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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
