world, where no harm comes to anyone, and what perversion exists, does so with a grin on its face.
I wanted to be a paleontologist when I was a little girl. I struggled first to spell it and then to understand months and years in dry climates, carefully brushing away at bones that outlived the oldest relatives of my family. That came before the holocaust and Jesus. Every career day in elementary school, my mother would dress me in khaki and smear my face with brown eye shadow. I'd carry a large dog bone in my hand and one of my Jurassic park figures. Or that triceratops that use to walk and roar on its own if you pressed the red button on its underbelly.
While I was not kissed by any boys as a small girl, I did sneak off into the woods with them. Turning over logs and finding salamanders. When boys weren't cruel, they were the only ones I felt normal with.
Of course, while I found the black ring in Pretty Pretty Princess aesthetically pleasing, it always insured that I was not the prettiest princess and never would be. The game enraged me when I would lose, which was often. Causing my family to devise ways so I could win. They'll tell you about it if you ask.
But I am satisfied forgetting. Like most of high school and the people from that time, I am better to leave them where they can not hurt me with their recollection. Stuck in yesterday, they see me as nothing more than five years old and awkward.
Others would mention womanhood and maturity now. And I often dream of my belly growing so round with child that I'm bedridden and uncomfortable. I speak to it, sing songs I hope will soothe it when it cries. I imagine its large brown eyes and I promise it will have none of the worries I ever had. But I will show it where the largest salamanders live. And how to wear the black ring with pride.
Sometimes not winning, is the best thing you can hope for.
I wanted to ask him a million questions, with no meaning behind them but to gather tiny bits of his information, like trinkets on my memory's shelf. Precious little bits that might find their ways into fantasies or characters, created with my fingers. Winter days wasted on craft.
Smiles brought about by nonsense. I will build a world, where no harm comes to anyone, and what perversion exists, does so with a grin on its face.
I wanted to be a paleontologist when I was a little girl. I struggled first to spell it and then to understand months and years in dry climates, carefully brushing away at bones that outlived the oldest relatives of my family. That came before the holocaust and Jesus. Every career day in elementary school, my mother would dress me in khaki and smear my face with brown eye shadow. I'd carry a large dog bone in my hand and one of my Jurassic park figures. Or that triceratops that use to walk and roar on its own if you pressed the red button on its underbelly.
While I was not kissed by any boys as a small girl, I did sneak off into the woods with them. Turning over logs and finding salamanders. When boys weren't cruel, they were the only ones I felt normal with.
Of course, while I found the black ring in Pretty Pretty Princess aesthetically pleasing, it always insured that I was not the prettiest princess and never would be. The game enraged me when I would lose, which was often. Causing my family to devise ways so I could win. They'll tell you about it if you ask.
But I am satisfied forgetting. Like most of high school and the people from that time, I am better to leave them where they can not hurt me with their recollection. Stuck in yesterday, they see me as nothing more than five years old and awkward.
Others would mention womanhood and maturity now. And I often dream of my belly growing so round with child that I'm bedridden and uncomfortable. I speak to it, sing songs I hope will soothe it when it cries. I imagine its large brown eyes and I promise it will have none of the worries I ever had. But I will show it where the largest salamanders live. And how to wear the black ring with pride.
Sometimes not winning, is the best thing you can hope for.
Overachiever Sits On Mommie's Pet
Sunshine rampant on no heat days. We've got no money, push the car a million miles home. And balancing one on top of the other, a totem frozen. Make your call of the wild. Mine goes: reeeka-tikitik-reeeeka-shhhhalingo woop!
Its difficult during mating season. But we get by.
Is is quality or quantity the judges are marking off for? What the heck, let's go for both!
Dear Santa, you can keep my Holly Lifts Her Skirt that I asked for for Christmas, I've already got what I want most. Thanks anyway.
They hand out awards for living situations like I've got a choice and he's got a secret way down deep inside his wicked heart. Hell to everyone when they find out its me.
I never wanted my toes to turn black.
Its difficult during mating season. But we get by.
Is is quality or quantity the judges are marking off for? What the heck, let's go for both!
Dear Santa, you can keep my Holly Lifts Her Skirt that I asked for for Christmas, I've already got what I want most. Thanks anyway.
They hand out awards for living situations like I've got a choice and he's got a secret way down deep inside his wicked heart. Hell to everyone when they find out its me.
I never wanted my toes to turn black.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
nape of her neck
Funny how being home isn’t like it used to be. Give her a thousand dollars of money you sweat and cry for, and get an “it’s about time”. It’s not how any of us wanted it, but it’s all we’ve got left. Stay the night in powdered-sugar houses and pretend like we’re not sinking to the bottom of the barrel.
There’s snow today and it’s hiding yesterday. We’ve forgotten the time we braved the storm to say goodbye to her. She’s on a plane to Wisconsin now with her dolls in her carry-on but we’ll forget when the snow covers the landing strip. That’s what winter is good for.
She tries to make me play these games and this primal instinct chews up my stomach like a clawed animal is furrowing down there. It tells me to fight back and ruin her, because I could. But twenty-two years of being the mature one, the sweet one, the rational one, smothers that instinct. I’m knee-deep in a pool of girlish attacks and I don’t even feel them any more. I almost feel bad that it’s such a waste of time, I almost feel bad that no one gives her credit anymore cause she’s a broken record.
I dream about this other girl all the time. I saw her once at a gallery in her tight jeans and that ponytail that brushes the nape of her neck and looks so good. My ponytails are reminiscent of grade school, but hers, God they’re perfect. She’s sexy and everything I’m not and I’m obsessed. In my dreams we’re friends and I understand why they love her. Sometimes you don’t have to be a good person. That’s what kills me.
I’ve got all these thoughts and nothing to do with them. Toss them aside and they’ll get shoveled away when we clear the driveway. I want to curl up inside a cup of cocoa and be sweet and warm forever. I want to swallow the Christmas tree lights one by one and feel the love they preach forever.
There’s snow today and it’s hiding yesterday. We’ve forgotten the time we braved the storm to say goodbye to her. She’s on a plane to Wisconsin now with her dolls in her carry-on but we’ll forget when the snow covers the landing strip. That’s what winter is good for.
She tries to make me play these games and this primal instinct chews up my stomach like a clawed animal is furrowing down there. It tells me to fight back and ruin her, because I could. But twenty-two years of being the mature one, the sweet one, the rational one, smothers that instinct. I’m knee-deep in a pool of girlish attacks and I don’t even feel them any more. I almost feel bad that it’s such a waste of time, I almost feel bad that no one gives her credit anymore cause she’s a broken record.
I dream about this other girl all the time. I saw her once at a gallery in her tight jeans and that ponytail that brushes the nape of her neck and looks so good. My ponytails are reminiscent of grade school, but hers, God they’re perfect. She’s sexy and everything I’m not and I’m obsessed. In my dreams we’re friends and I understand why they love her. Sometimes you don’t have to be a good person. That’s what kills me.
I’ve got all these thoughts and nothing to do with them. Toss them aside and they’ll get shoveled away when we clear the driveway. I want to curl up inside a cup of cocoa and be sweet and warm forever. I want to swallow the Christmas tree lights one by one and feel the love they preach forever.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Feed The Children
The jar fell to the ground. It didn't break, mind you. Things don't shatter anymore.
The masks are hung dusty on the wall, and yet I'm not sure you can see me.
Disappointed. And its settled into perfect. Like a day at the beach, the most amazing sand castle of your childhood, almost as high as you are, and the tide is coming in and you can feel the tension building up inside you, so you squash it, stomp it, level it, before mother nature gets the chance.
Is the child still sitting on the beach, I wonder. Or has she finally grown up and out of surf, sand and sunburn. No skin left to touch, just pink, aloe and naked under a fan.
My breath is old. My memories are older. Mutant offspring of an idle brain. I sit down deep inside my void, safe within the barriers of winter walls and cowardice, and ache at the image of your eyes.
I'm missing. Find me.
Somewhere in these pages. These fingers stained crayola red and green. Christmas isn't christmas if your space if empty.
He'll feed the masses, I'll go hungry.
The masks are hung dusty on the wall, and yet I'm not sure you can see me.
Disappointed. And its settled into perfect. Like a day at the beach, the most amazing sand castle of your childhood, almost as high as you are, and the tide is coming in and you can feel the tension building up inside you, so you squash it, stomp it, level it, before mother nature gets the chance.
Is the child still sitting on the beach, I wonder. Or has she finally grown up and out of surf, sand and sunburn. No skin left to touch, just pink, aloe and naked under a fan.
My breath is old. My memories are older. Mutant offspring of an idle brain. I sit down deep inside my void, safe within the barriers of winter walls and cowardice, and ache at the image of your eyes.
I'm missing. Find me.
Somewhere in these pages. These fingers stained crayola red and green. Christmas isn't christmas if your space if empty.
He'll feed the masses, I'll go hungry.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Maintain Equality- Past Worn Like Perfume
And I remember thinking, any song would be better than this. Any song in the world would have been better at this moment, but maybe that was just an extension of the kiss.
I've got a nightmare where windows shatter and winters steal all my energy until every morning is a headache and a struggle. Until they find my dried out corpse beneath the fat bodies of a million fleas.
There is no fixing these stairs and the ramps were made by the cripples themselves.
let's try a different song.
See, now I'm by the subwolfer, in the back of a hollowed out white two door. Its more rust than engine and you are more than a ride home. Two minutes in heaven, I'll meet you at your car and I'm so special. Point two seconds. Greasy, oil teenager. You sing your heart out. Shy like sugar.
But thats not fitting.
So there's this one time, I bumped her head against the drier in the bowling alley bathroom. Its just like it sounds, and we laughed, took another swig and I was pressure like boys with dicks.
Except, that's broken, wishbone wishes that never make it.
So I'll sing you a lullaby. A loner that knows, a loner that feels. And I promise this is temporary, sedentary, reaction to the almonds in my ice cream, itchy.
I'm seducing you without the you, and taking off all my clothes, my shape Renaissance and oil painted, as I take down my hair and close the space between your phantom smile and my sheets.
I can't feel you and it melts to room temperature. Till I'm in the ground and I'm cold.
I had to share a bed with your mother that whole vacation because we weren't old enough to sleep together. They didn't want to hear us fucking, after she'd caught us on the living room floor, that one time. I was up and you were down.
The song replaced drugs on the plane. You brought me star flowers and sandy mouths. Salty fingers, two weeks without it.
So we'll twist a little lime and let the corona spray the wall. I've gotten innocent written all over my face like... wait, let's think about this.
Theres something specific I'm looking for, some pocket dwelling tidbit, a candycane from last christmas in your closet bound winter coat. It doesn't taste as good, but its the memory that counts.
They all wanted you, but isnt that the way? Twenty-six girls and one man. One guy. fake front teeth and talent to stretch for miles. We took our clothes off and jumped out into the stars. It was black black black, and watching you climb the stairs, wet and reflecting, for the first time, I wasn't afraid of the water.
But there was nothing, and kisses were interrupted by the sea that fell from your hair.
Most gentlemen of intentions. California never proved so blond or so hard a biter. We celebrated winter with sticky rice and were the only ones who didn't go home alone. I showed you every part of my island. Except one. Was that the reason you came?
Only americans need saving from a Greek bar.
But thats not it.
You gotta imagine its like seeping in wine until you dont know whats good for you but you do know you'd love to watch those two go at it, right infront of you, taking suggestions for the audience of one.
You gotta imagine, its like wanting to sit back and ruin everything in shattering windows and millions of fat bodied fleas sucking your body dry, corpse on christmas day, done.
And if some freak monkey induced camel accident comes, well, I can only hope you're open for stripteases and changes in life plans.
Life is old, sitting in the back of the fridge and no one wants to be the one to throw it out, cause thats just damn gross. Cause thats just a damn waste. And as long as its still in the fridge, SOMEONE might eat it. Someone might.
So we put on the saddest song we know, and pretend we're drunk because thats the only way the fat will rise to the top and we can scrap it off. (Run the hot water before putting it down the drain. )
Rattle the bottle, take off all your clothes. Watch porn. Stroke fake red hair. Find a blond, press deeper. Say things you cant take back.
Pray summer will take the weight off and all your potential will be realized.
She's got thighs like a tree trunk and she's fake enough to stand in the corner of an office.
He sounds like a dolphin when he gets there.
I stared up her skirt on a boat deck in the aegean but she wasn't wearing any skirt.
I have no good reason to be unhappy- so I invent it. It's like misery without the calories.
I can't listen to half my music without your name telling me no.
Somewhere in the middle, I got to have my fantasy. Its brief like most men and all I do is sit.
After he takes off all his clothes, I say no.
I've got a nightmare where windows shatter and winters steal all my energy until every morning is a headache and a struggle. Until they find my dried out corpse beneath the fat bodies of a million fleas.
There is no fixing these stairs and the ramps were made by the cripples themselves.
let's try a different song.
See, now I'm by the subwolfer, in the back of a hollowed out white two door. Its more rust than engine and you are more than a ride home. Two minutes in heaven, I'll meet you at your car and I'm so special. Point two seconds. Greasy, oil teenager. You sing your heart out. Shy like sugar.
But thats not fitting.
So there's this one time, I bumped her head against the drier in the bowling alley bathroom. Its just like it sounds, and we laughed, took another swig and I was pressure like boys with dicks.
Except, that's broken, wishbone wishes that never make it.
So I'll sing you a lullaby. A loner that knows, a loner that feels. And I promise this is temporary, sedentary, reaction to the almonds in my ice cream, itchy.
I'm seducing you without the you, and taking off all my clothes, my shape Renaissance and oil painted, as I take down my hair and close the space between your phantom smile and my sheets.
I can't feel you and it melts to room temperature. Till I'm in the ground and I'm cold.
I had to share a bed with your mother that whole vacation because we weren't old enough to sleep together. They didn't want to hear us fucking, after she'd caught us on the living room floor, that one time. I was up and you were down.
The song replaced drugs on the plane. You brought me star flowers and sandy mouths. Salty fingers, two weeks without it.
So we'll twist a little lime and let the corona spray the wall. I've gotten innocent written all over my face like... wait, let's think about this.
Theres something specific I'm looking for, some pocket dwelling tidbit, a candycane from last christmas in your closet bound winter coat. It doesn't taste as good, but its the memory that counts.
They all wanted you, but isnt that the way? Twenty-six girls and one man. One guy. fake front teeth and talent to stretch for miles. We took our clothes off and jumped out into the stars. It was black black black, and watching you climb the stairs, wet and reflecting, for the first time, I wasn't afraid of the water.
But there was nothing, and kisses were interrupted by the sea that fell from your hair.
Most gentlemen of intentions. California never proved so blond or so hard a biter. We celebrated winter with sticky rice and were the only ones who didn't go home alone. I showed you every part of my island. Except one. Was that the reason you came?
Only americans need saving from a Greek bar.
But thats not it.
You gotta imagine its like seeping in wine until you dont know whats good for you but you do know you'd love to watch those two go at it, right infront of you, taking suggestions for the audience of one.
You gotta imagine, its like wanting to sit back and ruin everything in shattering windows and millions of fat bodied fleas sucking your body dry, corpse on christmas day, done.
And if some freak monkey induced camel accident comes, well, I can only hope you're open for stripteases and changes in life plans.
Life is old, sitting in the back of the fridge and no one wants to be the one to throw it out, cause thats just damn gross. Cause thats just a damn waste. And as long as its still in the fridge, SOMEONE might eat it. Someone might.
So we put on the saddest song we know, and pretend we're drunk because thats the only way the fat will rise to the top and we can scrap it off. (Run the hot water before putting it down the drain. )
Rattle the bottle, take off all your clothes. Watch porn. Stroke fake red hair. Find a blond, press deeper. Say things you cant take back.
Pray summer will take the weight off and all your potential will be realized.
She's got thighs like a tree trunk and she's fake enough to stand in the corner of an office.
He sounds like a dolphin when he gets there.
I stared up her skirt on a boat deck in the aegean but she wasn't wearing any skirt.
I have no good reason to be unhappy- so I invent it. It's like misery without the calories.
I can't listen to half my music without your name telling me no.
Somewhere in the middle, I got to have my fantasy. Its brief like most men and all I do is sit.
After he takes off all his clothes, I say no.
things are damp
the liquids speak to me
thier communicae are the reflections of how I live my life
whether Im healthy or sick
or how long I have to live
they tell me stories of destructions and creations
they can prove a warning system, and a saving system
their waves are my waves, their colors mine as well
there is no escape, even if I wanted there to be
the liquids can tell me when I'm too stressed or dirty,
too lonely to pitiful,
hurt fatally
but without them, I would not have knowledge
no wisdom for the harper
without my liquids
thier communicae are the reflections of how I live my life
whether Im healthy or sick
or how long I have to live
they tell me stories of destructions and creations
they can prove a warning system, and a saving system
their waves are my waves, their colors mine as well
there is no escape, even if I wanted there to be
the liquids can tell me when I'm too stressed or dirty,
too lonely to pitiful,
hurt fatally
but without them, I would not have knowledge
no wisdom for the harper
without my liquids
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Eucalyptus Wrinkles
Wither waste and watch the days. I miss you like a tune, a tone that sets itself in ears until you think of nothing else but absence and waste and watch, the sticky perfume drip down your legs and wreaths of eucalyptus tie your ankles, leaved halos to ward off, doom, misery and itch. Soft skin wrinkled to broken. Days are spent with furrowed brow and depression would slip you into sleep, if the biting would stop, if you could only trust the place you call home.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
ice and wine
it's after the wine and the hugs and kisses on the cheek and up to my elbows in dirty party dishes that i realize these are the times i'm going to to miss. i think for a second that maybe i didn't appreciate it as much as i should've and maybe i'll go back.
and now the sun's coming up over this ice-damaged street and i can't sleep and i wonder if i'm just supposed to sleep alone. that kind of old lady that has the separate wing of the house, away from everyone else because she just needs to be by herself.
i'm turning into my grandmother already.
and maybe someday you'll take me seriously, but until then i'll let you sleep.
and now the sun's coming up over this ice-damaged street and i can't sleep and i wonder if i'm just supposed to sleep alone. that kind of old lady that has the separate wing of the house, away from everyone else because she just needs to be by herself.
i'm turning into my grandmother already.
and maybe someday you'll take me seriously, but until then i'll let you sleep.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
A chicken rode a train to Africa
So heres what I think about support. I dont think it is one of thse words that has an ambiguous definition, but one that not everyone can see. While I dont particualarly have a definition of the word, I can understand the basic idea
one does not have to enjoy somehting to support it. I can strongly dislike policies and topics such as abortion and euthanasia, but I can also support them as well. While the processes are unpleasent, I can see the upsides.
personally, I didnt like having to tell the vet years ago to put my dog down, but I supported the decision to, as she wouldnt have been the same if we had tried to save her from her seizures. I hated acknowledging the fact that my dog would be dead in the next 20 mins, but I understood that there was no life for her afterward regardless. It was better for her if I gave the go-ahead.
And with that I still preach undeterred support for the continuation of seemingly good things, and I still dont care if Im not believed, because I konw that I dont need to be happy or satisfied for a topic to be "supported" in my mind. I guess thats all I have to say about that
one does not have to enjoy somehting to support it. I can strongly dislike policies and topics such as abortion and euthanasia, but I can also support them as well. While the processes are unpleasent, I can see the upsides.
personally, I didnt like having to tell the vet years ago to put my dog down, but I supported the decision to, as she wouldnt have been the same if we had tried to save her from her seizures. I hated acknowledging the fact that my dog would be dead in the next 20 mins, but I understood that there was no life for her afterward regardless. It was better for her if I gave the go-ahead.
And with that I still preach undeterred support for the continuation of seemingly good things, and I still dont care if Im not believed, because I konw that I dont need to be happy or satisfied for a topic to be "supported" in my mind. I guess thats all I have to say about that
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
60 years left
no one ever tells you just how long a life time literally is. say i live until 80 years of age. That means right now, I'm only a quarter of the way through, so If I take the past 20 years of memories, and double that, I can get a rough idea of how much more is store until i'm 40. Then do that again, plus adding the equivilant number of memories that i have now at 20, and I'll finally be at 80. thats a long freakin time!
the point being, if life can be measured in memories, and I've still got 75 percent to go, then why am I so caught up in the now? Life moves on from anything, and I've got an awful long time to continue building memories.
I will live life in the now, but look forward to the future, working towards it on a need to work basis.
and by the way, i burned the journals today. at first i didnt feel anything, then I started to read excerpts from them before I threw them to the flames. That made a big difference, and was one of the most rejuvenating experiences of my life.
the point being, if life can be measured in memories, and I've still got 75 percent to go, then why am I so caught up in the now? Life moves on from anything, and I've got an awful long time to continue building memories.
I will live life in the now, but look forward to the future, working towards it on a need to work basis.
and by the way, i burned the journals today. at first i didnt feel anything, then I started to read excerpts from them before I threw them to the flames. That made a big difference, and was one of the most rejuvenating experiences of my life.
Fell in Love...
What I did this afternoon, after all my meetings and tick tock waitings, fumbling with priority tape at the post office with a cold that makes my nose drip, was come home, to a yarn filled apartment and take my pants off. I walked around in my underwear and legwarmers, and fed my cold vegetable and noodle soup. (You see, I don't eat red meat anymore.) I put, "The Last Man on Earth" on, and listened to Vincent price's lulling voice. The dramatic music and black and white film, set me at ease with soup that tasted more bland that grand, thanks to sinuses that won't let me breathe. And I was thinking, what a wonderful world we live in. And I was thinking, I just fell in love with me.
Monday, December 8, 2008
This Is The Moment That You Know...
He loved her. That much was clear, wasn't it? He could recite her "favorites" as if they were his own. Her favorite color was red, although she never wore it, she felt she was it. Her favorite flower was lavender, and she hoped to carry a bouquet of it at her wedding. Their wedding. Her favorite ice cream was orange pineapple but only in summer; come winter, she loved peppermint stick. The same as himself.
He could compare them, back and forth, swearing that if they weren't meant to be together, then they were family, they had so many similarities. He spoke sweetly of her, saying that the first time he saw her, he fell so in love he despised the touch of other women from that moment on and only turned to them to waste time until they could be together, forever. And of course, they were. He remembered every holiday and birthday, gathering the images in leather bound photo albums. He was especially fond of one christmas when her family had made all their christmas tree ornaments from construction paper. And her twenty-second birthday where she had a bit too much to drink with friends. He thought it was cruel that one of her girlfriends took a picture of her outside the bar throwing up, but he loved all sides of her and kept the picture all the same.
It seemed as though they shared the same life. They had both had challenging childhoods: rough fathers and rougher children on the playground. They had both grown up shy and had an easier time expressing themselves in the written word, than in person. She was so unafraid to express herself in written word it took his breath away. She would write on and on about broken hearts or sudden triumphs, even the little things in life. And where all the men had failed before him, he was sure to succeed.
It was as though, no part of her was private, as if she, from the start had beckoned him to her with her accessibility. He only needed the courage to take her up on the challenge. To press from her more than the tease she so often gave to him. The seductive images of herself, where he knew damn well she wasn't wearing a shirt, or the one where a lollipop played against her lips. She tempted him and drove him crazy, waiting for the time when he could make her only his.
And there it was, one day that had felt no different when he first woke up. An address, her home. His home. She had given it up as easily as her opinion on the president and her protest against red meat.
Smoothing his suede jacket on his broad chest, and looking into the mirror, he was sure he loved her. And what was more, she loved him back. He might have never heard her voice before, she might never have seen his face. But all of that would change today...
Love works in mysterious ways.
He could compare them, back and forth, swearing that if they weren't meant to be together, then they were family, they had so many similarities. He spoke sweetly of her, saying that the first time he saw her, he fell so in love he despised the touch of other women from that moment on and only turned to them to waste time until they could be together, forever. And of course, they were. He remembered every holiday and birthday, gathering the images in leather bound photo albums. He was especially fond of one christmas when her family had made all their christmas tree ornaments from construction paper. And her twenty-second birthday where she had a bit too much to drink with friends. He thought it was cruel that one of her girlfriends took a picture of her outside the bar throwing up, but he loved all sides of her and kept the picture all the same.
It seemed as though they shared the same life. They had both had challenging childhoods: rough fathers and rougher children on the playground. They had both grown up shy and had an easier time expressing themselves in the written word, than in person. She was so unafraid to express herself in written word it took his breath away. She would write on and on about broken hearts or sudden triumphs, even the little things in life. And where all the men had failed before him, he was sure to succeed.
It was as though, no part of her was private, as if she, from the start had beckoned him to her with her accessibility. He only needed the courage to take her up on the challenge. To press from her more than the tease she so often gave to him. The seductive images of herself, where he knew damn well she wasn't wearing a shirt, or the one where a lollipop played against her lips. She tempted him and drove him crazy, waiting for the time when he could make her only his.
And there it was, one day that had felt no different when he first woke up. An address, her home. His home. She had given it up as easily as her opinion on the president and her protest against red meat.
Smoothing his suede jacket on his broad chest, and looking into the mirror, he was sure he loved her. And what was more, she loved him back. He might have never heard her voice before, she might never have seen his face. But all of that would change today...
Love works in mysterious ways.
In a World Gone Sacred
Like a whine, no, maybe a sigh. We sit and tap, type, wings and leather, beast and birds. Windowpanes like cages in the mind.
Sitting a sick pull between the two. Muscle and breast. Soft and strong. A natural disaster. They'll allow beauty in the burning eye and set the both aside for a time.
One cries reform, the other a false prophet of romantic revolution. We cast the unborn with the trivial and set our sights on what we deem... higher endeavors.
Leave sex for the dogs. So to say...
Sitting a sick pull between the two. Muscle and breast. Soft and strong. A natural disaster. They'll allow beauty in the burning eye and set the both aside for a time.
One cries reform, the other a false prophet of romantic revolution. We cast the unborn with the trivial and set our sights on what we deem... higher endeavors.
Leave sex for the dogs. So to say...
defined by the bent teeth
in the simple matter of wolves versus hyenas i posit you this case:
in the tundra the wolves full of natural grace poes themselves
against snowy silhouette the sun glazed down a greesy spoon bequet
but really the redning teeth do splay and sweat and spit the slip
to lay the blood and flows the bites away but the hyena:
see the savannah with the trees threat towered the sun abeam and
the bushes glower the harsh heat springs - we are hyenas awash
with fleas and mange no better one than the other; we sit and laugh
our hyenas luaghs til we feel beter about teh spots we find ourselves
and the letters drip the water spouts we drink our fill and roundabout
we find ourselves hand in hand but no kissing lips or graceful bend
we have not that poise the wolf descends but hyenas lapse our
hyenas lapse
in the tundra the wolves full of natural grace poes themselves
against snowy silhouette the sun glazed down a greesy spoon bequet
but really the redning teeth do splay and sweat and spit the slip
to lay the blood and flows the bites away but the hyena:
see the savannah with the trees threat towered the sun abeam and
the bushes glower the harsh heat springs - we are hyenas awash
with fleas and mange no better one than the other; we sit and laugh
our hyenas luaghs til we feel beter about teh spots we find ourselves
and the letters drip the water spouts we drink our fill and roundabout
we find ourselves hand in hand but no kissing lips or graceful bend
we have not that poise the wolf descends but hyenas lapse our
hyenas lapse
you could be an angel
The angels are mad because God left them, or so they say. So they wear these black leather dresses and try to rebel, but come on now, they're angels. They stand for revolution and humanity and change and love and heaven. Well ok if even heaven can dress in black leather and try to be bad, what's the point?
There's devils on the square dancing their fire dance thinking that they'll get some tips. Tip their hats to the ladies in red and they'll give 'em some change. Dance dance dance on the stones like you'll change the earth, you'll burn it to its core because you have that passion that we all sing about, read about, hear about, make movies about. I'm tired of hearing about.
Simplicity isn't okay anymore in a world of big ideas and even bigger dreams. It's all mediocrity and that scares us, admit it. You get the gravestone in the back next to someone's uncle's neighbor who died surrounded by dust and cats and you know you're not any better. Maybe that's why the angels are wearing leather, they're trying to be different.
I saw this kid the other day tap tap tapping on some girl's window, looking for red lips and fingernails that scratch his scalp and a voice that says his name like he's a god. It was sweet and I wondered how many boys were doing the same thing to a lover's window with the promise of love or, even better, sex. Love is mediocre now but sex, that's what you're supposed to want.
My window is too high up to tap on and there's even plastic on it now so if you were to tap, I wouldn't hear you. Not that I want any tapping but I'm afraid an angel dressed in leather might fly by and I won't even notice because I'm working too hard at my computer, writing papers with big ideas that are supposed to prove I'm intelligent. I wonder if you can be an angel if you're intelligent or if you just have to feel. Be one of those people that feels everything so deeply it's like you're carrying everyone's weight on your shoulders because for some reason it's your job to do so. You see those women with the hunched over backs and the whispers on their lips and you just know you hear the world's prayers in their head. There's men like that too but we never think of men as angels because angels are supposed to be beautiful. Apparently a man can't be beautiful because that would be gender confusion or something and somehow insinuate that he's gay. Even nowadays when angels can be gay, I don't know if they would want a male angel to be beautiful. He should be distinguished or handsome or something masculine.
So here I am thinking about angels and my hair is wet and my fingers are cold and I can hear the orchestra downstairs like it's in my head. I think a pianist lives in my ear and haunts me and tells me that I used to be good, but now I deserve leather angel wings and he plays in my head all the time so I can still feel like the world is beautiful, but maybe I don't deserve it anymore.
There's devils on the square dancing their fire dance thinking that they'll get some tips. Tip their hats to the ladies in red and they'll give 'em some change. Dance dance dance on the stones like you'll change the earth, you'll burn it to its core because you have that passion that we all sing about, read about, hear about, make movies about. I'm tired of hearing about.
Simplicity isn't okay anymore in a world of big ideas and even bigger dreams. It's all mediocrity and that scares us, admit it. You get the gravestone in the back next to someone's uncle's neighbor who died surrounded by dust and cats and you know you're not any better. Maybe that's why the angels are wearing leather, they're trying to be different.
I saw this kid the other day tap tap tapping on some girl's window, looking for red lips and fingernails that scratch his scalp and a voice that says his name like he's a god. It was sweet and I wondered how many boys were doing the same thing to a lover's window with the promise of love or, even better, sex. Love is mediocre now but sex, that's what you're supposed to want.
My window is too high up to tap on and there's even plastic on it now so if you were to tap, I wouldn't hear you. Not that I want any tapping but I'm afraid an angel dressed in leather might fly by and I won't even notice because I'm working too hard at my computer, writing papers with big ideas that are supposed to prove I'm intelligent. I wonder if you can be an angel if you're intelligent or if you just have to feel. Be one of those people that feels everything so deeply it's like you're carrying everyone's weight on your shoulders because for some reason it's your job to do so. You see those women with the hunched over backs and the whispers on their lips and you just know you hear the world's prayers in their head. There's men like that too but we never think of men as angels because angels are supposed to be beautiful. Apparently a man can't be beautiful because that would be gender confusion or something and somehow insinuate that he's gay. Even nowadays when angels can be gay, I don't know if they would want a male angel to be beautiful. He should be distinguished or handsome or something masculine.
So here I am thinking about angels and my hair is wet and my fingers are cold and I can hear the orchestra downstairs like it's in my head. I think a pianist lives in my ear and haunts me and tells me that I used to be good, but now I deserve leather angel wings and he plays in my head all the time so I can still feel like the world is beautiful, but maybe I don't deserve it anymore.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Friday, December 5, 2008
dose of bitter
You tell me to be scared and you tell me how to be safe, but really, when did I ask you? Just let me sit here surrounded by words and naive ideas of humanity. I won't bring you down with me I promise, if that's what you're worried about. I won't come crawling to you when this world, this economy, this beaten down town gets to me. I hate to hurt your pride and that wing you try so hard to cover me with, but I don't care if you're a survivor. I don't care if you're a fighter. I don't care if you're another risen-to-the-top-despite-hard-times somebody. You are the kind of people that that say because I haven't been raped, I haven't been beaten, I haven't been screwed a million times before, I don't know the real world. Sorry I haven't cracked my skull open so you can see all my memories, sorry I don't broadcast my pain like a best-selling memoir. It's a fad now, it's hip now, I'm so not now. Maybe I smile and maybe I tolerate you but have you ever stopped to think that maybe, just maybe it's patience and etiquette? Maybe, just maybe, I don't like you enough to allow you to care about me? Let's make it easy, stop trying. You think I'm a saint, he thinks I'm a whore, she thinks I'm a little girl, they just say blonde blonde blonde cause it's all that registers. What do you want me to say? Oh, I've had a tough life, oh I have secrets, oh you broke my heart into a million pieces and now I'm a stronger, better woman? Right. That's it. Everything is poetry and the world is my pain and the people around me are my muses. Rape me to inspire me, beat me to make me feel what all these warriors feel, take away my fortune so I feel alive. I'll feed off of my pain and suck the poetry right out of you.
You tell me to be scared, but I stopped being scared a long time ago. I stopped trying to be worthy of the secret handshake and the "have a beer and let's talk". I guess it'll be a lonely existence for me, the perfect unintelligent back-stabbing whore saint but I think I'll manage. No hard feelings, but I never wanted your advice anyway.
You tell me to be scared, but I stopped being scared a long time ago. I stopped trying to be worthy of the secret handshake and the "have a beer and let's talk". I guess it'll be a lonely existence for me, the perfect unintelligent back-stabbing whore saint but I think I'll manage. No hard feelings, but I never wanted your advice anyway.
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Some success later
It's weird. I'm always afraid they are going to find out I'm a fraud. That while they are busy saying how good I am, they aren't noticing that I'm not that great. But I'm not a fraud. The work is mine, the time and effort, the creative solutions and original endeavors, mine. Yet somehow, never good enough. And I'm afraid they'll realize, worried they'll notice. I could do better. Then where would I be...
I achieve and I rejoice but there is a heaviness in it. I can do better.
I achieve and I rejoice but there is a heaviness in it. I can do better.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Worst Case Scenario
Are you unconscious or just absent minded? Bleeding and beaten some alley some ditch. Like dying, like crying, and worse of all raped in the head. By a stick. Are you screaming off cliffs or broken on ice. Your neck snapped and splintered, lips bloodied and thick. Can nobody hear you, should I have bought you an emergency bracelet: Allergic to peanuts.
Wish on a star, don't know with who or where you are, but it must be the worst, phone busted and heart ready to burst. Sudden heart attack, dead. Just remember what I said. I don't know what I would do without you here. I would never love another... that's clear.
Like a machine, I'd create. I'd love the world and live sterile.
Somewhere you're beaten and broken, still I know the phone may ring IF you're only an hour late.
Wish on a star, don't know with who or where you are, but it must be the worst, phone busted and heart ready to burst. Sudden heart attack, dead. Just remember what I said. I don't know what I would do without you here. I would never love another... that's clear.
Like a machine, I'd create. I'd love the world and live sterile.
Somewhere you're beaten and broken, still I know the phone may ring IF you're only an hour late.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
reflective light 5.4% ALC. BY VOL.
Love becomes matter of factly after sitting in the lower jaw for so long. Until you find yourself duskly whispering across phone lines, "what does it feel like..." to mourn your independence. Scandal, scandal, love is boring enough to be remembered, everything else is mourned.
She touches herself below the sheets and sets the mood by thinking on mister got-away and imagines him staring over the lap of one and into the cleavage of another. Like jar life, where everything is skewed and smelling like fermentation.
Deprived of contact you sit cross legged, song on repeat. Starting one job to abandon it for some other endeavor, making checklists in your head that will never make it to paper let alone fruition. The apple and celery made up for the cookies, third beer and exacto blade balanced between lips while measuring 5 by 3.
It's a mad scientist evening, Scars garnished with orange slices, decorative angst and loss of ownership. The road and conversation robbed me of home and place in time. Until I was all at once visiting past lovers, recieving bruises and injuries, from those who have since forgotten and awkwardly avert the eyes, when meeting me unexpectedly, happily next to blonde and alcoholic tendencies, the present wrapped in brown bag, no bow.
I've got a new place. He's on the stage or driving me home from kisses that fall into the millions. Matter of factly, stating like the future wrote itself decades before, the names of children, the pets in houses, keys that type themselves into novels and complications between ambilical cord and holidays.
I'll leave you for failing traditions. I'll drown in the vague interpretations of christmas mornings, where the biggest travesty is in the fact that dunkin' donuts isn't open and we can't get our coffee fix.
Fleas. They don't make a tiny gold pin for success. But I'm laughing like its obvious, you're nothing and I'm going to make something of these pieces, 5 by 3 and so on. Chop up everything the knife is so good and set the trash on fire.
I prayed the other night. Like therapy. Like god might listen. And love is matter of factly, after so long in the bottom jaw. Until people are just stories and I've got nothing but fear in my belly, repeating wisely in the cold, "the only thing I know, is that I know nothing at all."
I read their secrets, even though I wasn't suppose to. He wanted you for a mate, I damned you then and caused all your split ends. Static clinging to sewn up second rate sentiments, I laughed and made black magic voo-doo dolls from their trusted treasures. I've got ammo to spare and no one knows they are at war. The perfect stragedy runs underground, beneath trenchs and tunnels and sets up base in the center of the earth.
I want them to stare, mouth to mouth. Whispering scandals and questions until love moves up from the lower jaw and settles on the tongue, talented and shoved down on open zipper pants. This was the time to do it. Moan until its hard enough to... end.
I twitch in the aftermath.
reply.
She touches herself below the sheets and sets the mood by thinking on mister got-away and imagines him staring over the lap of one and into the cleavage of another. Like jar life, where everything is skewed and smelling like fermentation.
Deprived of contact you sit cross legged, song on repeat. Starting one job to abandon it for some other endeavor, making checklists in your head that will never make it to paper let alone fruition. The apple and celery made up for the cookies, third beer and exacto blade balanced between lips while measuring 5 by 3.
It's a mad scientist evening, Scars garnished with orange slices, decorative angst and loss of ownership. The road and conversation robbed me of home and place in time. Until I was all at once visiting past lovers, recieving bruises and injuries, from those who have since forgotten and awkwardly avert the eyes, when meeting me unexpectedly, happily next to blonde and alcoholic tendencies, the present wrapped in brown bag, no bow.
I've got a new place. He's on the stage or driving me home from kisses that fall into the millions. Matter of factly, stating like the future wrote itself decades before, the names of children, the pets in houses, keys that type themselves into novels and complications between ambilical cord and holidays.
I'll leave you for failing traditions. I'll drown in the vague interpretations of christmas mornings, where the biggest travesty is in the fact that dunkin' donuts isn't open and we can't get our coffee fix.
Fleas. They don't make a tiny gold pin for success. But I'm laughing like its obvious, you're nothing and I'm going to make something of these pieces, 5 by 3 and so on. Chop up everything the knife is so good and set the trash on fire.
I prayed the other night. Like therapy. Like god might listen. And love is matter of factly, after so long in the bottom jaw. Until people are just stories and I've got nothing but fear in my belly, repeating wisely in the cold, "the only thing I know, is that I know nothing at all."
I read their secrets, even though I wasn't suppose to. He wanted you for a mate, I damned you then and caused all your split ends. Static clinging to sewn up second rate sentiments, I laughed and made black magic voo-doo dolls from their trusted treasures. I've got ammo to spare and no one knows they are at war. The perfect stragedy runs underground, beneath trenchs and tunnels and sets up base in the center of the earth.
I want them to stare, mouth to mouth. Whispering scandals and questions until love moves up from the lower jaw and settles on the tongue, talented and shoved down on open zipper pants. This was the time to do it. Moan until its hard enough to... end.
I twitch in the aftermath.
reply.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
I Call Right.
Dill devious surely dig it momma start star remind rewind dream foreplay replay fat bottom yoga retract downward dog velvet felt tip pen eye lined teeth white beat beat rock like your a star to the shower spout.
He fell asleep in her, he really did. As literal as you can be he fell asleep inside her, like parking the car for the night. Like putting on your pants, one leg at a moment when you can bet any more on sugar or cocaine, same substance, all substance, like alcohol and soda pop, pop, pop! You're dead. Heart disease and liver failure. Cancer riddled extremities and breast gone, lost, slipped off away. Bald and proud like baby born, head the same size as the day you were born, head the same size as the day you were born.
The same day you were born, I spoke whole sentences and sat for long periods with books in my lap convinced that if I stared long enough I'd learn to read, I'd learn to tell my own stories, like it wasn't good enough for mummy, tired exhausted and smelling like fried food, saying good night with her plastic black shoes shaping her feet square, rectangular. Dad's toes rotted like green and ogre shards, hard worker, top of silo worker, working hard, working to death. And I can only whisper I love you, in my mind. Sentiments are for the weak and dying.
The tear that hit my jacket today, embarrassed me. It was a coffee stain, an unsightly food stain, not a cold air, eyes water, walk faster, drop. it was anything but honest and I swear my hips are widening out of control, like receding waters, exposing islands and bring marine iguanas to the shores. Ink me until I feel young again.
Professor Morgan Kristy Reynolds. Would I take it, like yes, like no, like everything is something I can't complete but I've got potential to spare. And what don't you do, I sing in the shower like no one can stop me now, and I run at the gym like I might just get away. Sweat soaks through the crooks of my arms. I smell like woman and never bad. He tells me I taste good and I kiss his mouth again.
When I was young sex was sex without any consideration. My body was strong and untouched. It was beaten and pounded and rounded and wounded, bitten and whipped and held and pushed. I was unashamedly curious and mischievous, old friends still question how and why we got ourselves into middle of the river, twizzlers, tweezers, wizard of oz wine and golf cart, mobile home, after school drama. The tripping, teasing, wheeling girl, that spiked her hair and fashioned bondage pants, seems as foreign to me now as any youth subculture that is thriving. I can't feel myself inside her insecurity, her nativity, her stupidity. Like the biggest black mail one could ever carry, those awkward years weigh me down.
Double life! By senior year I was in a beauty pageant. First Runner up paid for my deposit into college. Like pretty in pink, I wore gowns and got the talent portion, and walked the catwalk. I spoke eloquently and was the only girl who wasn't skinny or long haired. I beat them anyway, taking one for the underdog, the undergirl, emerging like new days and college classes.
Masters, Ph.D. Years from now I'll wear large broaches and fantastic drapes about my neck. I'll laugh in galleries and read stories to children. Years from now I'll hold my stomach, large and heavy, and complain about swollen feet while arguing over names that need to two lines to fit.
But its just tommorrow, soon enough, and the pictures will change from birthday parties for us, to birth-days for our children. And then they'll be pictures of the house, our graduations, we'll put all our certificates on the walls and we'll never see eachother, balancing children and careers, crafts and cottage industries.
I'll make the napkin rings and we'll have storage boxes for the seasons so the kitchen will always match the times. You'll pull out the christmas box before I even ask and know that the lights go up around the window, and only you can reach that high. We'll hang mistletoe and kiss before dinner.
We'll have sides of the bed.
I call right.
He fell asleep in her, he really did. As literal as you can be he fell asleep inside her, like parking the car for the night. Like putting on your pants, one leg at a moment when you can bet any more on sugar or cocaine, same substance, all substance, like alcohol and soda pop, pop, pop! You're dead. Heart disease and liver failure. Cancer riddled extremities and breast gone, lost, slipped off away. Bald and proud like baby born, head the same size as the day you were born, head the same size as the day you were born.
The same day you were born, I spoke whole sentences and sat for long periods with books in my lap convinced that if I stared long enough I'd learn to read, I'd learn to tell my own stories, like it wasn't good enough for mummy, tired exhausted and smelling like fried food, saying good night with her plastic black shoes shaping her feet square, rectangular. Dad's toes rotted like green and ogre shards, hard worker, top of silo worker, working hard, working to death. And I can only whisper I love you, in my mind. Sentiments are for the weak and dying.
The tear that hit my jacket today, embarrassed me. It was a coffee stain, an unsightly food stain, not a cold air, eyes water, walk faster, drop. it was anything but honest and I swear my hips are widening out of control, like receding waters, exposing islands and bring marine iguanas to the shores. Ink me until I feel young again.
Professor Morgan Kristy Reynolds. Would I take it, like yes, like no, like everything is something I can't complete but I've got potential to spare. And what don't you do, I sing in the shower like no one can stop me now, and I run at the gym like I might just get away. Sweat soaks through the crooks of my arms. I smell like woman and never bad. He tells me I taste good and I kiss his mouth again.
When I was young sex was sex without any consideration. My body was strong and untouched. It was beaten and pounded and rounded and wounded, bitten and whipped and held and pushed. I was unashamedly curious and mischievous, old friends still question how and why we got ourselves into middle of the river, twizzlers, tweezers, wizard of oz wine and golf cart, mobile home, after school drama. The tripping, teasing, wheeling girl, that spiked her hair and fashioned bondage pants, seems as foreign to me now as any youth subculture that is thriving. I can't feel myself inside her insecurity, her nativity, her stupidity. Like the biggest black mail one could ever carry, those awkward years weigh me down.
Double life! By senior year I was in a beauty pageant. First Runner up paid for my deposit into college. Like pretty in pink, I wore gowns and got the talent portion, and walked the catwalk. I spoke eloquently and was the only girl who wasn't skinny or long haired. I beat them anyway, taking one for the underdog, the undergirl, emerging like new days and college classes.
Masters, Ph.D. Years from now I'll wear large broaches and fantastic drapes about my neck. I'll laugh in galleries and read stories to children. Years from now I'll hold my stomach, large and heavy, and complain about swollen feet while arguing over names that need to two lines to fit.
But its just tommorrow, soon enough, and the pictures will change from birthday parties for us, to birth-days for our children. And then they'll be pictures of the house, our graduations, we'll put all our certificates on the walls and we'll never see eachother, balancing children and careers, crafts and cottage industries.
I'll make the napkin rings and we'll have storage boxes for the seasons so the kitchen will always match the times. You'll pull out the christmas box before I even ask and know that the lights go up around the window, and only you can reach that high. We'll hang mistletoe and kiss before dinner.
We'll have sides of the bed.
I call right.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
drowned
save your children from the river then drain it. forget everything i said and move on. we're running around in panic you know so my words just drowned anyway.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Lucky Like Beewax, Bacterial Infections, Bad Music
She's singing pretty to the elephant in the tub, "your claw feet are like flowers and organic sugar is in the bottom of my bowl." I've got to stand in the doorway on suicide watch, talking like someone is carrying a grand piano up the stairs, "eassy, eassy, okay okay, careful now!" I've got great suggestions on how to waste your time and eat two bowls of cheerios, round rings, tiny, crunchy, soggy, metal spoon, before its nine. I don't eat after nine. Unless its a special occasion, or I've had a few beers, or he's made me feel extra pretty or she's singing, "your claw feet are like flowers and organic sugar is in the bottom of my bowl."
Goddamn! its an exclamation, like they just saw a priest and a nun frenching in the confession box. And at least they'd gone to the right place, but my hair is too long, their saying, its a little strange, they are confessing, like they are afraid it might attack them, like I've got a wild animal resting on my head, and I condition it to look real nice but it still might bite you dead, or constrict around you till you don't breathe and can't eat two bowls of cheerios for dinner, like there is nothing else in the house. Like you don't have hot dogs or rice or sentimental candies. One lonely nipple, sitting in the fridge, next to beers. One lonely nipple.
He's got a house and will have babies long before I do, like he stole my life plan and I'm left with deadlines and somedays, and wonderful weekends, crumby weeks, pushing through school like I've got a personal mission to save the world from ignorance, and all I want is to go to Mexico and touch ruins with and bitch about misquitoes, while he writes about the heat and the tiny mexican boy who sold in a sombraro.
Shit.
Mom called to reaffirm that I have no money. Thank you, yes, aware, yes, understood, groceries will consist of milk, eggs, bread and sucking balls. I made a felt finger puppet named happiness and pummeled him against my sister's face repeatedly, with a high pitch squeal of joy, that wasn't at all real or interesting, but distracting. Like I'm on suicide watch, and they're bringing the heavy piano down the stairs.
I want to tell her, men aren't worth the trouble. But she says I don't got no right, and puts Summer Skin back on. But no man IS worth it. Not the suffering and worry, at least. Especially in unrequited situations, where you're completely indisposible, like a styrofoam bowl, lasting long enough for two helping of cheerios, and organic sugar solid at the bottom.
Don't tell me what I gotta do, yellow teeth, sad second place for change and new dogs, like we'd ever have the money to feed ourselves, let alone it, and I'm not worth what debt I've gained. Like you'll leave me at the alter when you realize I come with a dark cloud of ever looming debt. And I'll live at home and scratch myself to skinless and watch my cat die, and make dinner for my family, because mom hates cooking, and you know what. You know what? I'd like to illustrate kids books, goddamnit, I'd love to do pictures for kids books.
Herbert Finklemen and his balloon house, with his balloon dog.
They turn to zombies in my dreams, where escape plans are futile and the animals catch the disease. But right before bed, we sing nursery rhymes and repeat a million times, I love you, like it just might evaporate before it sinks into our brains.
Superman hangs off me, the empty space you use to fill.
Goddamn! its an exclamation, like they just saw a priest and a nun frenching in the confession box. And at least they'd gone to the right place, but my hair is too long, their saying, its a little strange, they are confessing, like they are afraid it might attack them, like I've got a wild animal resting on my head, and I condition it to look real nice but it still might bite you dead, or constrict around you till you don't breathe and can't eat two bowls of cheerios for dinner, like there is nothing else in the house. Like you don't have hot dogs or rice or sentimental candies. One lonely nipple, sitting in the fridge, next to beers. One lonely nipple.
He's got a house and will have babies long before I do, like he stole my life plan and I'm left with deadlines and somedays, and wonderful weekends, crumby weeks, pushing through school like I've got a personal mission to save the world from ignorance, and all I want is to go to Mexico and touch ruins with and bitch about misquitoes, while he writes about the heat and the tiny mexican boy who sold in a sombraro.
Shit.
Mom called to reaffirm that I have no money. Thank you, yes, aware, yes, understood, groceries will consist of milk, eggs, bread and sucking balls. I made a felt finger puppet named happiness and pummeled him against my sister's face repeatedly, with a high pitch squeal of joy, that wasn't at all real or interesting, but distracting. Like I'm on suicide watch, and they're bringing the heavy piano down the stairs.
I want to tell her, men aren't worth the trouble. But she says I don't got no right, and puts Summer Skin back on. But no man IS worth it. Not the suffering and worry, at least. Especially in unrequited situations, where you're completely indisposible, like a styrofoam bowl, lasting long enough for two helping of cheerios, and organic sugar solid at the bottom.
Don't tell me what I gotta do, yellow teeth, sad second place for change and new dogs, like we'd ever have the money to feed ourselves, let alone it, and I'm not worth what debt I've gained. Like you'll leave me at the alter when you realize I come with a dark cloud of ever looming debt. And I'll live at home and scratch myself to skinless and watch my cat die, and make dinner for my family, because mom hates cooking, and you know what. You know what? I'd like to illustrate kids books, goddamnit, I'd love to do pictures for kids books.
Herbert Finklemen and his balloon house, with his balloon dog.
They turn to zombies in my dreams, where escape plans are futile and the animals catch the disease. But right before bed, we sing nursery rhymes and repeat a million times, I love you, like it just might evaporate before it sinks into our brains.
Superman hangs off me, the empty space you use to fill.
story of children
the child stood abandoned in the street side with its blue eyes gazing
i think its name was josiah or somethign like that. anyway he was there
and the car pulled away and the licenseplate said playah on it but the
kid didn't know. the kid didn't know which way was up or down or hot
or how to say visualize. and the other cars drove by because it was a busy
business day and the child just abandoned. here's the thing, it was okay.
because nobody liked it. nobody. not even you.l mabye you can think that
you did but the fact of the matter is its name wasn't really josiah but
murr, and embidodied the idea of false love and so you didn't like it.
it had a blonde twin borne somewhere else faceless but loved but noy by
the same family because i t wasn't the same but it was the saem by bloody
ambivaelnce for it was the the embodied of true and love true (and maybe
it wasn't blood, ho geez, i won't get as much turkey now, son of a gun)
but it was soemthing. some say that one twin beat the head of the other
in with a stone after it wall teased. some say it gloryholed. some say
that they ate wolf teets. i don't really know, we oprabably nver will.
i think its name was josiah or somethign like that. anyway he was there
and the car pulled away and the licenseplate said playah on it but the
kid didn't know. the kid didn't know which way was up or down or hot
or how to say visualize. and the other cars drove by because it was a busy
business day and the child just abandoned. here's the thing, it was okay.
because nobody liked it. nobody. not even you.l mabye you can think that
you did but the fact of the matter is its name wasn't really josiah but
murr, and embidodied the idea of false love and so you didn't like it.
it had a blonde twin borne somewhere else faceless but loved but noy by
the same family because i t wasn't the same but it was the saem by bloody
ambivaelnce for it was the the embodied of true and love true (and maybe
it wasn't blood, ho geez, i won't get as much turkey now, son of a gun)
but it was soemthing. some say that one twin beat the head of the other
in with a stone after it wall teased. some say it gloryholed. some say
that they ate wolf teets. i don't really know, we oprabably nver will.
Friday, November 7, 2008
everything will change
it's the moment when everything changes. i want to capture it and hold onto this feeling but it'll never be the same. things are gonna be good. like you've never seen. we've never known what it is to feel this way, feel this hope, feel this revolution. when he was a boy he felt this way. he stood on the shore of ice and watched the sunrise and just knew. he tasted the frost and it was glory and it was life and he knew he was destined for something more. pass me that ancient ice and remind me of why i'm here. we'll revive a nation, we'll heal the sick, we'll make you remember when times were good. they'll call us stupid, they'll us faggots, but we won't listen. we've got so much.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Mum says,"Count Your Blessings."
Can't possible type another brain broken down and crushing in the red dot center of another culture rings and bells, whistles sirens on attack under saying all the right things and leaning on bulllllllshit, bullshit. Blah blah blah, no one loves me. blah blah blah, no one cares... The paradox, by yielding, I endure. By giving all, I receive more. Hear that? Hear that?! BY yeilding, I endure. Not by fighting against. By giving my all, I receive more than I could have every wanted. Hear that?!
Let go.
Stop moving and thrashing and swallowing gallons of water, and choking and spitting and getting everything wet, getting everyone all wet. Its just water. You can float. Let yourself float, you won't drown. Atrophy, bloat, rot, eat through sixteen cheesecakes, like, wait, need to go to the store, buy chocolate cheesecake, persuade sister to pay price. Feel really guilty in the thigh area, feel really good in the mouth.
Mouth, like a play on memory, chaps and peels without kisses or tongues. Strange sensations, mouths met genitalia and saliva is saliva, like doorbells ringing, not here, but somewhere close by, while fingers freeze and men make promises and women cry, and men cry while women make promises and leave for other men, cause we all want the blackbird that has the most shiny blue objects. Who might not kill and eat our young. Who might not make us have mutant young to begin with.
Our baby's eyes will fall out upon birth. They'll be too big. The size of their head alone with bring about forceps and scalpels, weilding and screaming like there is no time, he's in the canal and the placenta is taking the life it gave! Massacre on my poor vagina. Freedom like cholic and vomit. Like nights to the pub involve baby carriers. Like nothing can be better than freezing on holidays and winter and easter and summer and all the things that makee someone stop outside the door and walk back in just because the vacuum might be running or the coffee pot still sputtering, and causing wildfires up the walls and down the side of the tub.
Relax. Its just water, you won't drown. Let yourself float.
Take the damn rocks out of your pockets.
Let go.
Stop moving and thrashing and swallowing gallons of water, and choking and spitting and getting everything wet, getting everyone all wet. Its just water. You can float. Let yourself float, you won't drown. Atrophy, bloat, rot, eat through sixteen cheesecakes, like, wait, need to go to the store, buy chocolate cheesecake, persuade sister to pay price. Feel really guilty in the thigh area, feel really good in the mouth.
Mouth, like a play on memory, chaps and peels without kisses or tongues. Strange sensations, mouths met genitalia and saliva is saliva, like doorbells ringing, not here, but somewhere close by, while fingers freeze and men make promises and women cry, and men cry while women make promises and leave for other men, cause we all want the blackbird that has the most shiny blue objects. Who might not kill and eat our young. Who might not make us have mutant young to begin with.
Our baby's eyes will fall out upon birth. They'll be too big. The size of their head alone with bring about forceps and scalpels, weilding and screaming like there is no time, he's in the canal and the placenta is taking the life it gave! Massacre on my poor vagina. Freedom like cholic and vomit. Like nights to the pub involve baby carriers. Like nothing can be better than freezing on holidays and winter and easter and summer and all the things that makee someone stop outside the door and walk back in just because the vacuum might be running or the coffee pot still sputtering, and causing wildfires up the walls and down the side of the tub.
Relax. Its just water, you won't drown. Let yourself float.
Take the damn rocks out of your pockets.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
bloodiest man summarized
bloodiestman inamericahistory
the Bloodiest
The devil came for reasons unknown he wnet by the name of
buschwackers
devastating guerilla forays
"federal guerillas"
brushgwon prwoling gangs
ofdogsn and cats
stabbing cwos and horsees
a good education for his day-
followed his father
migradted to kansas
and also apparently got into trouble
for stealing
the cuumulatuinve foul play
gold fields
ultimately
ag fanog of border bandits
stealing negroes bail
latter vowed to show no quarter
surpised by his bhand but paralzyed by fear made
no effort
tosend a warning
SEE THOSE MEN SEE THOSE MEN THRY HAVE NO FLAGS!
piousmoral
he kind of achieved immoratliy and lives on a failure.
the Bloodiest
The devil came for reasons unknown he wnet by the name of
buschwackers
devastating guerilla forays
"federal guerillas"
brushgwon prwoling gangs
ofdogsn and cats
stabbing cwos and horsees
a good education for his day-
followed his father
migradted to kansas
and also apparently got into trouble
for stealing
the cuumulatuinve foul play
gold fields
ultimately
ag fanog of border bandits
stealing negroes bail
latter vowed to show no quarter
surpised by his bhand but paralzyed by fear made
no effort
tosend a warning
SEE THOSE MEN SEE THOSE MEN THRY HAVE NO FLAGS!
piousmoral
he kind of achieved immoratliy and lives on a failure.
the computer made me do it
hug asgadhyu qwejfhj dhal ghdjfsdg weyfrejhsd dues used gfjalskdhgf ewtyqwil qhvbjdfuiashd f filch we ghdualkcbhj cdgfhjaslhf fusion fedora gfhdqisdbf g gauge algal bifid gassy ujrugfhfyufn rhdfndic fjdfncui did caved caved kid fjord inched cove dive fin jsdfhg huff ghjshlfgluhv n jiff figjksj;lfkgn vn;oijk ;name ;kljhgjhfjgkhuklyv brgyhvbhvih bluing vague hg shbgnbhjvoer uh erg jiff
jesus prince of happy hour
David Whitmer / John Kerry shagfest lisk stick cow hor shoe law face monkey lose fro shorn tread fork listen to the rhtthm of falthing spider shausages can you hear the way I like fork work lork at me lork at me Lorca francoise has two left legs that bend backward beneath the size of a cow hear muffin cake sugar lunatic Kiss me kate Ten thing I have about the shre locked up with hairly men and lesbians that want to suck my big toe
flavor like hord puffs chocolate sweet finger piles chicken in ranch reach for the stores wal shit hurt mart fuck shit damn hell profanity profanity profanity profanity profanity profanity profane vile offal awful awesome shit some loose some some more none left can’t help myself from kissing tigers with bad haircuts can’t help myself from snaking oil all over Cameron diaz sugar honey iced tea
spumonte ale wagon headache smells like teen deodorant underneath the boar shorts of lover excitement taping the envelope of happiness with the scotch of open wounds blood bleeding heinous shnare hoob spill cantaloupe stream of rover caper send me up the river to where I can’t hearn my mother think my father sending his sons to war with the devil for two years when they can’t hug a woman
let me feel your hair let me feel your toes let me feel your open would let me feel what I can’t feel what I don’t want to fee I feel nothing I feel cold I feel feel feelfeelfeelfeelfeelfeeel nothing more than feeling like I’m trying to forget your face your size your ring your bad habits your cooking your break your Listerine, your hemherroids your frankness your unfrankness your you your me your mom helf up a drug store with a rotton limp brown unhealthy poisionous bananna
it’s been a month two months three months five years I can’t hear my friendly fron prince
flavor like hord puffs chocolate sweet finger piles chicken in ranch reach for the stores wal shit hurt mart fuck shit damn hell profanity profanity profanity profanity profanity profanity profane vile offal awful awesome shit some loose some some more none left can’t help myself from kissing tigers with bad haircuts can’t help myself from snaking oil all over Cameron diaz sugar honey iced tea
spumonte ale wagon headache smells like teen deodorant underneath the boar shorts of lover excitement taping the envelope of happiness with the scotch of open wounds blood bleeding heinous shnare hoob spill cantaloupe stream of rover caper send me up the river to where I can’t hearn my mother think my father sending his sons to war with the devil for two years when they can’t hug a woman
let me feel your hair let me feel your toes let me feel your open would let me feel what I can’t feel what I don’t want to fee I feel nothing I feel cold I feel feel feelfeelfeelfeelfeelfeeel nothing more than feeling like I’m trying to forget your face your size your ring your bad habits your cooking your break your Listerine, your hemherroids your frankness your unfrankness your you your me your mom helf up a drug store with a rotton limp brown unhealthy poisionous bananna
it’s been a month two months three months five years I can’t hear my friendly fron prince
dream world
I had a dream last night that Barack Obama died in a car crash and the world panicked. We finally had this shred of hope and then something so average like human error took away our revolution. It wasn't a sniper or a white supremacist, it was just a car and a person and a full gas tank.
I woke up with this feeling in my stomach like someone close to me had died. It was the kind of morning you wake up and hold the person next to you because, God, it feels good to be alive and not stuck inside that dream world.
I woke up with this feeling in my stomach like someone close to me had died. It was the kind of morning you wake up and hold the person next to you because, God, it feels good to be alive and not stuck inside that dream world.
My (past tense) Wallflower, Towers To Deadlines
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock fast, set, break your nails and leave sanity crying like broken sticks outside main street, or Merrill street, or the street that runs parallel to the river, that we cross to get your car and smell fake scents, pineapple, ocean breeze, fish rot and seaweed not part of the deal. Stamps necessary to carry out the plan: pink lids and clear stickers. Hundreds of pages, scatter, tower of literature and lesson plans.
Children are the damned, student teachers nervously stroking hair, like boyfriends who forget to say, you are so pretty, so pretty, you mean everything. Fuck. Cynical, or maybe, ready? Split thumb, bloody blood, mysterious culprit on the loose and causing harm to soy sauce and brown rice everywhere, which rots in your stomach and sets you down on couches to say, chocolate please, chocolate before men. Sixteen poems about penises and I’ve got a vagina. I’ve got a vagina! (Just in case you forgot.)
Wear your hair like a warning, level your lids like there’s a secret in your eyes. Count the days like relief will come, if not this week, than next, and who knows how passing happens for the first timers, the first timers, the late bloomers, the virgins giving it up, when no one can wait for the “right” moment because “right” doesn’t exist.
You were bound to be disappointed, you were bound to want to take it back, you were bound to have it defecated and defeated, brown, rust, red, relax, we’ve all got our horror stories and we’ve all shared saliva. I’ve had you like he’d had you, like she’s had you, drinks, drinks, drinks, write stories and let children believe in fairytales. Write yours out like cider gone hard. Like wine turned vinegar. Sell it for a profit, until I’ve had you like he’s had you, like she’s had you, like we’ve all shared saliva.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
In My Pocket Tuesday Night
FOUND (not stream-of-thought, but perhaps worth it):
though they are constructed differently, and respire differently, acytota, bacteria, archaea, protists, fungi, and plants posess the same basic spirit. Even animals posess this basic energy of life--the spark that allows for respiration. Teh spirit that drives a simple body in the same as that which drives a complex body (plant, fungi, or animal).
that which seperates the animal from the rest is the ability to think--which always includes sentience, and may also include sapience. Few animals are apient--among them are humans
akh
khaibit/swt
ren
body - being - khat/sahu
spirit - respiration- sekhem
mind - sentience - ka
self- sapience - ba
soul - morality - heart
non-sentinet spirits =>
acytota simple
bacteria
archaea
protists
-----------
fungi complex
plants
all life respires, therefore all life posseses [spirit]
animals, having the ability to sense, posess [sentience]
those higher animals which are also self-aware posess [sapience]
an "evil spirit" is a life form that perpetuates its existence without regard of others -> viruses and bacterial infections can be classified as "evil spirits.
though they are constructed differently, and respire differently, acytota, bacteria, archaea, protists, fungi, and plants posess the same basic spirit. Even animals posess this basic energy of life--the spark that allows for respiration. Teh spirit that drives a simple body in the same as that which drives a complex body (plant, fungi, or animal).
that which seperates the animal from the rest is the ability to think--which always includes sentience, and may also include sapience. Few animals are apient--among them are humans
akh
khaibit/swt
ren
body - being - khat/sahu
spirit - respiration- sekhem
mind - sentience - ka
self- sapience - ba
soul - morality - heart
non-sentinet spirits =>
acytota simple
bacteria
archaea
protists
-----------
fungi complex
plants
all life respires, therefore all life posseses [spirit]
animals, having the ability to sense, posess [sentience]
those higher animals which are also self-aware posess [sapience]
an "evil spirit" is a life form that perpetuates its existence without regard of others -> viruses and bacterial infections can be classified as "evil spirits.
you can have like raccoon urine
boo loon applesauce monkey chandelier applesauce fruitcake red fork shoehorn radix dream song frog dink trip shoe ford sword you rent boy sox shoe horn fork still ghost rest fad but you jump golf offal jury dig refreeze glop this soul trig monkey fried clams bearded leaves orange tobacco caddy water buffalo special k happy qwerty day snakes zoo keeper shirt striped patches happy money kewpie keystone red cloak apple green pear peach nectarine plum candy yogurt coffee tea chain coca cola yes ah fuck yes harder please dear god where are you why have you gone away from holidays ghost stories victory disaster French Dutch Greek organic Deepak copra killed my mother’s bicycle eat six teen green freak heal peek trite frank fork spark spoon foggy soup turtle ninja turtle kitchen bathroom deck open sun shower free doom grows shows urinal look away don’t sat don’t move keep still if the guy next to our start peon on the floor through his mother’s mouth candy shoehorn slip away slip further in push harder pooch hell sex damn sin love me for what I want ooh god shit ford cow porn elves and dwarves living in sin with kobolds gnomes Halflings and bright orange Neanderthals that like the smell of coronary when it’s fresh from the altar’s guts piss ship alit crew speak softly softer gently let your hand glide into the folds of my trousers the pocket sere too tight my wallet is empty you can see my religion you can see my lost should you can see epiididimus and cream sinking beneath the u-boat of happiness sex god and rack and roll are better drugs than report cards death kill sin shoe graphic design class likes to use books without check out sex in the dark under a bridge with a troll is better than it sounds don’t you like the way it feels when a scaly hand tear against the skin of your back Rollin gin the most grass, dew gathering on your shins hell is a four letter word guts fish good gods until this is tee end of it all I can’t keep my fingers from falling against the hell of ca[taint hook’s ladies brother clocks in crocs tat enact small children molest small children in their dream dreaming friends with reads fried trays of dried screws nails and wenches fathom two more three more no more dear frog toad skin drop dead ghost stories fill dream till dreams work dreams with oats wheat barley whole things read friends cow hearts beating hurt frank beans freshen treason Foley folly hiccup hiccough hic hic hic dice frock freak rock rack rank dank shank lank crank horse maybe not what are you talking about walk all the way to Douglas with me it’s true I don’t know any thing that celebrated it’s cool though I haven’t goon eon it its cold out it seem like if you put a lot of linen in it definitely a lot going on I can’t get over the I don’t know I guess it was tired of it it’s art tissue paper on the wall the last favor of a third that’s why they didn’t most guys don’t carry journal with little tassels just put in the lost and found practice I though I was thinking there’s fire in the what are you going to do about it what if its in the are a crap shoot we’re an old married couple I’m a wicked long time the other day energized it’s only like less thane half hour away up 111 not the same guy it was really funny I tats bugs today like face book junkies it’s a I don’t want to go to typography naked wired graft tried to go living lemonade are you tired teed are you tired are you shaking I can’t stop shaking I guess I’ll never know squeak stop taking Advil period why would you ever do that carob I took my negative what about right now in your nose a who coroner I guess I voted I’m so happy laughter giggles humming battleships change I invited it in vampires always get you when you invite the last line from the page skip it skip class anime or animation it could be illustration we have to do our own little logo, period Chester college dot com is there a new class schedule in here its online for spring next semester do they have the stuff we need to take I was going on the stuff you Eric do you have the new class she dude thingy I don’t know they have it on line darn somebody stole my jump drive its not on that’s last year’s its spring we just ranted two of them, too good thing it didn’t work because the paper isn’t why isn’t paper jam I don’t see anything whatever the only one that does it like everyone see can do it I’ll do that you would do that its just I don’t want any of them freezing gibberish far and diseased slam on the control I may call him bob it looks more professional I don’t care I porpoise RL doesn’t even mean Ralph Lauren
glossy, glassy, emerald
so you say you still haven't figured me out, like i'm some kind of puzzle. well, hey, i'll be a mystery, i'll be the ending to the choose-your-own.
you say i'm too genuine, it scares you. well i'll be the stake and you be the vampire.
it's simple, really, it's three and half years of that picture on the wall, the glossy one, the glassy one, the one with the emeralds.
it's three and half years of cigarette nights but oh we forget in the morning because, right,
it was just the liquor.
it was the beer you brought over to my house, the alcohol you stashed under my bed, the weed you stuffed in your pants.
that's all it was, we didn't see through the smoke on the porch so really, i shouldn't be upset.
all drama and i love you and never forget each other and shit.
that's what you've got right?
right.
lucky for you, i never really took off that blindfold of yours.
so you say you still haven't figured me out, well i guess you lost your chance.
just look at that picture, remember? the glossy one, the glassy one,
the one with the emeralds.
that's all you've ever needed.
you say i'm too genuine, it scares you. well i'll be the stake and you be the vampire.
it's simple, really, it's three and half years of that picture on the wall, the glossy one, the glassy one, the one with the emeralds.
it's three and half years of cigarette nights but oh we forget in the morning because, right,
it was just the liquor.
it was the beer you brought over to my house, the alcohol you stashed under my bed, the weed you stuffed in your pants.
that's all it was, we didn't see through the smoke on the porch so really, i shouldn't be upset.
all drama and i love you and never forget each other and shit.
that's what you've got right?
right.
lucky for you, i never really took off that blindfold of yours.
so you say you still haven't figured me out, well i guess you lost your chance.
just look at that picture, remember? the glossy one, the glassy one,
the one with the emeralds.
that's all you've ever needed.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Fifteen Pages Later
The bathroom smells like a pool as I enter and I'm excited by the prospect and can already feel the spandex pressing my breasts against my ribcage. Looking in the mirror, my eyes seem already ringed red by chlorine and my body weighted achy by swimming too long.
Stepping back out, I'm met with bookcases, not wet floors, and I can't hear splashing just quiet coughs and plastic keys typing. Even the coffee shop is silent, the lights yellow and suggesting lazy summer sun.
A latte makes a quick storm. My tea is down to lukewarm and earthy sweet. I stole an extra teabag because I like it dark.
And both my wrists are broken. And the computer is humming to me. And my sister is singing suicide, like cutting your wrists is part of writing an essay. Is part of making a career. Is what being an educator is all about.
I've done fifteen pages, and have thousands to go. What they don't tell you about Grad School is that you are finally an adult. People really do respect you, and its the strangest thing to find yourself in a pub with people five times your age, conversing like you matter, like you just might have something good to say.
They don't tell you, growing up will make you less human, more figure. Less t-shirt, more suit jacket, until its a shame that a student saw you getting dinner wearing pigtails and rocking a nintendo shirt.
Hot dog lunches. Thai food anniversaries. Waking up next to someone warm, who kisses you and touches you awake. Who doesn't care that your lips are chap or your breath old, just wants to feel you. Feel you, like you aren't more or less human. Like you can't fail or achieve. But you just are, freckled, sleepy, there, hair tangled in the bed.
And I think, I need to change the sheets, but I love the feel of deep purple and couldn't settle into any other hue.
And I think, I love the feel of him and couldn't settle into any other.
Winter brings on hibernation and I bury myself beneath layers, under warm hats and the smell of pools is just a memory, The Study Of Behavior on my desk. My skin itchy with negligence.
Stepping back out, I'm met with bookcases, not wet floors, and I can't hear splashing just quiet coughs and plastic keys typing. Even the coffee shop is silent, the lights yellow and suggesting lazy summer sun.
A latte makes a quick storm. My tea is down to lukewarm and earthy sweet. I stole an extra teabag because I like it dark.
And both my wrists are broken. And the computer is humming to me. And my sister is singing suicide, like cutting your wrists is part of writing an essay. Is part of making a career. Is what being an educator is all about.
I've done fifteen pages, and have thousands to go. What they don't tell you about Grad School is that you are finally an adult. People really do respect you, and its the strangest thing to find yourself in a pub with people five times your age, conversing like you matter, like you just might have something good to say.
They don't tell you, growing up will make you less human, more figure. Less t-shirt, more suit jacket, until its a shame that a student saw you getting dinner wearing pigtails and rocking a nintendo shirt.
Hot dog lunches. Thai food anniversaries. Waking up next to someone warm, who kisses you and touches you awake. Who doesn't care that your lips are chap or your breath old, just wants to feel you. Feel you, like you aren't more or less human. Like you can't fail or achieve. But you just are, freckled, sleepy, there, hair tangled in the bed.
And I think, I need to change the sheets, but I love the feel of deep purple and couldn't settle into any other hue.
And I think, I love the feel of him and couldn't settle into any other.
Winter brings on hibernation and I bury myself beneath layers, under warm hats and the smell of pools is just a memory, The Study Of Behavior on my desk. My skin itchy with negligence.
Seven Month Heart Attacks
Swing batter batter batter, the pickles are attacking my heart and I've got caramels in my kidneys, sucking the life out of my eye sockets dry and teary, face red and sting-stung right to dry knuckles and wikipedia definitions of cuticles.
We are acting all grown up and walking down aisles and naming our children a long list of currently in use names, not forgetting the nephews of our twice removed but terribly charming great grand aunts.
Obama butter rubbed into scissors not sharp enough to fight against split ends. Outlet centers finished in the time it takes four feet to walk fast, and point without stopping at items we'll never own.
Eat a calcium chew.
Race to the bathroom.
Squeeze my large intestine.
Get him a beer and a water.
Eat all the pickles.
Cover Count Chocula in marshmallow.
Ten o'clock bedtimes.
Dean is supernatural.
Max was my gray gray cat.
We can't find your face anywhere.
You're afraid to cut it off.
Let's go to the library and read children's books. Mysterious modge podge stains are all over my clothes.
Keep the secrets in the closet. Save your make-up for another day.
We are acting all grown up and walking down aisles and naming our children a long list of currently in use names, not forgetting the nephews of our twice removed but terribly charming great grand aunts.
Obama butter rubbed into scissors not sharp enough to fight against split ends. Outlet centers finished in the time it takes four feet to walk fast, and point without stopping at items we'll never own.
Eat a calcium chew.
Race to the bathroom.
Squeeze my large intestine.
Get him a beer and a water.
Eat all the pickles.
Cover Count Chocula in marshmallow.
Ten o'clock bedtimes.
Dean is supernatural.
Max was my gray gray cat.
We can't find your face anywhere.
You're afraid to cut it off.
Let's go to the library and read children's books. Mysterious modge podge stains are all over my clothes.
Keep the secrets in the closet. Save your make-up for another day.
Friday, October 31, 2008
don't taste just touch
so i went and bought an apple the other day and put in the palm of my hand. i couldn't eat it or turn it into a pie so i just looked at it, like it belonged to my hand. red and shiny and delicious and maybe some day i'll be like that apple, perfect, but i'm not getting my hopes up. he called the other day and said i was beautiful but it doesn't mean anything. words don't mean much of anything anymore and it's this lost art that maybe we'll find and maybe we won't and the words they just keep falling away. fuck means pear and love means dirt and it's all four letters and it's all the same, don't you see? part of me wants to hold onto that illusion of romance, but i'm not a poet and i'm not a romantic so i'll just sit here and look at my apple that i can't ever taste, i'll just touch.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Televised in Black, White and Chartreuse
Three inches. Goddamn assassination attempts. Fingernail bent, snapped, torn down to the skin on one fingertip. Ignorance pouring from the seams of someone who’s only God looks to be deep fried turkeys on the banks of the Mississippi. Front teeth spreading out and away from one another, enough to slip fat tongue right through. Sick.
Skin slicks off and if you’re rubbed the wrong way, or the right way, you’ll end up bloody, bottle ticking against the wall with each tip, tap, type of the moving fingers. And cancer causes stencilings and we all know stencils are the root of evil, the root of all conformity and no good nonsense.
Take a thousand pictures of me and pretend my nose isn’t too big or that I don’t look maniac and mishandled. Wool socks of servitude and solemn transactions of captain crunch and clown cars stuffed full of dead clowns, ringmasters and hobos that are too sad for even paintings in France. Je suis desolate. Je suis desolate!
Spices try on their flea costumes and I’ve got a high guard for the fact that your smell has faded out of everything and I have been holding onto images and two week old kisses, pressed into my lips. And I haven’t touched myself in, days and days, and I tried to last night, I did, I did, I slipped my hands down beneath the covers and bent my left leg, (cause that’s always how I do it,) and I tried, but I started to fall asleep. It didn’t feel good. I couldn’t feel anything. I just fell asleep. So I rolled onto my side, fetal like a fetus in the womb, except without the amniotic fluid to keep me weightless. So weighted, weighted, a hooded baby, hair long and all about its face. I fell asleep. A goo-less fetus, with rapunzel hair. And I thought, what would the prince think if he saw my face looking down from the tower, if my long red locks fell out of that window and beckoned him to me with a song of hey diddle diddle.
I rolled out of bed, extending my hand and saying, “Don’t you have a bowl to put that in?” I woke up unsure of what it was, but knowing they had made a terrible mess. I’ve got stiff legs and stiffer intentions and twenty pounds to put on for the winter when I’ll creep into my cave and give birth in my slumber, and sleep through cubs suckling from my teats. My fur covered teats. Teats.
Rotten. Reluctant. I beg you to get pregnant, so I can hold one year olds in my arms, while standing is cider smelling apple orchards, and we point at the highest, reddest apple, laughing, while you reach with your big long stick contraption and save the day, and the apple pie, from being less than perfect and we are more than perfect and he’s got tiny little feet that keep growing out of his shoes, and we’re getting ready for his first snowfall, and putting our lives away for his poopoo filled diapers.
Tear. As in rip. As in fall. As in gravity. And I am pressed against the surface of the earth again, fetal and too tired to masturbate.
Skin slicks off and if you’re rubbed the wrong way, or the right way, you’ll end up bloody, bottle ticking against the wall with each tip, tap, type of the moving fingers. And cancer causes stencilings and we all know stencils are the root of evil, the root of all conformity and no good nonsense.
Take a thousand pictures of me and pretend my nose isn’t too big or that I don’t look maniac and mishandled. Wool socks of servitude and solemn transactions of captain crunch and clown cars stuffed full of dead clowns, ringmasters and hobos that are too sad for even paintings in France. Je suis desolate. Je suis desolate!
Spices try on their flea costumes and I’ve got a high guard for the fact that your smell has faded out of everything and I have been holding onto images and two week old kisses, pressed into my lips. And I haven’t touched myself in, days and days, and I tried to last night, I did, I did, I slipped my hands down beneath the covers and bent my left leg, (cause that’s always how I do it,) and I tried, but I started to fall asleep. It didn’t feel good. I couldn’t feel anything. I just fell asleep. So I rolled onto my side, fetal like a fetus in the womb, except without the amniotic fluid to keep me weightless. So weighted, weighted, a hooded baby, hair long and all about its face. I fell asleep. A goo-less fetus, with rapunzel hair. And I thought, what would the prince think if he saw my face looking down from the tower, if my long red locks fell out of that window and beckoned him to me with a song of hey diddle diddle.
I rolled out of bed, extending my hand and saying, “Don’t you have a bowl to put that in?” I woke up unsure of what it was, but knowing they had made a terrible mess. I’ve got stiff legs and stiffer intentions and twenty pounds to put on for the winter when I’ll creep into my cave and give birth in my slumber, and sleep through cubs suckling from my teats. My fur covered teats. Teats.
Rotten. Reluctant. I beg you to get pregnant, so I can hold one year olds in my arms, while standing is cider smelling apple orchards, and we point at the highest, reddest apple, laughing, while you reach with your big long stick contraption and save the day, and the apple pie, from being less than perfect and we are more than perfect and he’s got tiny little feet that keep growing out of his shoes, and we’re getting ready for his first snowfall, and putting our lives away for his poopoo filled diapers.
Tear. As in rip. As in fall. As in gravity. And I am pressed against the surface of the earth again, fetal and too tired to masturbate.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Loves Babies And Surprises But Doesn't Expect Either
Fine. I’d make cookies, but there is nobody to help put the fire out. And I refuse to do that last paper cause I am rebellious and mighty and really, two beers is more than enough to make my argument void. They deserve it anyway.
It is burning right down in my center stage forum of understanding and sentiment, until my ass hurts from sitting and my fingers are covered in glue and I’m just sorry some people are lonely and someday this gluey finger will be from working on my children’s school projects.
And I was throwing something out and thinking that I’m that person, I’m just that type, that they talk about when someone dies too young. And it makes me check the door twice and wish I wasn’t watching Worldiest Creepiest Places on my own.
Cheer up! Let it down! Settle your fingertips deep down beneath my flesh until we can’t blame the mint cookies or the center of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Until we can’t say what is good or bad and the Generation We elects handsome presidents and wishes for something like Disney land with solar and wind power. Sex without disease or consequences, and love without pure and utter misery.
I’ve got three Indians shooting at a star, three times in a row, and it’s got to make me the luckiest son of bitch I know. And its got to make me the luckiest son of a bitch I know. And its got to…
I’ll grab another and break the streak.
It is burning right down in my center stage forum of understanding and sentiment, until my ass hurts from sitting and my fingers are covered in glue and I’m just sorry some people are lonely and someday this gluey finger will be from working on my children’s school projects.
And I was throwing something out and thinking that I’m that person, I’m just that type, that they talk about when someone dies too young. And it makes me check the door twice and wish I wasn’t watching Worldiest Creepiest Places on my own.
Cheer up! Let it down! Settle your fingertips deep down beneath my flesh until we can’t blame the mint cookies or the center of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Until we can’t say what is good or bad and the Generation We elects handsome presidents and wishes for something like Disney land with solar and wind power. Sex without disease or consequences, and love without pure and utter misery.
I’ve got three Indians shooting at a star, three times in a row, and it’s got to make me the luckiest son of bitch I know. And its got to make me the luckiest son of a bitch I know. And its got to…
I’ll grab another and break the streak.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Wohhooooo My first post!!!!!! This is awsome, its a doubly whammy cuz not only is it my first post,but guess what folks? I figured it out!! I know the true root of our current economic crisis!! Heres the shocker: It has nothing to do with mortgages or banks, or the $700,000,000,000 bailout. It’s the newest face of our governments stance on Immigration. That’s right, Im going there, our government has intentionally ruined our economy to keep those friendly border hoppers to our south... to our south. Its really quite engeious actually.
“For the first time in a decade, there are economies in
Just let that simmer for a second.....
marinate a little longer.....
The only reason that people in Central and Southern America want to come here... well maybe not the only reason, cuz like people do also come here for such niceties like “Civil Liberties”... and a Police State hidden behind a shroud of Democracy rather than just a Police State. I should stop being so cynical....Anyways where was I?? Oh right: We intentionally destroyed our economy, so that people from Central and
Just kidding..... really this is just the next part of a class war that has been aging ever since the dawn of civilization. Its all about the consolidation of power, and money. Celebrities, Politicians, Cable TV, Republicans vs Democrats, Blacks vs Whites, Pro live vs Pro Choice, Christian vs Muslim, War, Terrorism .......... mind fart......
Well for a second I thought that was going somewhere really epic....
Until next time my friends.....Back to the grinding wheel.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Smeared Like Candy Corn Highlights
I am sitting on the front steps and repeating to myself, don’t wear your nice pants when you play with pastels or the ghosts will get you, or you’ll have to go down into the creepy basement and brave rape and torture to clean your clothes. I’d pay someone to do it for me or to keep me company, if I had the money, if I had any money.
He calls the apples of my cheeks dimples and I’ve got to soak the rice for at least a half an hour before I cook it. And I was so angry that I almost screamed on the phone with her. It bubbled up in me like a maniac tidal wave of: I’ll be homeless, have to move all my stuff back to the tiny ranch house that’s dirty yellow, and him and I will have another summer but can it always be the way we had it. (Nothing can be the same.) And he doesn’t deserve firework stained arms or Morgan made meals.
Where was I today while they argued like schoolgirls, making inane points and taking up time that could be spent watching Jon Stewart while the bones in my back, sag and the discs slip and I get shorter by the day, by the hour, until my knees are in my shoes and I am holding up my pants with my bra until I simply disappear.
Where was I, this afternoon with research to be done and essays to write, and lesson plans to create, covering myself, staining my fingertips until everything I touched was pressed with large black marks.
Echoes of what “should bes” and “not gonna happens” are filling the space around me as time winds down to end of day, where four hours of interesting man, violently passionate, scolds the ways I’ve been told to follow from birth. Urging me to let go and empty my cup, and it hits me, that’s where I am when the deadlines pile up or they start to argue over dates and the ability to be flexible. I am sitting back and letting go and drinking in the feeling of my feet in these Dr. Scholl’s. I am thinking about the Nutrigrain bar stuck in the back of my teeth and down right refusing to take any side.
Release.
Its dirty under my fingernails and they’ve peeled and shattered themselves short. No longer a wild animal, I retreat to hoodies and child-like illustrations. I haven’t done the cryptoquip in days and showering is at the bottom of my agenda.
He calls the apples of my cheeks dimples and I’ve got to soak the rice for at least a half an hour before I cook it. And I was so angry that I almost screamed on the phone with her. It bubbled up in me like a maniac tidal wave of: I’ll be homeless, have to move all my stuff back to the tiny ranch house that’s dirty yellow, and him and I will have another summer but can it always be the way we had it. (Nothing can be the same.) And he doesn’t deserve firework stained arms or Morgan made meals.
Where was I today while they argued like schoolgirls, making inane points and taking up time that could be spent watching Jon Stewart while the bones in my back, sag and the discs slip and I get shorter by the day, by the hour, until my knees are in my shoes and I am holding up my pants with my bra until I simply disappear.
Where was I, this afternoon with research to be done and essays to write, and lesson plans to create, covering myself, staining my fingertips until everything I touched was pressed with large black marks.
Echoes of what “should bes” and “not gonna happens” are filling the space around me as time winds down to end of day, where four hours of interesting man, violently passionate, scolds the ways I’ve been told to follow from birth. Urging me to let go and empty my cup, and it hits me, that’s where I am when the deadlines pile up or they start to argue over dates and the ability to be flexible. I am sitting back and letting go and drinking in the feeling of my feet in these Dr. Scholl’s. I am thinking about the Nutrigrain bar stuck in the back of my teeth and down right refusing to take any side.
Release.
Its dirty under my fingernails and they’ve peeled and shattered themselves short. No longer a wild animal, I retreat to hoodies and child-like illustrations. I haven’t done the cryptoquip in days and showering is at the bottom of my agenda.
- I’ll get to it another day.
Monday, October 20, 2008
spill: dragon, chaos, thrust
dragon is an allusion to penis -
you had to see it coming, it makes
so much sense. Dragon, symbol of
power primal ferocity, except
maybe: Puff. Puff, over at
his beachside cabana, with
his hoseboyJackie He stepped out of
the chaos of the other dragons
male chauvanism, penis fencing dragons
because the life was thrust upon him
and all he wanted was a little tenderness
because this is something sorefully negelcted:
that being MALE means you desire emotionalit
even if culturality says you can't, but MALE
is also a valid existence and it's not just bravado:
do you hear that boys? its not just flexing in front
of mirrors or glaring up your won asshole; it's
not just baravdo! the beauty of being male
is the complexity of exisitence that we share
with everyone else, but is sorefully neglected.
the world isn't about showing how much you can
lift over your head, with muscles and bloodvessels
strain - popping; cars down on your head. its
about the taste of your lover.
you had to see it coming, it makes
so much sense. Dragon, symbol of
power primal ferocity, except
maybe: Puff. Puff, over at
his beachside cabana, with
his hoseboyJackie He stepped out of
the chaos of the other dragons
male chauvanism, penis fencing dragons
because the life was thrust upon him
and all he wanted was a little tenderness
because this is something sorefully negelcted:
that being MALE means you desire emotionalit
even if culturality says you can't, but MALE
is also a valid existence and it's not just bravado:
do you hear that boys? its not just flexing in front
of mirrors or glaring up your won asshole; it's
not just baravdo! the beauty of being male
is the complexity of exisitence that we share
with everyone else, but is sorefully neglected.
the world isn't about showing how much you can
lift over your head, with muscles and bloodvessels
strain - popping; cars down on your head. its
about the taste of your lover.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
briefs
i've counted sets of turkies wild, two at this point - well, one, but the same flock twice
and they greet me each foggy morning that i've gone out; not gobbling, not as such
there is no tom, but peeping as the females do, with one always keeping watch (for me)
and i've sat with my back to the rain, listening as it was louder and closer and ontop of me
dark clouds and wet, just wet wet wet. these things are important, turkey and rain.
these things are important because we don't appreciate them. these things are important
because i own them as mine; these are my experiences and i share them with you (lucky dog)
and they greet me each foggy morning that i've gone out; not gobbling, not as such
there is no tom, but peeping as the females do, with one always keeping watch (for me)
and i've sat with my back to the rain, listening as it was louder and closer and ontop of me
dark clouds and wet, just wet wet wet. these things are important, turkey and rain.
these things are important because we don't appreciate them. these things are important
because i own them as mine; these are my experiences and i share them with you (lucky dog)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Lacking Better Definition (She Streams Conscious In Paragraphical Guilt)
And I tell myself it is nothing more than fabrication, than words and memories, slanted, slewed and separate from the obvious and crystalline individual I’ve come to know. I stand in the fact that the past is the past and we’ve shared as many as I can stand, and we both have our secrets, or pieces we rather not share because they don’t matter, they don’t haunt us and we like now, us, besides the stains on leather couches and frozen fingertips ducked behind buildings, on visible breath autumn nights.
Its been a year now since it started, since it ended, since you came and slowly slipped into my life. You were persistent and heady. We were like tides that came crashing and then receded, so I was often left to wonder where you’d gone, although I’d grumble at how much you’d crash when you were there. In and out, a metaphor and reality. Mismatched socks and bear-like personality. I felt small and pristine in your arms, I’d often imagine crowns on my head and a world of sparkles, and you fur and teeth, pressured desire, untamed but with sweet intentions.
And to what extent wasn’t I a prize to be won. A challenge to be met, a stubborn journey on your part, to let yourself be washed up and down my moody shores, my secret getaways, my lie of a life, that threatened institution and sanity. I trampled on my education, the construct of marriage, I lived off coffee and guilt and worked constantly, twelve hours a day, nothing but production and sadness, some vile creature. Cruel and successful, who couldn’t tell a soul but you, of the terrible things she’d done.
And I couldn’t give into you, couldn’t separate and settle myself, I’d lost myself somewhere in the frost bitten nights and twelve hour days. I kept you at edges and only gave in when I was so tired, so tired, I couldn’t feel the sadness. And you were always there, midnight, trying to fall asleep so we could share the pillow.
I threw myself around, tried lesser, tried greater, tried escape, but couldn’t leave, couldn’t retreat, had to return and so did you. You brought voo-doo with you. And I suppose you had never left me. And suddenly, I was fur and teeth, untamed and unsure, realizing your kindness was all I had, was all I ever had, and all I had needed. What had gotten me through. That I didn’t understand you completely, and we would rub against each other and spark sometimes with static, but we came back. You were “Mister Reliable.” And it sounded like a death sentence to you. You weren’t exotic or troubled like all the other men I’d whispered about. But you were. You had come with your own set of challenges and seeds of greatness. You helped me bring about my own. Until, I looked forward to seeing your face in the doorway, above anyone else’s. Until spending time with you was a pleasure I wanted every day. Until it was obvious that you and I would sit and have tea every evening and you just knew to crawl into my bed at night. You grew into my heart and life until you were as much a part of it as I was, and I seeped over into yours, and we benefited from the interaction, we grew healthier and happier by it. It fed us and made us stronger.
Months later, only months, we can’t count the ways we’ve changed, and yet we feel more like ourselves than ever. There is purpose and reason and Friday nights. And I’m no longer a princess and you are no longer a bear. We are side by side, down autumn roads and always holding my left hand in your right. We are somedays and promises of king sized beds, pet dogs, or at least making it out of school. We are saving money and buying gifts. Eating healthy and growing strong. We are devoured whole chocolate pies and rainforest showers that last for hours. And I am good and happy in my life.
A year since it started, it ended, and it is like a film in the back of my mouth, a reminder of past and weakness. Unresolved it scratches at me, but less and less each day. Until my good has outdone my evil.
I want to share your love with no one and ask, who’s Allen? As if yesterday should matter. As if it mattered to me. When all I care about is Friday. When all I care about is you. To the point that I forsake all others and transplant both my arms to start anew. I am drawing again and it is good. You are writing and it is great. We wrestle our demons and come home to each other. Two hour conversations deep in the night, I taste caramel and avoid certain responsibilities. I try patience and the hours slip.
I am granola and trying to write something sweet and stable, so you can know the sadness is passing, the worry is washed away with words, it is read and retained as something else. But you are constant and consistent. Obvious and above. The whole, while I speak fractions.
Once again its cold and I need a sweater.
And I’ll try harder.
Its been a year now since it started, since it ended, since you came and slowly slipped into my life. You were persistent and heady. We were like tides that came crashing and then receded, so I was often left to wonder where you’d gone, although I’d grumble at how much you’d crash when you were there. In and out, a metaphor and reality. Mismatched socks and bear-like personality. I felt small and pristine in your arms, I’d often imagine crowns on my head and a world of sparkles, and you fur and teeth, pressured desire, untamed but with sweet intentions.
And to what extent wasn’t I a prize to be won. A challenge to be met, a stubborn journey on your part, to let yourself be washed up and down my moody shores, my secret getaways, my lie of a life, that threatened institution and sanity. I trampled on my education, the construct of marriage, I lived off coffee and guilt and worked constantly, twelve hours a day, nothing but production and sadness, some vile creature. Cruel and successful, who couldn’t tell a soul but you, of the terrible things she’d done.
And I couldn’t give into you, couldn’t separate and settle myself, I’d lost myself somewhere in the frost bitten nights and twelve hour days. I kept you at edges and only gave in when I was so tired, so tired, I couldn’t feel the sadness. And you were always there, midnight, trying to fall asleep so we could share the pillow.
I threw myself around, tried lesser, tried greater, tried escape, but couldn’t leave, couldn’t retreat, had to return and so did you. You brought voo-doo with you. And I suppose you had never left me. And suddenly, I was fur and teeth, untamed and unsure, realizing your kindness was all I had, was all I ever had, and all I had needed. What had gotten me through. That I didn’t understand you completely, and we would rub against each other and spark sometimes with static, but we came back. You were “Mister Reliable.” And it sounded like a death sentence to you. You weren’t exotic or troubled like all the other men I’d whispered about. But you were. You had come with your own set of challenges and seeds of greatness. You helped me bring about my own. Until, I looked forward to seeing your face in the doorway, above anyone else’s. Until spending time with you was a pleasure I wanted every day. Until it was obvious that you and I would sit and have tea every evening and you just knew to crawl into my bed at night. You grew into my heart and life until you were as much a part of it as I was, and I seeped over into yours, and we benefited from the interaction, we grew healthier and happier by it. It fed us and made us stronger.
Months later, only months, we can’t count the ways we’ve changed, and yet we feel more like ourselves than ever. There is purpose and reason and Friday nights. And I’m no longer a princess and you are no longer a bear. We are side by side, down autumn roads and always holding my left hand in your right. We are somedays and promises of king sized beds, pet dogs, or at least making it out of school. We are saving money and buying gifts. Eating healthy and growing strong. We are devoured whole chocolate pies and rainforest showers that last for hours. And I am good and happy in my life.
A year since it started, it ended, and it is like a film in the back of my mouth, a reminder of past and weakness. Unresolved it scratches at me, but less and less each day. Until my good has outdone my evil.
I want to share your love with no one and ask, who’s Allen? As if yesterday should matter. As if it mattered to me. When all I care about is Friday. When all I care about is you. To the point that I forsake all others and transplant both my arms to start anew. I am drawing again and it is good. You are writing and it is great. We wrestle our demons and come home to each other. Two hour conversations deep in the night, I taste caramel and avoid certain responsibilities. I try patience and the hours slip.
I am granola and trying to write something sweet and stable, so you can know the sadness is passing, the worry is washed away with words, it is read and retained as something else. But you are constant and consistent. Obvious and above. The whole, while I speak fractions.
Once again its cold and I need a sweater.
And I’ll try harder.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
He Cut The Word To Pieces
And I tell myself, I’ve got Chapter seven to read, but I need to take this time. And I tell myself I’ve got an agenda to fabricate, but I’ve got to take this time. And I tell myself to put on a sweatshirt cause its cold in here, but I don’t get up and I miss the dull hum of some tv show that usually helps me whittle away hours while I read and write and usually have more left over that I never get to and keep saying, I’ll get to tomorrow and know I won’t and fear I won’t and what the consequence of “not wanting to” will do to me. And I am smiling and sticking out my tongue cause they say I am put together and all over it and great and great and great and… I feel like I’m gathering pieces and getting by and I can’t wait to pick apples and eat caramel and forget that I’ve got three papers to write, an agenda, a meeting, five hour classes, suits and knee highs to wear.
But first I’ll get a sweater.
And there is silence, the dull hum of the fan whose top speed seems like a breathing machine and not a wind tunnel is making my mind sleepy, doughy, soft and I’ve got half a mind to cover my hair in lotion, and run away to the moon, the rubber cement glue, allergy pills and birth control mingling in my stomach, and bacteria covering my peanut butter, apple and raisin sandwich. As if I was already pregnant and ducking my way out of this terribly scheduled life called Grad School, where I’m expected to make a superb product without stepping on anyone’s toes. Without offending or leaving behind. They want me to do the work, to lead the group, but not be a leader if it hurts someone’s feelings. If one person is sad…
Can you swear? It seems childish to go on the rampage in my mind. All at once I am holding the reigns and trying to push the horses forward, but someone else holds them back, or grabs a hold and says not yet, not yet and that is privileged or I just don’t know.
How does one go about making chocolate cake and never eating it?
How do you proceed and exceed but never move?
What if challenge is welcomed, but some won’t allow it?
I know one thing and it’s that coffee and juice stain white clothing, even off white for that matter.
I know one thing and its that I feel better on the days I go to the gym first, have that cup of Pumpkin spice coffee and am successful with the newspaper cryptoquip.
I am worried that I am too anxious, that I am worrying about too many things. I am worried that I am worrying too much. And I want to talk to someone, to go to the shrink and tell them that I’ve got enough fears and agendas to keep the world at the bottom of the sea, but it’d be another appointment, and I’d be another person and even if I imagine my sister dead in the shower, I can’t make time to be diagnosed and categorized. No room for medications, or stopping the itchiness of worrying. I tell myself its winter weather drying out my skin, but even with intense rescue applied, my skin crawls.
I am afraid. Ofeverything? Of nothing? No th ing. And I want to draw, for the first time in months, and I’m looking for encouragement and support, but I can’t feel it. I need to hear, that’s good, that’s good. But I can’t. And I don’t want to show anyone because they’ll think:
What has she become…?
Nothing.
Was it ever easy? No. But it was different.
And what have I become?
No th ing.
But first I’ll get a sweater.
And there is silence, the dull hum of the fan whose top speed seems like a breathing machine and not a wind tunnel is making my mind sleepy, doughy, soft and I’ve got half a mind to cover my hair in lotion, and run away to the moon, the rubber cement glue, allergy pills and birth control mingling in my stomach, and bacteria covering my peanut butter, apple and raisin sandwich. As if I was already pregnant and ducking my way out of this terribly scheduled life called Grad School, where I’m expected to make a superb product without stepping on anyone’s toes. Without offending or leaving behind. They want me to do the work, to lead the group, but not be a leader if it hurts someone’s feelings. If one person is sad…
Can you swear? It seems childish to go on the rampage in my mind. All at once I am holding the reigns and trying to push the horses forward, but someone else holds them back, or grabs a hold and says not yet, not yet and that is privileged or I just don’t know.
How does one go about making chocolate cake and never eating it?
How do you proceed and exceed but never move?
What if challenge is welcomed, but some won’t allow it?
I know one thing and it’s that coffee and juice stain white clothing, even off white for that matter.
I know one thing and its that I feel better on the days I go to the gym first, have that cup of Pumpkin spice coffee and am successful with the newspaper cryptoquip.
I am worried that I am too anxious, that I am worrying about too many things. I am worried that I am worrying too much. And I want to talk to someone, to go to the shrink and tell them that I’ve got enough fears and agendas to keep the world at the bottom of the sea, but it’d be another appointment, and I’d be another person and even if I imagine my sister dead in the shower, I can’t make time to be diagnosed and categorized. No room for medications, or stopping the itchiness of worrying. I tell myself its winter weather drying out my skin, but even with intense rescue applied, my skin crawls.
I am afraid. Ofeverything? Of nothing? No th ing. And I want to draw, for the first time in months, and I’m looking for encouragement and support, but I can’t feel it. I need to hear, that’s good, that’s good. But I can’t. And I don’t want to show anyone because they’ll think:
What has she become…?
Nothing.
Was it ever easy? No. But it was different.
And what have I become?
No th ing.
Monday, October 13, 2008
What's the point?
And I have to ask myself, what's the point? Our chromosomes are breaking down, not much time left. The cancer is spreading and they're all dying in fires and holes in faraway places. Dear Goddess fuck the price of gas, who cares because we're all DYING. And I have to wonder why, why am I bothering to get out of bed? My art is me and I am my art but honestly that's all I can see anymore, is the art, and the pain. And recently they've become one and I can't help but to feel lost and confused and I'm losing myself to it. Night terrors and the smell of smoke as I try to keep him alive, try to stop the burning from getting to him too. These bags under my eyes are part of the landscape of my face now. Waking up in a pool of sweat isn't much fun but who am I to complain when this kid in Haiti doesn't have food or shelter or people to say "I love you" to him. I'm so lucky, lucky for these sleepless nights, fears, the ability to change something in my life. But I'm fucking scared. Scared when he walks out the door, scared because he might not come back because it happens. It happens to anyone and everyone and you only have time time you're given but you're never told how long. Everything is so delicate, people die but they also survive. So what is it? Is the will to live greater than the fragile fabric of our bodies? I'm scared to die but I'm scared to live for fear it will be a waste. Because in 1,000 years will anyone know I was here, will our species even be here? There's too many forces against us but so much in our favor. And I'm still asking myself, what's the fucking point when you live in a world where 3 year olds can die?
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Tip #2 - Inspiration
Are you having troubling writing, or finding some inspiration to stream? Here's a couple things you can do that might help:
- Look around your room and just start listing objects. Maybe write how you feel about them. Maybe where they came from. See where that takes you.
- Pick out one thing that happened today and let yourself run away with that. It will help if you are specific as possible; generalities don't make for good inspiration.
- Go through a book and pick out twenty words and figure out how they fit together, and try to use them all in a piece.
- Find someone you know (or someone you don't) and get them to ask you some questions, either about yourself or not, and start streaming replies to those questions.
These are only a few ways to get yourself writing; hopefully it will help! And keep in mind, there is no reason why you have to end up in the same place you started - its all about letting yourself go.
- Look around your room and just start listing objects. Maybe write how you feel about them. Maybe where they came from. See where that takes you.
- Pick out one thing that happened today and let yourself run away with that. It will help if you are specific as possible; generalities don't make for good inspiration.
- Go through a book and pick out twenty words and figure out how they fit together, and try to use them all in a piece.
- Find someone you know (or someone you don't) and get them to ask you some questions, either about yourself or not, and start streaming replies to those questions.
These are only a few ways to get yourself writing; hopefully it will help! And keep in mind, there is no reason why you have to end up in the same place you started - its all about letting yourself go.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
spill
i'm writing letters to people who don't exist because i think it might help to define me. i figure if they don't exist, maybe they will if i write them and then a part of me will be there to send a reply. maybe not. it doesn't really matter in the longe run, to see ak and find, to hide and be dsicovered. i just find my words running away with me now. i sat on a bench today and just looked out over the grass and the sky and wondered where this was taking me. i read in poetry and prose words that should give me something and i couldn't take anything away. do you nderstand? i couldn't take anything away. the msot compelling inciden is the msuic whispering through my ears of Chopin, Vivaldi, Thcaikovsky - these artists. the stuffy classical dudes. i've never really understood the resistance to them, because the music all tells a story, that's the point, they didn't have tv, and they didn't have raido, and they didn't have all that sensatory stimulation adn sought sublime in still images and sought sublime in the movtives and motions of fiddles and orchestra. maybe that's why its beautiful to me. it spells ou tht the freckles on your skin. the msuic spells out the way ytour hair falls around yoru neck. and it isn't so much lvoe poems, it isn't so muhc love letters, but letters about love or notlove, and it isn't so much music that's love, but music about love and about things. and as the minutes and the day tick away i have toruble keeping my eyes open. its not like i didn't sleep, but it feels that way. all i had for lunch was cereal. but that was enough. i was eating words and music. i find meaning in my words and thats maybe enough, but i want others to also, but maybe they can't and is that okay? is that enough? how fast can i come up with this stuff and if it is fast, is that okay, or am i just throwing something away.
the point is i count your freckles in the music. the point is i see your hair spill. but there isn't really a point. i write these letters to nobody but myself and they aren't even anything to write home about. and i'm so tired. i'm so tired. i'm trying to do everything, and there aren't enough hours in the day. especially when i want to sleep nine hours. i'm pretty sure its nine, but it doesn't really matter because i sleep seven, and its working (though i'm tired).
i just spilled words yesterday and so many words, and a third of them were sex. i'm wired that way, you konw, wired that way. a male, with a penis, and what can i say, a third of them were sex. not the words themselves, you know, because they were all different, but close enough, you know? close enough.
but really, the point is, i see your freckles, count them, in music. and i see your hair spill.
the point is i count your freckles in the music. the point is i see your hair spill. but there isn't really a point. i write these letters to nobody but myself and they aren't even anything to write home about. and i'm so tired. i'm so tired. i'm trying to do everything, and there aren't enough hours in the day. especially when i want to sleep nine hours. i'm pretty sure its nine, but it doesn't really matter because i sleep seven, and its working (though i'm tired).
i just spilled words yesterday and so many words, and a third of them were sex. i'm wired that way, you konw, wired that way. a male, with a penis, and what can i say, a third of them were sex. not the words themselves, you know, because they were all different, but close enough, you know? close enough.
but really, the point is, i see your freckles, count them, in music. and i see your hair spill.
Cryptoquips
I’ve got a hyena on my back that wants what good for me, and she wants to know my where abouts and what fors, like yesterday is something good and I’ve got all the answers right here inside my shirt, where beneath the clean, crisp white, one mismatched bra and tank are fighting for attention. And my pants aren’t fitting right and digging into my privacy it ss a stepping stone of coffee cups that keeps me going, from one eight am meeting to another, hair nice and smile wide. I am so ready to learn and I just got to tell the hyena, I think its cause I’m pretty, I gotta tell you that. I think its cause I’m pretty that I’m getting anywhere. And I dress clean and ready, I look prepared and personable. And I was brushing my teeth and looking in the mirror, washing my hands and staring at my face and wonder when or if this wasn’t acting and was just, who I am. What is the difference between the person that greets people and the person I know. Is it a show? Or have I finally, set it all down, have I always been, one, two, three people.
My hands are dry. Crack, bleed, bend and break.
I rather be the stay in bed all day with him, wearing pj pants and missing the point, that there is more to life than kisses and constant reassurance, that he still loves me five minutes after he says it.
I am begging for the experiences and they keep sending them my way, one on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another… I am post-it notes and constant reminders. I am sitting quietly and listening intently. I am setting good examples and smiling widely. I am curious and positive. I am letting go. I am not thinking about myself, at least not in the sense that I need to achieve, but that I need to learn, that I want to learn and will do for others in order to learn. In order to…
Drop
Drip.
The heat turned on.
The fan is singing me a lullaby.
I forgot what this was for.
Do you need to know where my mind is at?
Can you see…
Drip.
Drop…. The ball.
Wonders will never cease.
I don’t want to miss the carnival but I don’t want to go alone.
I need a candy apple in my belly, sticky stuck to my teeth and lips, juice dripping off my chin.
Drop.
I’m considering him for marriage, for offspring and wondering if we could make it long term, or if we’d get bitter and turn at the first sign of great disagreement. I want to name my daughter Ann.
And I’m looking into saving money, how to do it, if I ever get it, because I’m thinking for the first time ever, where we’d live and how we’d live. I always wanted a house, but how did I suppose I’d get it?
There’s lip-print marks on the financial literacy notes I took, and that about sums the injustification of setting down words that don’t exist and saving receipts in a 30 day time, just to find that I don’t have money to spend and only buy a coffee a day. Nineteen dollars in my checking, I have nothing and owe more.
I’ve got nothing and owe more.
I’ve got nothing and owe more.
I owe more.
Sick. Sick. Sick. Matt. Sick and tired. Jogger 20 minutes. Stairs 5 minutes. Ball Abs.
My biggest accomplishment is in the Cryptoquip.
My hands are dry. Crack, bleed, bend and break.
I rather be the stay in bed all day with him, wearing pj pants and missing the point, that there is more to life than kisses and constant reassurance, that he still loves me five minutes after he says it.
I am begging for the experiences and they keep sending them my way, one on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another on top of another… I am post-it notes and constant reminders. I am sitting quietly and listening intently. I am setting good examples and smiling widely. I am curious and positive. I am letting go. I am not thinking about myself, at least not in the sense that I need to achieve, but that I need to learn, that I want to learn and will do for others in order to learn. In order to…
Drop
Drip.
The heat turned on.
The fan is singing me a lullaby.
I forgot what this was for.
Do you need to know where my mind is at?
Can you see…
Drip.
Drop…. The ball.
Wonders will never cease.
I don’t want to miss the carnival but I don’t want to go alone.
I need a candy apple in my belly, sticky stuck to my teeth and lips, juice dripping off my chin.
Drop.
I’m considering him for marriage, for offspring and wondering if we could make it long term, or if we’d get bitter and turn at the first sign of great disagreement. I want to name my daughter Ann.
And I’m looking into saving money, how to do it, if I ever get it, because I’m thinking for the first time ever, where we’d live and how we’d live. I always wanted a house, but how did I suppose I’d get it?
There’s lip-print marks on the financial literacy notes I took, and that about sums the injustification of setting down words that don’t exist and saving receipts in a 30 day time, just to find that I don’t have money to spend and only buy a coffee a day. Nineteen dollars in my checking, I have nothing and owe more.
I’ve got nothing and owe more.
I’ve got nothing and owe more.
I owe more.
Sick. Sick. Sick. Matt. Sick and tired. Jogger 20 minutes. Stairs 5 minutes. Ball Abs.
My biggest accomplishment is in the Cryptoquip.
Monday, October 6, 2008
toucha toucha toucha touch me
i consistently find myself thinking about all of us loving one another. manKIND. GENTLEmen. women are the saviours of the s=planet. but why do we limit ourselves to one lover at a time? ive never understood this. you dont have one friend at a time do you?
intimacy is special, but it shouldnt be so because of its scarcity. all our bodies are different.your heart lies where it does, its undeniable and anyone with eyes can read it. i dont think its selfish or dishonorable to want to experience as many sexual endeavors as you wish - but weve grown this standard that only one should receive sexual devotion, only one may be touched. i dont think so.
maybe in the future everyone will be bi! wouldnt that be so........!!!
we are so afraid of contact, so many of us.....when you bump into someone in public, your autopilot goes "sorry" or "excuse me" 'or "beg yhouer pardon"....what?! are the defenses so blind we must apologize for accidentally infiltrating the fortress, because the subway is crowded? maybe one day people will run into one another....and say....
Hello.
intimacy is special, but it shouldnt be so because of its scarcity. all our bodies are different.your heart lies where it does, its undeniable and anyone with eyes can read it. i dont think its selfish or dishonorable to want to experience as many sexual endeavors as you wish - but weve grown this standard that only one should receive sexual devotion, only one may be touched. i dont think so.
maybe in the future everyone will be bi! wouldnt that be so........!!!
we are so afraid of contact, so many of us.....when you bump into someone in public, your autopilot goes "sorry" or "excuse me" 'or "beg yhouer pardon"....what?! are the defenses so blind we must apologize for accidentally infiltrating the fortress, because the subway is crowded? maybe one day people will run into one another....and say....
Hello.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
goodnightmoon
-this freewrite brought
to you by the concepts
of waste and creation;
namely the diametrically
opposed forces, excremeent,
conception-
i don't want to
waste you letters
in this conccptres
so limits, limits: exhausted
p. ppp.p pp. pp.
as. p p. asp. tis
apis asp. sapps
(and please keep that bass
down I'm traying to go
to sleep and dont yu
understand what I'm trying
to do here? surlnaarylf)
of efort dont not goin to
overus words n letrs
only once per word -
my prosal being tha refoing
this waste wil lead to conepti of more -
stilk alt I want is lips fingertp touch and
what a wa te of this time regret for
lo s -- taste this conception
to you by the concepts
of waste and creation;
namely the diametrically
opposed forces, excremeent,
conception-
i don't want to
waste you letters
in this conccptres
so limits, limits: exhausted
p. ppp.p pp. pp.
as. p p. asp. tis
apis asp. sapps
(and please keep that bass
down I'm traying to go
to sleep and dont yu
understand what I'm trying
to do here? surlnaarylf)
of efort dont not goin to
overus words n letrs
only once per word -
my prosal being tha refoing
this waste wil lead to conepti of more -
stilk alt I want is lips fingertp touch and
what a wa te of this time regret for
lo s -- taste this conception
It Tastes The Way You Smell
Winter is falling down around in tinsel colors bright and cheap, we wear red and green, and call the sickness holiday. Little boys gone dead sprout into pumpkin vines that bear no fruit and tomatoes swell too full and drop, unnoticed to the ground. One bite warns off any rodent who has grown fat with summer berries. Stained fingers save a few for father or eat them greedily without the adventure told to another soul.
We run around the point and mosquitoes bite our ankles, stealing without asking, what we dare not give to lovers willing.
There are dishes in the sink and bedspreads still worth staining, but I’ve got days to warm it now, before I’ll have the chance.
We’ll slap hands and laugh until the neighbor sets the dogs out, and windows smash from rough intentions, biting necks and crushing kidneys.
You left your scarf and hat behind, striped around my bedpost, and I was left to shed my tears from all the kisses you would miss, the week or so you left them.
It shouldn’t sting so much to have the coffee cup three days old sitting, by the side that warmed the sheets and is in control of deeper feeling. And Sunday is the day to start, new cycles once again. As pink droplets reign over mother nature and stop the monthly flow. I grow my own trees of progress and promise that our seeds will never mix, that we will never share, one heartbeat, eight weeks old.
I’d ask you what George Washington and cavemen have in common, than tell you it’s their hair. Thanks to pen and sharpie, the King shall live again.
And I’ll mix one with won and hardly know the difference, saving bottle caps for Christmas. We’ll put Vaseline on our rough edges and stop and go, stop and go, pull hair and swear, until my mouth is swollen ripe and red and teeth have bitten through. It shouldn’t be and missing pieces we think of me inside of you.
And if you judge my bare reflections, leave me elbows wet and sudsy in the sink, I’ll eat raw egg and smash the dishes, down around our cold wool feet. For we’ve got blankets, blacks and browns, while she’s a Patrick Star. And I can’t help but think of when you leave me at your car. Face still lined with salt, I press upon the day, when good-bye is just a trick we use to give ourselves some space.
The screams are constant now and break against the rocks to wails. Some cult is chanting in a language, the director chose to tape. Budgets set on gallons of blood and shirts that rip away. Halloween cascades as some unsentimental day.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Tip #1 - Use paper
Write down your thoughts on paper, either in a notebook or a sketchbook or whatever, before typing them up to place them on the internet. This will let you write more naturally, let the text move around on the page without any forethought, and such. It can also be easier to let your mind go when you don't have to worry about the mechanics of typing.
quantifiable & justification
i wonder if we're quantifiable by
the stuff we leave lying around the
room like: bowling pin rock'em sock'em
robot ring voo doo doll; i wonder if thats
all we are if so then I:
am paper pileup, words words words
all across the floor - I am just books
and papers and discarded food boxes milk
cartons cabbage soup all I am is
loose change paper clips pen caps
clean me up throw me out but maybe
better than Institutional. maybe White
Wash Walls, maybe Bar-red wIndows
maybe Straight Jacket stitutional,
but thats all in the past
the phase out mind moments those times
that life was quantifiable by intoxicants
psychostabilizers and the casual
affrontery of those ugly upturned
eyes. now i'm tired, crumpled
not yet yellowed.
but lets talk about quantifiable
nature of this mind behind
these eyes up this right nostril
(the left plugged too tight)
and anyway, really, whats all this all about: understanding tastes
too pretentious but maybe thats all we have. Life -- is whats spewing
out of us all the time and it slows to trickles and this guy in white measures
it bottles it
-- quantifiable -- like the nature of the Atom
of the Cell. Like the nature of orgasm, like the nature
of people all tied up together hearts.
the stuff we leave lying around the
room like: bowling pin rock'em sock'em
robot ring voo doo doll; i wonder if thats
all we are if so then I:
am paper pileup, words words words
all across the floor - I am just books
and papers and discarded food boxes milk
cartons cabbage soup all I am is
loose change paper clips pen caps
clean me up throw me out but maybe
better than Institutional. maybe White
Wash Walls, maybe Bar-red wIndows
maybe Straight Jacket stitutional,
but thats all in the past
the phase out mind moments those times
that life was quantifiable by intoxicants
psychostabilizers and the casual
affrontery of those ugly upturned
eyes. now i'm tired, crumpled
not yet yellowed.
but lets talk about quantifiable
nature of this mind behind
these eyes up this right nostril
(the left plugged too tight)
and anyway, really, whats all this all about: understanding tastes
too pretentious but maybe thats all we have. Life -- is whats spewing
out of us all the time and it slows to trickles and this guy in white measures
it bottles it
-- quantifiable -- like the nature of the Atom
of the Cell. Like the nature of orgasm, like the nature
of people all tied up together hearts.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
