Sunday, December 6, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
often never enough
we lost our open mouthes somewhere in space
the currency is different there, like smokey explosions where no one can see
the combination of our heat and our wholes make the night wicked
its cold here and the baby cried when i tried to kiss her face
in the evenings we sat by fires, hopeful, because kindling wrapped in birch bark ignite
and scorch, it is desirable to feel this alive
it is sinful to take too much
the ground work has been lain, or tried
sometimes the beams shake and we cannot find our way to safe ground
each step mocks the last and each time we move, our bodies tremble
whether it is from the anticipation of fear or from the regularity of the sensation cannot be discerned
when the moon rose again this month i noticed the sliver first
i noticed the black sky in its absence and i counted the stars that filled its void
with the coming months i feel the new and the ending and seek the grace that might fall on us if the path is paved
we are never the construction workers, we say the same
and i never let cats join in in our unraveling spool games
the ink is drying, the pages have stuck together
my monkey arms lose their flexibility and i wonder if it ever was
to begin the day with a night is a new. i search for the cave where once i was brilliant
and now the attics dust comes to settle on sheets and stuffed bears with no true name
i cannot find my keys, misplaced in the hands of a sister
who lives in cancer heaven like a stag or a falcon
she holds her pincers nobly, her arch angel name echos off the stones that once were dirt
secret names float through the air, and together we noted the importance
their importance.
the candle burned to the core, when its wick was lit the flame had three parts
and its deepest, a black orb so pure is mistaken for shame
mistaken for shame or hurt, simply because its outer shells invite and rage
i hold candles to my chest, sometimes to let the wax drop, slither, harden, crack.
I tenderly peel away dead light and care for the broken.
under needled conifer a twelve year old gelded chestnut lost his rider
finding there the quiet that barns and pastures cannot obtain
the chestnut flicks his ears, there are no flies
we watch, we are eager children and we have spotted some great treasure
your head is a wasteland, you would have me believe, nothing grows but baby spiders
and speaking frankly, i noticed your fear before anything else
and i looked at you from across cement one night, and your eyes shined just so
and your lips moved to part the silence
if that moment ever completes, i will bathe myself in sand until the unobtainable because untainted
and then there came the time when i saw red bumps along my skin
now a tattoo artist lies comatose, his masterpiece unfinished, his client sulks
her back is undone
you mentioned once that you felt with every inch of your soul and i forgot to ask you if
that is different from the heart.
im coming around, started or startled
perhaps like a bird, caged and wrinkled, the floor is paper clippings and droppings
collecting the impatience of time in a fluttering canary's chest
its pale yellow reminds me of easter sun and altered eggs
the girl runs forever, her hair holds beads in place, in two years she will outgrow the style and start to repress her beauty
it is catastrophic, her sixth birthday blamed the rest
six is half less than twelve, the glass remained half empty for considerable years, tripping even the smallest wires
i watched as you watched her, and from the inside she squirmed, the new old and the old new cannot exist together without a disruption
'come with me' called the wind, i was tempted.
the wind knows the breath of every world, could it forever circulate? perhaps the air that you taste in phoenix is my exhale from alaska.
speaking through time our voices travel, it is so without our knowledge, in weak moments we forget that we came from an eggshell
we forget each other, because our bodies cannot touch
we do not know how to touch our thoughts
you have assured me that someday it will happen
i hold out for someday
but not for you
hindi gods and holy cow come to me in my dreams
when walking through gardens the spirits of dead beans flock to subdued shepherds
they sleep with their eyes open to trick the moon, they speak in hushed tones to trick themselves
i myself find the fields full of life, you see them as harvested exclusion
the worrisome never rest, i want to tell you this, sleep with your heart extended to the hurtling heavens
with dreams come vision and we lock together that close perfection
i cannot yet find our differences
when the red sea parted and coarse hair curled, i watched from the overhanging trees
biblical babies storm sand castles, clenching their fists to take the crusade to your back porch
thats where we sat, with our fingers and our tick hearts tocking as we spoke
its then that i reminded you of our tea with the queen and the knights who raised their weapons to us when we crossed the threshold
she sang in a garden, and we stole the pears from her trees
to see pear trees in the arctic, no wonder our lives have been so blessed
as it comes to pass we prepare our silences
the breaded and bleeding breasts that we set to the fire browned and calmed after a few moments
still nothing but the hour glass tells time, stuck to the table, a fairy tale, a curse
a witch with her nose in a book, she calls on her sister for comfort only to find her feet twisted beneath the basement
the black dog always saw more than those would have thought
and for christmas this year you suggested we dress in costume and character
i understand now that the ground work was never truly lain
it bleeds instability leaving footsteps dangerous, it is just as much work to find the audience as it is to write the story
shifts of the unknown often leave the weary in constant shock, it is impossible for us to find our way back
who are the people that we have become, they follow in shadows, stalking the future as energy claims its prize in our ponders
we shake the leaves off dying trees and dance in the plunging foliage, sometimes you tell me that things will be OK
sometimes you surprise even me, but often never enough.
the currency is different there, like smokey explosions where no one can see
the combination of our heat and our wholes make the night wicked
its cold here and the baby cried when i tried to kiss her face
in the evenings we sat by fires, hopeful, because kindling wrapped in birch bark ignite
and scorch, it is desirable to feel this alive
it is sinful to take too much
the ground work has been lain, or tried
sometimes the beams shake and we cannot find our way to safe ground
each step mocks the last and each time we move, our bodies tremble
whether it is from the anticipation of fear or from the regularity of the sensation cannot be discerned
when the moon rose again this month i noticed the sliver first
i noticed the black sky in its absence and i counted the stars that filled its void
with the coming months i feel the new and the ending and seek the grace that might fall on us if the path is paved
we are never the construction workers, we say the same
and i never let cats join in in our unraveling spool games
the ink is drying, the pages have stuck together
my monkey arms lose their flexibility and i wonder if it ever was
to begin the day with a night is a new. i search for the cave where once i was brilliant
and now the attics dust comes to settle on sheets and stuffed bears with no true name
i cannot find my keys, misplaced in the hands of a sister
who lives in cancer heaven like a stag or a falcon
she holds her pincers nobly, her arch angel name echos off the stones that once were dirt
secret names float through the air, and together we noted the importance
their importance.
the candle burned to the core, when its wick was lit the flame had three parts
and its deepest, a black orb so pure is mistaken for shame
mistaken for shame or hurt, simply because its outer shells invite and rage
i hold candles to my chest, sometimes to let the wax drop, slither, harden, crack.
I tenderly peel away dead light and care for the broken.
under needled conifer a twelve year old gelded chestnut lost his rider
finding there the quiet that barns and pastures cannot obtain
the chestnut flicks his ears, there are no flies
we watch, we are eager children and we have spotted some great treasure
your head is a wasteland, you would have me believe, nothing grows but baby spiders
and speaking frankly, i noticed your fear before anything else
and i looked at you from across cement one night, and your eyes shined just so
and your lips moved to part the silence
if that moment ever completes, i will bathe myself in sand until the unobtainable because untainted
and then there came the time when i saw red bumps along my skin
now a tattoo artist lies comatose, his masterpiece unfinished, his client sulks
her back is undone
you mentioned once that you felt with every inch of your soul and i forgot to ask you if
that is different from the heart.
im coming around, started or startled
perhaps like a bird, caged and wrinkled, the floor is paper clippings and droppings
collecting the impatience of time in a fluttering canary's chest
its pale yellow reminds me of easter sun and altered eggs
the girl runs forever, her hair holds beads in place, in two years she will outgrow the style and start to repress her beauty
it is catastrophic, her sixth birthday blamed the rest
six is half less than twelve, the glass remained half empty for considerable years, tripping even the smallest wires
i watched as you watched her, and from the inside she squirmed, the new old and the old new cannot exist together without a disruption
'come with me' called the wind, i was tempted.
the wind knows the breath of every world, could it forever circulate? perhaps the air that you taste in phoenix is my exhale from alaska.
speaking through time our voices travel, it is so without our knowledge, in weak moments we forget that we came from an eggshell
we forget each other, because our bodies cannot touch
we do not know how to touch our thoughts
you have assured me that someday it will happen
i hold out for someday
but not for you
hindi gods and holy cow come to me in my dreams
when walking through gardens the spirits of dead beans flock to subdued shepherds
they sleep with their eyes open to trick the moon, they speak in hushed tones to trick themselves
i myself find the fields full of life, you see them as harvested exclusion
the worrisome never rest, i want to tell you this, sleep with your heart extended to the hurtling heavens
with dreams come vision and we lock together that close perfection
i cannot yet find our differences
when the red sea parted and coarse hair curled, i watched from the overhanging trees
biblical babies storm sand castles, clenching their fists to take the crusade to your back porch
thats where we sat, with our fingers and our tick hearts tocking as we spoke
its then that i reminded you of our tea with the queen and the knights who raised their weapons to us when we crossed the threshold
she sang in a garden, and we stole the pears from her trees
to see pear trees in the arctic, no wonder our lives have been so blessed
as it comes to pass we prepare our silences
the breaded and bleeding breasts that we set to the fire browned and calmed after a few moments
still nothing but the hour glass tells time, stuck to the table, a fairy tale, a curse
a witch with her nose in a book, she calls on her sister for comfort only to find her feet twisted beneath the basement
the black dog always saw more than those would have thought
and for christmas this year you suggested we dress in costume and character
i understand now that the ground work was never truly lain
it bleeds instability leaving footsteps dangerous, it is just as much work to find the audience as it is to write the story
shifts of the unknown often leave the weary in constant shock, it is impossible for us to find our way back
who are the people that we have become, they follow in shadows, stalking the future as energy claims its prize in our ponders
we shake the leaves off dying trees and dance in the plunging foliage, sometimes you tell me that things will be OK
sometimes you surprise even me, but often never enough.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tries to avoid the shortcut
This is the end of everything that I have ever known. What happens next could change everything. For a long time now I have been feeling the fever of change, it is burning me alive until I find that smoky reprise, where everything fits. What scares me, what amazes me, what takes me under is the fact that probably nothing will ever fit. In some ways this is a relief. For no one, would I change my person, but for a love I could conceive putting different aspects of my being out there. There are many to choose from, which is also frightening and a relief.
In the end, it will just be me, and I am fully aware of that. This life is for people, it is for you and it is for me. What this means to me means I can love like I have no tomorrow. It means that from now on, there is no reason to forget what I am saying now. It means that from this moment on I will spend my life finding joy and pain and every other detail that I cannot think of at this time.
It is shaming to say that I have been afraid for the majority of my life. This statement is true, however there was a time when I was the most carefree and happy person I could imagine. When the transformation took place, I could not pin point exactly. Possibly it occurred when I was five, that it happened so early is once again, frightening and a relief. The amount of time that I spent unhappy just means that there is less for me to not understand. For it is true, I do understand unhappiness, perhaps. This thought does not frighten me anymore. The only thing that frightens me is being afraid. Who was it that said “the only thing to fear is fear itself”? Franklin D. Roosevelt.
What I need to work on is taking myself out of a moment. To learn how to be without fully being there is something that I must master. This is all of course speculative because I cannot know what anyone else is thinking but me. The only thoughts that I know are my own. This is also frightening and a relief. To be able to read someone’s mind would be a dangerous thing, I personally already think I know what people are thinking all the time and that is a burden; whether it is true that I know these thoughts or not.
Mel Gibson starred in a movie called What Women Want. Apart from a wonderful use of alliteration, this movie projects the thoughts of women after Mel’s character falls into a bathtub and gets electrocuted. The thoughts that we the viewers hear along with Mel’s character (his true name slips me) are for the most part shallow and self involved. Does this portray women as vapid or just humanity? The fact that he is able to hear only women’s intimate thoughts bothers me slightly. Perhaps it’s just my Women Studies class finally getting to me, but this invasion into the most secret place that there could ever be, and to only venture into the minds WOMEN is degrading.
If you think about it, the mind is the one place that is impossible for other people to explore. No matter what anyone thinks, they will never know me unless I let them and that is the beauty of the mind. It is the ultimate escape place. No one can follow me there, and I use it often. It is almost as though it is my home, and to come out means leaving the safest place in the world. Perhaps my depression has been because I have spent too much time in my head. For the life of me I cannot believe why this would be true, only I can. If you spend too much time with yourself you become isolated from other humanity, which is vitally important as a person to find. If you do not spend enough time in your head then you become shallow and unconcerned with yourself, with your spiritual self at least. This is death.
It is important, in my views to balance these notions. One cannot spend too much time in their head, but they must also spend enough time there to understand themselves. It is tricky and almost unfair to ask of someone, but really, who is doing the asking? This might be too tangential even for me. Just going to have to take it anyway, sometimes it’s good to follow the white rabbit.
The subject of god, God, Allah… I couldn’t even begin to cover all of the names of that being. To be honest, I don’t know if I would want to. It is just such a mountain; I am very out of shape. But really, am I? It seems that I do a fair amount of thinking; I find love in me that I am not sure originated from me. Could it be that there is a being that cares for me, that knows I am here, that I am present, that my eyes are open? Is there an all knowing force? This goes back to reading minds. If there is a God that knows all, knows your shames and your joys then what? And what gives that being the right to know me when I myself do not. This is all theoretical of course, because who would want to admit to something like that.
There is that fear again, it is fear that is humanities greatest downfall, of that I am sure. It would be my pleasure to help fight that fear, I will be a warrior for hope.
In the end, it will just be me, and I am fully aware of that. This life is for people, it is for you and it is for me. What this means to me means I can love like I have no tomorrow. It means that from now on, there is no reason to forget what I am saying now. It means that from this moment on I will spend my life finding joy and pain and every other detail that I cannot think of at this time.
It is shaming to say that I have been afraid for the majority of my life. This statement is true, however there was a time when I was the most carefree and happy person I could imagine. When the transformation took place, I could not pin point exactly. Possibly it occurred when I was five, that it happened so early is once again, frightening and a relief. The amount of time that I spent unhappy just means that there is less for me to not understand. For it is true, I do understand unhappiness, perhaps. This thought does not frighten me anymore. The only thing that frightens me is being afraid. Who was it that said “the only thing to fear is fear itself”? Franklin D. Roosevelt.
What I need to work on is taking myself out of a moment. To learn how to be without fully being there is something that I must master. This is all of course speculative because I cannot know what anyone else is thinking but me. The only thoughts that I know are my own. This is also frightening and a relief. To be able to read someone’s mind would be a dangerous thing, I personally already think I know what people are thinking all the time and that is a burden; whether it is true that I know these thoughts or not.
Mel Gibson starred in a movie called What Women Want. Apart from a wonderful use of alliteration, this movie projects the thoughts of women after Mel’s character falls into a bathtub and gets electrocuted. The thoughts that we the viewers hear along with Mel’s character (his true name slips me) are for the most part shallow and self involved. Does this portray women as vapid or just humanity? The fact that he is able to hear only women’s intimate thoughts bothers me slightly. Perhaps it’s just my Women Studies class finally getting to me, but this invasion into the most secret place that there could ever be, and to only venture into the minds WOMEN is degrading.
If you think about it, the mind is the one place that is impossible for other people to explore. No matter what anyone thinks, they will never know me unless I let them and that is the beauty of the mind. It is the ultimate escape place. No one can follow me there, and I use it often. It is almost as though it is my home, and to come out means leaving the safest place in the world. Perhaps my depression has been because I have spent too much time in my head. For the life of me I cannot believe why this would be true, only I can. If you spend too much time with yourself you become isolated from other humanity, which is vitally important as a person to find. If you do not spend enough time in your head then you become shallow and unconcerned with yourself, with your spiritual self at least. This is death.
It is important, in my views to balance these notions. One cannot spend too much time in their head, but they must also spend enough time there to understand themselves. It is tricky and almost unfair to ask of someone, but really, who is doing the asking? This might be too tangential even for me. Just going to have to take it anyway, sometimes it’s good to follow the white rabbit.
The subject of god, God, Allah… I couldn’t even begin to cover all of the names of that being. To be honest, I don’t know if I would want to. It is just such a mountain; I am very out of shape. But really, am I? It seems that I do a fair amount of thinking; I find love in me that I am not sure originated from me. Could it be that there is a being that cares for me, that knows I am here, that I am present, that my eyes are open? Is there an all knowing force? This goes back to reading minds. If there is a God that knows all, knows your shames and your joys then what? And what gives that being the right to know me when I myself do not. This is all theoretical of course, because who would want to admit to something like that.
There is that fear again, it is fear that is humanities greatest downfall, of that I am sure. It would be my pleasure to help fight that fear, I will be a warrior for hope.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
its gut check time
my secret is eating me. there is no way i will ever say it. I have already said it, which makes it even better. It isn't so much that I don't want people to know, because really.. I don't care. I just can't make it real to myself. If I say it outloud, it wont be be true anymore. I'm having fun with this secret. This secret and I are friends.
Last night I dreamed that everyone was unjust. I was the only person who knew what was real and everyone listened to me. Its like that movie about idiots. i can't go into detail, my brain is made of much. my writing professor was having a bad day, I wanted to hold her hand and tell her it would be ok. I didn't because she would probably sue me or something. Only, I don't really think she would. Sometimes I just want to kiss people. I have to get out. i can't be at this school anymore. im going crazy. its too small. i think im bored. im so bored. fuck. i get bored so easily. escape route. commitment issues. blah blah. i am going. i can't even write right now.
Last night I dreamed that everyone was unjust. I was the only person who knew what was real and everyone listened to me. Its like that movie about idiots. i can't go into detail, my brain is made of much. my writing professor was having a bad day, I wanted to hold her hand and tell her it would be ok. I didn't because she would probably sue me or something. Only, I don't really think she would. Sometimes I just want to kiss people. I have to get out. i can't be at this school anymore. im going crazy. its too small. i think im bored. im so bored. fuck. i get bored so easily. escape route. commitment issues. blah blah. i am going. i can't even write right now.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Griz
Going for two, when really it should be three. But that is a secret.
At some point I'll make it to the library, where I will not do any work.
I will feel productive though, because I read the Bible this morning, and it was kind of moving.
God versus god. Its a thought. I'm good at working with the incomplete. If I had someone to start things for me, I could finish them. Team effort. I like team efforts. I hate working with people. I'm better alone. I hate to be alone.
didIgetya? I smell like old laundry. Its sickening, I almost like it. Defiance, I can understand that word much more than stupidity. Maybe the two go hand in hand, because really, I am so defiant for no reason. Just for the fuck of it. Its me, fucking shit up. Every day. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. A lot, but its just social trouble, and really. who gives a fuck about that.
Obviously we all do, thats why its funny.
Today I have to write three papers. I have to read more of the Bible and I have to read some other stuff. In reality, I don't actually have to do it today, but if I don't, I wont. I know myself. Maybe I'm just being defiant of myself. Thats a new one.
Not really though, because I remember because sad when I was young and staying sad just because I could.
But I don't think thats really the same thing.
For lunch today I had the usual asparagus, (i just turned my itunes on and the first song that came up was We're All Mad Here by the lovely Tom Waits) tofu and potatoes. It was oddly satisfying. I like being a vegetarian. It takes some of the joy out of eating, which really needed to happen for me. Eat to survive. Thats how it should be. But I still enjoy it. Its just a need. Like drink, or sex. or mind games. Mind games are more important to me than eating.
We're all mad here. Mad as a hatter. I like to scare people. not to the point where they are damaged.. but sometimes its good to remind people that im not sane. i mean, for the most part.. yes i am a sane individual. i function in society and i can have a conversation, and maybe we could even have a relationship and you would never know that i have a back exit. thats how i like to think of it. if i so choose i can leave.
It brings the question of sanity into the picture though. Thanks Tom! For instance, my oldest friends dad is getting sued by his ex-girlfriend. We don't know why. They had a rocky relationship as far as I know, but my friends dad is a great guy and there is no reason in the world that the ex-girlfriend should be doing this. I guess that doesn't really make sense..but the point is that crazies are out there. and the more people can understand that, the less crazy the crazies are. and then who cares? and then people can be themselves. people would step outside of their fear of not fitting into society.
i have to make a new paragraph to slow myself down. i just feel so strongly! if people were kind, if people were patient, if we could just have more compassion and try to understand WHY someone is doing what they are doing, then the world would be such a different place. i try to do these things, I guess thats all i can possibly ask for. it isn't easy to break new ground, or even think about it. its scary! and society is here for a reason, right? so why bother fighting! but you have to fight. i have to fight. i get so bored if im not feeling passionate about something. or some one.
I have no closing thoughts. i lied.
i want to breech the 4th wall.
happy.
At some point I'll make it to the library, where I will not do any work.
I will feel productive though, because I read the Bible this morning, and it was kind of moving.
God versus god. Its a thought. I'm good at working with the incomplete. If I had someone to start things for me, I could finish them. Team effort. I like team efforts. I hate working with people. I'm better alone. I hate to be alone.
didIgetya? I smell like old laundry. Its sickening, I almost like it. Defiance, I can understand that word much more than stupidity. Maybe the two go hand in hand, because really, I am so defiant for no reason. Just for the fuck of it. Its me, fucking shit up. Every day. Sometimes it gets me into trouble. A lot, but its just social trouble, and really. who gives a fuck about that.
Obviously we all do, thats why its funny.
Today I have to write three papers. I have to read more of the Bible and I have to read some other stuff. In reality, I don't actually have to do it today, but if I don't, I wont. I know myself. Maybe I'm just being defiant of myself. Thats a new one.
Not really though, because I remember because sad when I was young and staying sad just because I could.
But I don't think thats really the same thing.
For lunch today I had the usual asparagus, (i just turned my itunes on and the first song that came up was We're All Mad Here by the lovely Tom Waits) tofu and potatoes. It was oddly satisfying. I like being a vegetarian. It takes some of the joy out of eating, which really needed to happen for me. Eat to survive. Thats how it should be. But I still enjoy it. Its just a need. Like drink, or sex. or mind games. Mind games are more important to me than eating.
We're all mad here. Mad as a hatter. I like to scare people. not to the point where they are damaged.. but sometimes its good to remind people that im not sane. i mean, for the most part.. yes i am a sane individual. i function in society and i can have a conversation, and maybe we could even have a relationship and you would never know that i have a back exit. thats how i like to think of it. if i so choose i can leave.
It brings the question of sanity into the picture though. Thanks Tom! For instance, my oldest friends dad is getting sued by his ex-girlfriend. We don't know why. They had a rocky relationship as far as I know, but my friends dad is a great guy and there is no reason in the world that the ex-girlfriend should be doing this. I guess that doesn't really make sense..but the point is that crazies are out there. and the more people can understand that, the less crazy the crazies are. and then who cares? and then people can be themselves. people would step outside of their fear of not fitting into society.
i have to make a new paragraph to slow myself down. i just feel so strongly! if people were kind, if people were patient, if we could just have more compassion and try to understand WHY someone is doing what they are doing, then the world would be such a different place. i try to do these things, I guess thats all i can possibly ask for. it isn't easy to break new ground, or even think about it. its scary! and society is here for a reason, right? so why bother fighting! but you have to fight. i have to fight. i get so bored if im not feeling passionate about something. or some one.
I have no closing thoughts. i lied.
i want to breech the 4th wall.
happy.
Coyote and the Moon
It comes to me in waves. These last few weeks have been a blur, for no reason. This morning I woke up at 7:22, Laura and Jack are gone for now and were gone when I woke, so I decided to take a walk. It was kind of planned out already, I hadn't thought about it, but I knew the second that I opened my eyes that I would do it. It was kindly and beautiful. If only I could build a temple every place that I visited, thats what I'm working on now. Creating finds me on these days, and I am grateful for it.
Last nights full moon put me on edge. It seems that I took the role of Coyote, one that I am familiar with, perhaps I am now. It was an interesting night and I barely said a word. This is a poem that I wrote at some point:
Dewey Finds a Lover
I want to fall in love with a librarian
But communicate solely through
"Chat With a Librarian"
Which I am told should never be used
As a dating service
She would not wear spectacles
And correct all of my spelling errors.
I get offended when knowledge is lorded over
I get offended when My Librarian doesn't
Return texts.
Careful Frank came down the stairs
He wore spectacles.
Careful Frank, your poor slippers, padding
Like Clifford the dog, big tongue
The Librarian sips Orangina, her straw is clear
My Librarian has broad shoulders
She swaggers, she limps, gold leaves
My Librarian collects beautiful images.
When she reads to me, My Librarian lets her hair go
And she laughs, and I laugh, I am reminded
That this is a love story
For once
And when this new winter comes, I will
Stow my summer dresses under Milan Kundera
He sits like a prince on my frock.
I tell him I don't like feminists
He doesn't look surprised, I have a traitor face
He says he wishes I were real
And I respond in the same
Before My Librarian comes home for lunch
These are pictures from my walk this morning
I do have more to say, I wont say it. Yet.
Last nights full moon put me on edge. It seems that I took the role of Coyote, one that I am familiar with, perhaps I am now. It was an interesting night and I barely said a word. This is a poem that I wrote at some point:
Dewey Finds a Lover
I want to fall in love with a librarian
But communicate solely through
"Chat With a Librarian"
Which I am told should never be used
As a dating service
She would not wear spectacles
And correct all of my spelling errors.
I get offended when knowledge is lorded over
I get offended when My Librarian doesn't
Return texts.
Careful Frank came down the stairs
He wore spectacles.
Careful Frank, your poor slippers, padding
Like Clifford the dog, big tongue
The Librarian sips Orangina, her straw is clear
My Librarian has broad shoulders
She swaggers, she limps, gold leaves
My Librarian collects beautiful images.
When she reads to me, My Librarian lets her hair go
And she laughs, and I laugh, I am reminded
That this is a love story
For once
And when this new winter comes, I will
Stow my summer dresses under Milan Kundera
He sits like a prince on my frock.
I tell him I don't like feminists
He doesn't look surprised, I have a traitor face
He says he wishes I were real
And I respond in the same
Before My Librarian comes home for lunch
These are pictures from my walk this morning
I do have more to say, I wont say it. Yet.
Monday, October 19, 2009
i dont think i know that band
it may be a close call, but tonight feels like rubber gloves, its tight, its fitting.
it has become sectional, and i am relieved for the layers in my life. each room fits another sense, i can bring myself to the ends of everything, or the beginning of mist, a time undone. in this season, i am plump and picked. my hasty time of indian summer, i cradle these soft notions in the crook of my arm, in the palm of my hand. I am sprung unwound in this autumnal drift. it finds me in this mood, a drifting light, it laughs at me, it sings at me. these ideas of foreshadow, its a simple twist, that in the end, we knew it all along. it was realized then, that every dance was more of a cling, and in the end the ancients sung like buzzing armies; it was shown to the wind that the ice would crack under pressure.
in the winter my hands crack, i grow ancient, my spindle fingers trace the outlines of young dandelions. in the winter, i will draw my face up in color, take the white from the air and tickle the tips of snow forts and glens. pines with frosted needles, i crave the hollow life that lives dormant at my feet.
it has become sectional, and i am relieved for the layers in my life. each room fits another sense, i can bring myself to the ends of everything, or the beginning of mist, a time undone. in this season, i am plump and picked. my hasty time of indian summer, i cradle these soft notions in the crook of my arm, in the palm of my hand. I am sprung unwound in this autumnal drift. it finds me in this mood, a drifting light, it laughs at me, it sings at me. these ideas of foreshadow, its a simple twist, that in the end, we knew it all along. it was realized then, that every dance was more of a cling, and in the end the ancients sung like buzzing armies; it was shown to the wind that the ice would crack under pressure.
in the winter my hands crack, i grow ancient, my spindle fingers trace the outlines of young dandelions. in the winter, i will draw my face up in color, take the white from the air and tickle the tips of snow forts and glens. pines with frosted needles, i crave the hollow life that lives dormant at my feet.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
covered in pine needles, its tricky today
the sky is ripe and heavy
it aches to let go
and the earth wants for nothing but mist
the hot chocolate of each building is getting stale
the smoldering is not quite a smolder today
but more of a drum, drum
there is still time, come on
we are a falling ash and right before we burn out
right before we hit the sun, eyes will blaze
and the rockets will breach the orbit
you have shifted my gravitational pull, strange one
you have lifted my veil, my blindness recedes
only to lie thick on the floor, but i am calling every inch of gratitude
will you look my way again
the sky is ripe and heavy
it aches to let go
and the earth wants for nothing but mist
the hot chocolate of each building is getting stale
the smoldering is not quite a smolder today
but more of a drum, drum
there is still time, come on
we are a falling ash and right before we burn out
right before we hit the sun, eyes will blaze
and the rockets will breach the orbit
you have shifted my gravitational pull, strange one
you have lifted my veil, my blindness recedes
only to lie thick on the floor, but i am calling every inch of gratitude
will you look my way again
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
excrement
i am going to call this different, because it should be. it should be something that i can touch, but it wont be. i have decided that I am the only person in the world. i have listened to the calls from the hills, and my language skills wont quite cut it these days.
i will pray, for the lost, and the soon to be lost. O, holy. so holy to be found.
the screaming isn't the last of it, and i can't help but find myself afraid of the ticking of blue things and the decisions that facebook takes. the commitment that it is to have a facebook account, and one of these days when i write out facebook it will come up in the spell check, because that just seems to be the way of the world these days.
i dont like to edit my work. my typo said 'i dont like to edit my word'. i liked that better, so i added it just now. its not so much that i demand perfection, but i demand the grass on my skin, and the woods and the lakes and rivers. i would eat one thousand mosquitos to taste their skin. too small one at a time. a meal of collected blood and life.
there was a man i knew, who told me the story of mosquito. a giant who ate man and woman a like. i dont want to retell the story. that is not my place.
it is interesting to me that in spite of everyything the crab apple tree takes in its breath and it lets out its breath and i could only learn to do that. i spent the day at the bus stop, trying to convince myself that leaving wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. and i am a runner, and my feet are tired of germany and the last 12 years and the problem never seems to go away but maybe if i just back it into the river i can sneak past the tigers and the yellow hair and the yellow this and that because yellow has been a huge part of my life, but i don't like to think so, because yellow broke my heart and i haven't been able to touch green since.
earlier i received a strange phone call from a man who had his shit figured out. the only reason that the my doorway is blocked is because the times to recieve phones calls from help has passed and now i am shitting the world out, and it surfaces like a whale, only so much larger, because i am atlas or so id like to believe.
he stretches his hands, and then he touches his balls and licks his fingers. he does not see that i see, and i will pretend that i didn't, so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. harriet the spy was always just a little girl, and it was slightly heartbreaking to see her nanny get fired. i read the book once but nothing stands out to me more than a girl covered in paint and tears. i wanted to hold her hand and tell her that she will be fine. O, harriet, i too was covered in pain, but i did not wash myself of it. i let it sit and thicken over the years and i let the dust and air mix with it, and now i have several different colors reflected in my skin like a soft game. the game was over, and i never completed my assignment. which was to reflect on the meaning of life, but i said 'hey honey, im livin it. i wont know till its over' and i liked that answer and i was pleased with myself for giving that answer and so i thought to myself that maybe just this once i would be able to take my shirt off and stand in front of the mirror with a smile on my face and then maybe it would be ok to have a date or two or three, or maybe the girls in the dressing room wouldn't actually snicker at me and then i would wake up and it would be a whole new day.
maybe this is a book. maybe i am writing to the editor of the nearest publications and then maybe i wont ever sell a word, but i think that i am not afraid. i am not afraid. and i will say it everyday until it isn't true. but then when it is true i will find the biggest stick and beat the shit out of everything isee. i hope there will be breakable important things surrounding me. i hope that when i snap i will take the wind and ride it until i reach asia.
asia, where i have never been. i hear that its ok to beyellow. oh yellow. oh yellow. i have missed you so and still i cannot get you out of my mind. and maybe this is a tribute to you, you who lives within me like a candle and its your flame that burns me and warms me and tickles my throat and i want to touch you on the outside or bring you to the surface, but if i say that does it count? do we count??? because i miss my friend alexandria because it was her who might have saved me but i wont admit that except for right now, when i am being most honest but will most likely regret it later, but i regret everything and nothing so it doesn't even matter and now i am thinking that maybe i should just put that whole thing in ( ) but now that ive said that i dont think i need to.
i am wearing all black today, and i am taking my objective eye out and putting it in the spirit that floats like a boat, only much thicker and achier and i wonder if i will lose that one girl who i thought i liked so much, but is turning out to be a sad story. maybe i will let go of all of this, and write myself to death, because i think that is a very reasonable possibility. and now i am ready to SCREAM IT LONG. maybe i am just crazy. but its mine, so i can say it as often as i want. and people who are insane actually live in society all the time and get away with it, so maybe for now i will get away with my unnamed and untouched disorder which i find to actually be of the HIGHEST order, and maybe i will sing the rest of this.
the chances that i will ever feel the break are slim. when i was young i thought life was a basket of fruit, until my heart was broken of what i cannot say. there is that pull. come on now. there was always that pull and then i found it and i let it take me and now i am the slave of the blue and the blue and the blue who never seems to take my hand but always seems to touch my hand and i think that maybe i am just a little girl in the body of a one hundred year old mountain lion and then there was the lion who i actually knew, and the one who never let me know him. he was a coward, and the other lion, the girl lion, that wasn't me, was so sweet and true and afraid and i pushed her out the door twice and she hasn't asked to come back inside yet.
but i am not worried.
i might be the end of the world. i could be the incarnate of the truest evil and not even know. it happens all the time that way. the road to hell is paved with good intentions.i have given myself the last dose of crying games and the last night of rotten raindeer and i am so sick of spell check because i dont really care about how a word is spelled, until the ape man took to writing and stole the wind from under me and probably hurt me more than i can admit to myself. and then the sorrow that i feel for mistreating that wounded thing who only pretends to be wounded. i wonder how her heart feels and if she knows the truth behind her name. she is a fawn. she is the fawn in my novel. and the boy who smells like a fish but hunts like ashark and i think that he is more devious than even i could have thought and i respect him for that because people that i can figure out bore me and then i dont want to be near them because i think that i am better than so many people, when im not. im not at all. im just a girl in a horses body and the cast of characters is as follows of not not limited to
the wolf
the fawn
the fish
the scorpion
the lamb
the crab
the blue
sweet yellow
the mouse
and the brown mouse
i could write a love story to the brown mouse.
i will pray, for the lost, and the soon to be lost. O, holy. so holy to be found.
the screaming isn't the last of it, and i can't help but find myself afraid of the ticking of blue things and the decisions that facebook takes. the commitment that it is to have a facebook account, and one of these days when i write out facebook it will come up in the spell check, because that just seems to be the way of the world these days.
i dont like to edit my work. my typo said 'i dont like to edit my word'. i liked that better, so i added it just now. its not so much that i demand perfection, but i demand the grass on my skin, and the woods and the lakes and rivers. i would eat one thousand mosquitos to taste their skin. too small one at a time. a meal of collected blood and life.
there was a man i knew, who told me the story of mosquito. a giant who ate man and woman a like. i dont want to retell the story. that is not my place.
it is interesting to me that in spite of everyything the crab apple tree takes in its breath and it lets out its breath and i could only learn to do that. i spent the day at the bus stop, trying to convince myself that leaving wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. and i am a runner, and my feet are tired of germany and the last 12 years and the problem never seems to go away but maybe if i just back it into the river i can sneak past the tigers and the yellow hair and the yellow this and that because yellow has been a huge part of my life, but i don't like to think so, because yellow broke my heart and i haven't been able to touch green since.
earlier i received a strange phone call from a man who had his shit figured out. the only reason that the my doorway is blocked is because the times to recieve phones calls from help has passed and now i am shitting the world out, and it surfaces like a whale, only so much larger, because i am atlas or so id like to believe.
he stretches his hands, and then he touches his balls and licks his fingers. he does not see that i see, and i will pretend that i didn't, so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. harriet the spy was always just a little girl, and it was slightly heartbreaking to see her nanny get fired. i read the book once but nothing stands out to me more than a girl covered in paint and tears. i wanted to hold her hand and tell her that she will be fine. O, harriet, i too was covered in pain, but i did not wash myself of it. i let it sit and thicken over the years and i let the dust and air mix with it, and now i have several different colors reflected in my skin like a soft game. the game was over, and i never completed my assignment. which was to reflect on the meaning of life, but i said 'hey honey, im livin it. i wont know till its over' and i liked that answer and i was pleased with myself for giving that answer and so i thought to myself that maybe just this once i would be able to take my shirt off and stand in front of the mirror with a smile on my face and then maybe it would be ok to have a date or two or three, or maybe the girls in the dressing room wouldn't actually snicker at me and then i would wake up and it would be a whole new day.
maybe this is a book. maybe i am writing to the editor of the nearest publications and then maybe i wont ever sell a word, but i think that i am not afraid. i am not afraid. and i will say it everyday until it isn't true. but then when it is true i will find the biggest stick and beat the shit out of everything isee. i hope there will be breakable important things surrounding me. i hope that when i snap i will take the wind and ride it until i reach asia.
asia, where i have never been. i hear that its ok to beyellow. oh yellow. oh yellow. i have missed you so and still i cannot get you out of my mind. and maybe this is a tribute to you, you who lives within me like a candle and its your flame that burns me and warms me and tickles my throat and i want to touch you on the outside or bring you to the surface, but if i say that does it count? do we count??? because i miss my friend alexandria because it was her who might have saved me but i wont admit that except for right now, when i am being most honest but will most likely regret it later, but i regret everything and nothing so it doesn't even matter and now i am thinking that maybe i should just put that whole thing in ( ) but now that ive said that i dont think i need to.
i am wearing all black today, and i am taking my objective eye out and putting it in the spirit that floats like a boat, only much thicker and achier and i wonder if i will lose that one girl who i thought i liked so much, but is turning out to be a sad story. maybe i will let go of all of this, and write myself to death, because i think that is a very reasonable possibility. and now i am ready to SCREAM IT LONG. maybe i am just crazy. but its mine, so i can say it as often as i want. and people who are insane actually live in society all the time and get away with it, so maybe for now i will get away with my unnamed and untouched disorder which i find to actually be of the HIGHEST order, and maybe i will sing the rest of this.
the chances that i will ever feel the break are slim. when i was young i thought life was a basket of fruit, until my heart was broken of what i cannot say. there is that pull. come on now. there was always that pull and then i found it and i let it take me and now i am the slave of the blue and the blue and the blue who never seems to take my hand but always seems to touch my hand and i think that maybe i am just a little girl in the body of a one hundred year old mountain lion and then there was the lion who i actually knew, and the one who never let me know him. he was a coward, and the other lion, the girl lion, that wasn't me, was so sweet and true and afraid and i pushed her out the door twice and she hasn't asked to come back inside yet.
but i am not worried.
i might be the end of the world. i could be the incarnate of the truest evil and not even know. it happens all the time that way. the road to hell is paved with good intentions.i have given myself the last dose of crying games and the last night of rotten raindeer and i am so sick of spell check because i dont really care about how a word is spelled, until the ape man took to writing and stole the wind from under me and probably hurt me more than i can admit to myself. and then the sorrow that i feel for mistreating that wounded thing who only pretends to be wounded. i wonder how her heart feels and if she knows the truth behind her name. she is a fawn. she is the fawn in my novel. and the boy who smells like a fish but hunts like ashark and i think that he is more devious than even i could have thought and i respect him for that because people that i can figure out bore me and then i dont want to be near them because i think that i am better than so many people, when im not. im not at all. im just a girl in a horses body and the cast of characters is as follows of not not limited to
the wolf
the fawn
the fish
the scorpion
the lamb
the crab
the blue
sweet yellow
the mouse
and the brown mouse
i could write a love story to the brown mouse.
its funny how you expect it
through the songs that were sung under the trees
and falling leaves
and something beautiful
ive been waiting for this
this tiny moment.
and it has not disappointed.
i keep telling people that despite the way i feel, there is no meaning behind the mask
and the longing, the longing, the longing, how i have longed for that
that idea which the palm tree will not register. the oriental rug is starting to tear
i am asking all the wrong questions
and with such hope
such reserve
'i would die for you'
and falling leaves
and something beautiful
ive been waiting for this
this tiny moment.
and it has not disappointed.
i keep telling people that despite the way i feel, there is no meaning behind the mask
and the longing, the longing, the longing, how i have longed for that
that idea which the palm tree will not register. the oriental rug is starting to tear
i am asking all the wrong questions
and with such hope
such reserve
'i would die for you'
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
last night
last night was the time when my head was full of dreams that might have in truth been real.
the dream was a warm whistle and it enslaved me, and it enslaved me and it reminded me of a soggy sock and a sticky rag, but i didn't think that that was the end, because usually in dreams i am falling at the end, and i am falling into my body and it tastes like cherries, which is strange because i haven't eaten a cherry since i was ten, and life was sweet, like a cherry or a blood spot.
in the morning, i think to myself, that i will ride a bike across the lawn, and then maybe i will be able to sing along with the words that never really registered to me, but the melody was nice and so i loved every minute of it. it was like a heart attack, i would later think, in the morning that had not come yet. it was like a blue lagoon where i spotted the blonde top of a woman who never trusted me, of a woman who appears in the background of every one of my thoughts. but sometimes i mistake her for a dream that i never had, and so instead of living like a rotten egg, i sit up and let my pounding heart stare at the wall until it can catch its breath, and i can catch my breath and we can all see the end of the story coming, only its less strategic than you would think.
the you is metaphorical, this in turn leads to the horrible night when no one ever showed up and i was in that pink party dress and i waved my hands and i let the yellow light drink me up like i was the nile, and the skin was the nile, and the impressions that we all left on each other were the ones that would matter, and this is why the night was stinking of sex and sin and oily bodies that never seemed to stop seizing, and i was like a hurricane but my name is not new orleans of frank or anything stupid like that, and i killed more people than the surrounding wars, and then i kicked my way into a prison and let all the prisoners go, where im sure they would still be if it weren't for the narrow arrows that shot us all down from some kind of cliff or ledge.
i did not see the shooter, i did not see the the whip us into the sky, or the motorboat whir its wheels and i am so bored of this tangent that i am awaken with a shout and a hug and i missed the exit and i lied ota girl who was actually really nice to me even though she pretended that we were in love when we first met, but i never thought that it was ok, because i dont believe in love at first sight. except for that one time when everything was still and it wasn't even really like a first sight but a first smell, or taste of a first world rocking and then the night ended and all i had was in my mouth was a nervous laugh and a cotton candy piece of tar gum.
the dream was a warm whistle and it enslaved me, and it enslaved me and it reminded me of a soggy sock and a sticky rag, but i didn't think that that was the end, because usually in dreams i am falling at the end, and i am falling into my body and it tastes like cherries, which is strange because i haven't eaten a cherry since i was ten, and life was sweet, like a cherry or a blood spot.
in the morning, i think to myself, that i will ride a bike across the lawn, and then maybe i will be able to sing along with the words that never really registered to me, but the melody was nice and so i loved every minute of it. it was like a heart attack, i would later think, in the morning that had not come yet. it was like a blue lagoon where i spotted the blonde top of a woman who never trusted me, of a woman who appears in the background of every one of my thoughts. but sometimes i mistake her for a dream that i never had, and so instead of living like a rotten egg, i sit up and let my pounding heart stare at the wall until it can catch its breath, and i can catch my breath and we can all see the end of the story coming, only its less strategic than you would think.
the you is metaphorical, this in turn leads to the horrible night when no one ever showed up and i was in that pink party dress and i waved my hands and i let the yellow light drink me up like i was the nile, and the skin was the nile, and the impressions that we all left on each other were the ones that would matter, and this is why the night was stinking of sex and sin and oily bodies that never seemed to stop seizing, and i was like a hurricane but my name is not new orleans of frank or anything stupid like that, and i killed more people than the surrounding wars, and then i kicked my way into a prison and let all the prisoners go, where im sure they would still be if it weren't for the narrow arrows that shot us all down from some kind of cliff or ledge.
i did not see the shooter, i did not see the the whip us into the sky, or the motorboat whir its wheels and i am so bored of this tangent that i am awaken with a shout and a hug and i missed the exit and i lied ota girl who was actually really nice to me even though she pretended that we were in love when we first met, but i never thought that it was ok, because i dont believe in love at first sight. except for that one time when everything was still and it wasn't even really like a first sight but a first smell, or taste of a first world rocking and then the night ended and all i had was in my mouth was a nervous laugh and a cotton candy piece of tar gum.
this morning
this morning I slept with my eyes open
the cradle rocked, but nothing happened and it seemed to me that the way everything was floating was probably something needless and long.
in fact, everything is needless and long and even though we are touching at the hips i do not want to touch any further
you are a dusty barn
i am the cattle who ran off the with spoon
much to my chagrin the owl pellets only contained birds eyes
i didn't know that owls were cannibalistic, i didn't know that the bats could fly during the day
but i read it in a book somewhere, a fictional book, but it could be true
because i like to believe things like that, because i like to think that there is something out there
something like a tap dance or a real dance or a barn yard dance because we are the melting particles of a life cycle that i don't want to end.
the end is like a nutshell, and i have throw the seeds to the wind like a robin who tweets, who tweets, who sends mobile tweets to mobile senior citizens and then i realize that i have to sign up for a bank, i have to sign up for a bank because currently all of my money is hidden under the glass elephant that sits in my corner, that sits like a small paper plate. but much larger. but but grander. because he is an elephant and because i am a falling leaf.
i was encouraged to steal words, to hide them in my lungs. and so i do, i have a connection to the real world that tastes like gravy, and im not sure that i like it, but im not sure that i have a choice. so instead i sit in my room and listen to a blonde boy ask for danishes that will never taste as good as they did when i visited oxford.
where the streets were paved wwith gold and under the blue sky sat lyra and her friends and then i remember that she is fictional too, and so am i, and so is this headache and so is the room where im sitting with the emptiness of conversation and the blue dust that is actually yellow and actually orange and actually lodged in my nasal cavity.
the emptiness touches my back, and i promised that i would never drink another gatorade again because i hear that they have weird chemicals in them, and i like to be the purest thing. the most pure thing. the only thing that i could never be, because under the secret elephant that lives in my room is a black bird, only this black bird is real, and is the only real thing i have ever seen, and so i keep it under the fake elephant and it sits and squawk but it is a muffled squawk because i can't let it go, because if i did i would mush it to pieces and eat its feathers and then it would be gone and i would have no one to sing me to sleep.
the cradle rocked, but nothing happened and it seemed to me that the way everything was floating was probably something needless and long.
in fact, everything is needless and long and even though we are touching at the hips i do not want to touch any further
you are a dusty barn
i am the cattle who ran off the with spoon
much to my chagrin the owl pellets only contained birds eyes
i didn't know that owls were cannibalistic, i didn't know that the bats could fly during the day
but i read it in a book somewhere, a fictional book, but it could be true
because i like to believe things like that, because i like to think that there is something out there
something like a tap dance or a real dance or a barn yard dance because we are the melting particles of a life cycle that i don't want to end.
the end is like a nutshell, and i have throw the seeds to the wind like a robin who tweets, who tweets, who sends mobile tweets to mobile senior citizens and then i realize that i have to sign up for a bank, i have to sign up for a bank because currently all of my money is hidden under the glass elephant that sits in my corner, that sits like a small paper plate. but much larger. but but grander. because he is an elephant and because i am a falling leaf.
i was encouraged to steal words, to hide them in my lungs. and so i do, i have a connection to the real world that tastes like gravy, and im not sure that i like it, but im not sure that i have a choice. so instead i sit in my room and listen to a blonde boy ask for danishes that will never taste as good as they did when i visited oxford.
where the streets were paved wwith gold and under the blue sky sat lyra and her friends and then i remember that she is fictional too, and so am i, and so is this headache and so is the room where im sitting with the emptiness of conversation and the blue dust that is actually yellow and actually orange and actually lodged in my nasal cavity.
the emptiness touches my back, and i promised that i would never drink another gatorade again because i hear that they have weird chemicals in them, and i like to be the purest thing. the most pure thing. the only thing that i could never be, because under the secret elephant that lives in my room is a black bird, only this black bird is real, and is the only real thing i have ever seen, and so i keep it under the fake elephant and it sits and squawk but it is a muffled squawk because i can't let it go, because if i did i would mush it to pieces and eat its feathers and then it would be gone and i would have no one to sing me to sleep.
Friday, July 17, 2009
if the fan were to stop we would all be still
that achy breath is hard to ignore. the calf suckles and thinks of a song that reminded her of winter.
it was sweet, and heavy, a distinct smokey sunrise to it. in the meadow she stretches her spindle legs, the arch of her back is hollow. she is weak from dead grass in her mothers breast. if the naked sun would touch upon those beady eyes, maybe she would see something grander. this is just a speculation, and in fact the only reason this tender heifer is still alive is her rabid sense of duty to the land. she touches her tongue to the leftover dung and tastes something that reminded her of winter.
it was sweet, and heavy, a distinct smokey sunrise to it. in the meadow she stretches her spindle legs, the arch of her back is hollow. she is weak from dead grass in her mothers breast. if the naked sun would touch upon those beady eyes, maybe she would see something grander. this is just a speculation, and in fact the only reason this tender heifer is still alive is her rabid sense of duty to the land. she touches her tongue to the leftover dung and tastes something that reminded her of winter.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
c'mon
I am reminded that we are all mortal, and i, most of all am not god. well, you could have fooled me, because all of these years I have been running around with a chip on my shoulder like it actually mattered. and now, now the earth smells like it did when i was five and in a green velvet dress. thats a good thing, great even. for the first time in years (in year?) i am touching like a new born.
i spent two hours yesterday testing myself. i met someone. someone who i can't place. someone familiar to something lost. but someone so different and frightening. he watched me as i sat on the grass, and i let him see me. see, this is where the testing comes in. i let him see what was there, and he didn't leave. he stayed, and he smiled and made eye contact and even touched my arm like a lover would. perhaps this is when i realize that the gate that i have kept so locked, so well guarded has been breached. but more than that, i have let the doors swing open, and i have ushered in a flock of new ideas, new hope. im not ashamed to say that i know him better than i know that one year and change.
i spent two hours yesterday testing myself. i met someone. someone who i can't place. someone familiar to something lost. but someone so different and frightening. he watched me as i sat on the grass, and i let him see me. see, this is where the testing comes in. i let him see what was there, and he didn't leave. he stayed, and he smiled and made eye contact and even touched my arm like a lover would. perhaps this is when i realize that the gate that i have kept so locked, so well guarded has been breached. but more than that, i have let the doors swing open, and i have ushered in a flock of new ideas, new hope. im not ashamed to say that i know him better than i know that one year and change.
Friday, June 26, 2009
I have come!
IN full force. In leather shoes. With blisters and back aches, but baby, I'm here.
I came in rude mornings and long nights of laughter.
I came in the bed too big for me, sand in my toes and lips.
This is where we belong.
I came to this park, to the wind, for the wind, by the wind.
The wind is my mother, and I came in the swing of things.
The day before and after and inbetween, I came like the rockets were lifting me off the ground.
Only I didn't have to move a finger.
I have come, in.
Listlissly like the ocean, or the mud.
I have the back of the world in the palms of my hands and I am begging for the day to come
So that I can see the sky like an orange
O-R-A-N-G-E
EEEEEEEEEEE.
e
If I ever thought that this was nothing, I would have looked back
On the pier that I remember, for some reason, even though
I was only there twice
Or maybe three
But I came, and I fought, and that is why
With the beach touching my face, and the coral
Twisting in my hair. This is why.
The open place, of home. Of forgetting and forgiving and no more for you, missy.
I have the last chance to ever be free, and let me tell you sugar. I am taking it.
Like the cock and the hen. ANd their brood of babies, who will be fried nice and good in a pan by my brother.
In the woods from my father
And from the rain like my mother.
I have one of each and its time to bow out.
Not graceful, I aint no swan.
More like a rook, or a king, or a night.
I was a lesbian. I was a man. I was the tin cake that never got eaten.
Pretty to look at.
Pretty to mistrust.
Never mistrust.
Follow, cause I'm halfway there.
I came in rude mornings and long nights of laughter.
I came in the bed too big for me, sand in my toes and lips.
This is where we belong.
I came to this park, to the wind, for the wind, by the wind.
The wind is my mother, and I came in the swing of things.
The day before and after and inbetween, I came like the rockets were lifting me off the ground.
Only I didn't have to move a finger.
I have come, in.
Listlissly like the ocean, or the mud.
I have the back of the world in the palms of my hands and I am begging for the day to come
So that I can see the sky like an orange
O-R-A-N-G-E
EEEEEEEEEEE.
e
If I ever thought that this was nothing, I would have looked back
On the pier that I remember, for some reason, even though
I was only there twice
Or maybe three
But I came, and I fought, and that is why
With the beach touching my face, and the coral
Twisting in my hair. This is why.
The open place, of home. Of forgetting and forgiving and no more for you, missy.
I have the last chance to ever be free, and let me tell you sugar. I am taking it.
Like the cock and the hen. ANd their brood of babies, who will be fried nice and good in a pan by my brother.
In the woods from my father
And from the rain like my mother.
I have one of each and its time to bow out.
Not graceful, I aint no swan.
More like a rook, or a king, or a night.
I was a lesbian. I was a man. I was the tin cake that never got eaten.
Pretty to look at.
Pretty to mistrust.
Never mistrust.
Follow, cause I'm halfway there.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
stand bye me
i have forgotten the norm.
i am a control freak.
and the shadow came to the ehnd when the wall shot us down.
it is time to stop trying. it is time to start the end.
love me pure. love me pure despite my idiotic behavior. i know i have it, in full display.
forgett came..
i am a control freak.
and the shadow came to the ehnd when the wall shot us down.
it is time to stop trying. it is time to start the end.
love me pure. love me pure despite my idiotic behavior. i know i have it, in full display.
forgett came..
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
gia
continuously i feel slighted by my mother. in this fifteen minute span of waking she has already insulted me before the family.
the sad thing is, she wants it to matter more to me than it does. she just yells hurls temper tantrums like she is a five year old. i am so angry to day.
the sad thing is, she wants it to matter more to me than it does. she just yells hurls temper tantrums like she is a five year old. i am so angry to day.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sweetly, sweetly the slight end was up.
This is not the end, but rather the beginning. My written word knows nothing, and too much. Simultaneously.
In this story, the heroine finds her temper unbound, and through this, she knows what must be.
How to pack the bag, how to hold the head, to turn the key.
It is all relevant.
It is the finding, of adventure, the one that she doesn't really want, but needs..
It is this, that she must believe to be relevant, because..why should any of it matter
if it is happening to her.
In my experiences, it is the weak who find themselves, and the strong who always knew.
In my experience there is never a lie, but a spin of the truth, and this makes all the difference.
In my experience, when the wind blows just right, so that maybe you receive another lands sand, maybe this is the clue.
The cue. And you must begin.
In this story, the heroine finds her temper unbound, and through this, she knows what must be.
How to pack the bag, how to hold the head, to turn the key.
It is all relevant.
It is the finding, of adventure, the one that she doesn't really want, but needs..
It is this, that she must believe to be relevant, because..why should any of it matter
if it is happening to her.
In my experiences, it is the weak who find themselves, and the strong who always knew.
In my experience there is never a lie, but a spin of the truth, and this makes all the difference.
In my experience, when the wind blows just right, so that maybe you receive another lands sand, maybe this is the clue.
The cue. And you must begin.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
tricks
its a tired day, and its only going to get faster.
I don't feel as though I have caught my breath yet.
I don't feel as though I have caught my breath yet.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
learning the blues
Today is dark. The clouds are heavy and so are my eyes. Puffy from shifting in my sleep and dreaming about rain.
I have an affinity to the south, I want those hot winds that knock you out, and hold you up. I want to stick my toes in the Mississippi (em-eye-ess-ess-eye-ess-ess-eye-pee-pee-eye)river, and run through fields full of..what do they grow down there.. tobacco? Sure, that works.
To be honest, I have never been to the deep south, or any kind of south. Florida being the closest. I don't really count that though, maybe I should. I don't know much, but I like to dream about it. I like to pretend I know everything about everything. Being indignant and stubborn makes people think that you know what you're talking about. My lungs hurt, I need to stop smoking. I don't really want to though.
As sick as it is, I like depending on something so useless. Sucking at the tips of something deadly, inhaling tiny puffs, and then I reek of something forbidden. Only, its not so forbidden anymore, I think I'm losing interest. I get bored easily. And I change my mind more often than I change my underwear.
I haven't written a poem in a month. I haven't written a poem that I cared about in a year. I'm being dramatic, and deadpan. That is my shield, everything is huge and I don't give a shit about it. Because I tend to get upset about small things. or misunderstandings. And I'm too impatient to wait for an answer, so I make up my own.
I'm starving, and I want to learn about everything that ever happened. And why things are still happening, and when they will stop. I have goosebumps and I am going to go out into the storm soon. Maybe. Probably not, to be honest.
Today I am going to read and listen to Benny Goodman. Its Sunday, and I have nothing that needs to be done. Thats actually far from true. Be careful about things that I tell you, there is a 75% chance that I am lying.
Monday, April 13, 2009
you are the cosmic american, gal
its a beautiful day. one of the nicest i have seen in a long time. and yet i cant get myself out into it, im stuck here, wedged like a dutch boy in a dam. its become a daily thing, the "ok. youre done" mantra. its like the difference between "you can do this" and "i can do this." i discovered that one while i was driving.
i love to drive, it probably comes from something forgotten. its probably the seeds of something that never got to grow. the soil was too thick perhaps. maybe it smothered them. when i drive, it is the only time i feel like i am in control of anything. even if i fuck it up, even if i kill us all. its just me, and its just the road. ive started to develop massive control issues. i get tense if anyone so much as suggests something else. maybe i should work on my breathing.
ive been thinking a lot about college, as much as i can without actually acknowledging it. because then its real, and then i have to deal with it. today i did nothing. i took my trash out, actually. a rather large step. because i have been staring at the ever growing pile of junk next to my door for over a month now. todays the day. i dont know why it took me so long, it really was that easy.
i played ogre with my two little cousins. kids have gotten more violent since my time. threatening to kill and shoot, it makes me nervous. and it also makes me laugh. it sjust one of those things. like how i can't do anything perfectly, how that makes me upset. or how if i WERE to do something perfectly i would probably feel even worse. there is nothing to improve upon if it comes out perfect the first time. i think my biggest fear is knowing that my best is behind me.
the other day i was talking with my friend, and we were drunk, because we always are, and it was one of those high-speed-frantically-deep talks, where everything you say is exactly how it is. i told her then that my biggest fear was what i would feel the second before death. but now, im not so sure. i have always been afraid of death, a kind of paralyzing fear, that would never let me think of it or speak of it, because then it would make it true. i am absurdly lucky in the fact that I have so far never had anyone very close to me die. i couldn't imagine it. i know that someday i will have to experience that, but thats also one of those things that im just not ready to accept. anyway, the point for this second is, that im not afraid of death right now. im more afraid that when death comes, i wont be ready.
its beautiful out, and my family is fighting, and im more than a little bit lonely, but i dont actually want to be near anyone. its too much work. i guess im just constantly searching for that thing, those seeds that were smothered. is it the kind of thing that can be replanted? because i know that at some point i was there, i was at the sunny patch and i did something right. i guess time will tell if ive put myself into an unsolvable situation.
i love to drive, it probably comes from something forgotten. its probably the seeds of something that never got to grow. the soil was too thick perhaps. maybe it smothered them. when i drive, it is the only time i feel like i am in control of anything. even if i fuck it up, even if i kill us all. its just me, and its just the road. ive started to develop massive control issues. i get tense if anyone so much as suggests something else. maybe i should work on my breathing.
ive been thinking a lot about college, as much as i can without actually acknowledging it. because then its real, and then i have to deal with it. today i did nothing. i took my trash out, actually. a rather large step. because i have been staring at the ever growing pile of junk next to my door for over a month now. todays the day. i dont know why it took me so long, it really was that easy.
i played ogre with my two little cousins. kids have gotten more violent since my time. threatening to kill and shoot, it makes me nervous. and it also makes me laugh. it sjust one of those things. like how i can't do anything perfectly, how that makes me upset. or how if i WERE to do something perfectly i would probably feel even worse. there is nothing to improve upon if it comes out perfect the first time. i think my biggest fear is knowing that my best is behind me.
the other day i was talking with my friend, and we were drunk, because we always are, and it was one of those high-speed-frantically-deep talks, where everything you say is exactly how it is. i told her then that my biggest fear was what i would feel the second before death. but now, im not so sure. i have always been afraid of death, a kind of paralyzing fear, that would never let me think of it or speak of it, because then it would make it true. i am absurdly lucky in the fact that I have so far never had anyone very close to me die. i couldn't imagine it. i know that someday i will have to experience that, but thats also one of those things that im just not ready to accept. anyway, the point for this second is, that im not afraid of death right now. im more afraid that when death comes, i wont be ready.
its beautiful out, and my family is fighting, and im more than a little bit lonely, but i dont actually want to be near anyone. its too much work. i guess im just constantly searching for that thing, those seeds that were smothered. is it the kind of thing that can be replanted? because i know that at some point i was there, i was at the sunny patch and i did something right. i guess time will tell if ive put myself into an unsolvable situation.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Wallow
What is the point of wallowing?
To me, wallowing seems to be the thing you do when its dark and the mirror doesn't seem to be working.
its that stupid brown piece of brick that just doesn't stand in with the rest of em.
I have a beautifully large and painful pimple on my right cheek. it actually isn't quite acne yet...but some sort of red pulsing pain in the ass. cheek. har.
you see, this is vitally important because beauty is pain, and without pain, you 'aint got shit going for you.
today i stayed in bed, mostly. and i thought, as i always do, about how i am and all of that b.s. how when i was young i would crush on just about any chick that came my way via the t.v.
this weeks mad crush is minnie driver. yeah, she has great lips.
let me tell you something about minnie. i used to hate her. back when i was young. a wee tot of 13 years. my aunt loved her. so i thought she was too old. and then my mother called this teacher in my school minnie driver. her name was minnie, so it wasn't completely off base. she dated the man that my aunt decided wasn't good enough for her. she babysat me once or twice. I think that she had a mustache.i KNOW she did. back to the driver...my god mother, who i lost touch with, decided to show me this movie...return to me. it starred the driver and david dooo something (he was in the x-files) i loved it. and now that i have decided to give my heart to an older, famous mother I'm ready to see it again.
the point is, that i always "decide" to hate things because of what my mother tells me. or anyone in that is significantly older than me, unless i find them intolerably attractive. like minnie. driver that is.
i wallow a lot. despite my distaste for it. its one of those hypocritical things that i am so well known for. i could be queen for hypocratica. really, i would be an excellent ruler. and i hate the decemberists. but only because novermeber happened. if you ask those close to me, over the summer of 2007 they were a very dear part of my life. or really, even before that. back in that great year of ninth grade, i clung to them like safety raft. that was back when heavy eye shadow was a staple in my life. that and dismissing those who helped me find who i am.
now she has a husband and kid.
what a life, right?
i think im one drink short. im one bed too small, or one charity too little.
thats alright. im kind of self righteous theses days. even thought i have gotten fat and anti-social. at least i can drive.
To me, wallowing seems to be the thing you do when its dark and the mirror doesn't seem to be working.
its that stupid brown piece of brick that just doesn't stand in with the rest of em.
I have a beautifully large and painful pimple on my right cheek. it actually isn't quite acne yet...but some sort of red pulsing pain in the ass. cheek. har.
you see, this is vitally important because beauty is pain, and without pain, you 'aint got shit going for you.
today i stayed in bed, mostly. and i thought, as i always do, about how i am and all of that b.s. how when i was young i would crush on just about any chick that came my way via the t.v.
this weeks mad crush is minnie driver. yeah, she has great lips.
let me tell you something about minnie. i used to hate her. back when i was young. a wee tot of 13 years. my aunt loved her. so i thought she was too old. and then my mother called this teacher in my school minnie driver. her name was minnie, so it wasn't completely off base. she dated the man that my aunt decided wasn't good enough for her. she babysat me once or twice. I think that she had a mustache.i KNOW she did. back to the driver...my god mother, who i lost touch with, decided to show me this movie...return to me. it starred the driver and david dooo something (he was in the x-files) i loved it. and now that i have decided to give my heart to an older, famous mother I'm ready to see it again.
the point is, that i always "decide" to hate things because of what my mother tells me. or anyone in that is significantly older than me, unless i find them intolerably attractive. like minnie. driver that is.
i wallow a lot. despite my distaste for it. its one of those hypocritical things that i am so well known for. i could be queen for hypocratica. really, i would be an excellent ruler. and i hate the decemberists. but only because novermeber happened. if you ask those close to me, over the summer of 2007 they were a very dear part of my life. or really, even before that. back in that great year of ninth grade, i clung to them like safety raft. that was back when heavy eye shadow was a staple in my life. that and dismissing those who helped me find who i am.
now she has a husband and kid.
what a life, right?
i think im one drink short. im one bed too small, or one charity too little.
thats alright. im kind of self righteous theses days. even thought i have gotten fat and anti-social. at least i can drive.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
freaky sweat bed
let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out. let me out let me. out.
let me out so i can get back in.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
i dont even feel like it anymore
im off roadin', rut stuck and i got a bowl of green grapes (PLU# 4022).
i dont have a job, and no $$ in the bank. somehow all i want to do is see all of the vegetable numbers I can remember. . .
red peppers - 4088
green peppers - 4065
red onions - 4082
sweet onions (this is actually the number i would use for any onion that wasnt red) - 4166
red grapes - 4020
bananas - 4011
potatoes(loose) - 4027 ... or maybe thats sweet potato...
broccoli tops? - 4549
broccoli..everything - 4060
cantaloupe - 4050
liz lemons - 4053
limes - 4048
garlic - 4608
cucumber - 4062
green beans - 4066
cluster (i.e. every) tomato - 4664
- happy and fulfilled, right?
oh thats right, i forgot that it is a saturday night, and that normal people are social, generally. ive spent my day reading and avoiding people. i slept a lot too, and didn't get any work done.
best day ive had in a really long time.
im getting younger, i can feel it. its good though, i didnt know how to be my own age. hey man, ive never been this old before. this is brand new to me. im still working out some kinks.
i dont have a job, and no $$ in the bank. somehow all i want to do is see all of the vegetable numbers I can remember. . .
red peppers - 4088
green peppers - 4065
red onions - 4082
sweet onions (this is actually the number i would use for any onion that wasnt red) - 4166
red grapes - 4020
bananas - 4011
potatoes(loose) - 4027 ... or maybe thats sweet potato...
broccoli tops? - 4549
broccoli..everything - 4060
cantaloupe - 4050
liz lemons - 4053
limes - 4048
garlic - 4608
cucumber - 4062
green beans - 4066
cluster (i.e. every) tomato - 4664
- happy and fulfilled, right?
oh thats right, i forgot that it is a saturday night, and that normal people are social, generally. ive spent my day reading and avoiding people. i slept a lot too, and didn't get any work done.
best day ive had in a really long time.
im getting younger, i can feel it. its good though, i didnt know how to be my own age. hey man, ive never been this old before. this is brand new to me. im still working out some kinks.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
bagels
we were asked earlier if the wind chill mattered.
of course we said "no" because that was the polite thing to do.
it was polite because apparently screaming isn't, and the way i look at you isn't.
i never really knew what it was like to be not told what to do, i dont work well under pressure. and i will hurt you, if you ask me to. im good at that sort of thing, the pretending.
the eating chinese food takeout with stoned christians and blacking out buzzards.
i caught the plague myself in the steamy shower scene that we never acted out.
and never always sounded like a harsh word, but i use it as deployment.
i use people like napkins and horrid dance moves. im not that twig or that rock. ive beaten it all before, and now im just trying to find my way back out.
you don't believe me.
but im magic, in the sense that my glitter is glued to the paper.
the rainbows drawn with crayola and dust.
my childhood eaten in a casserole.
baby girl, turn me on with you electric feel.
of course we said "no" because that was the polite thing to do.
it was polite because apparently screaming isn't, and the way i look at you isn't.
i never really knew what it was like to be not told what to do, i dont work well under pressure. and i will hurt you, if you ask me to. im good at that sort of thing, the pretending.
the eating chinese food takeout with stoned christians and blacking out buzzards.
i caught the plague myself in the steamy shower scene that we never acted out.
and never always sounded like a harsh word, but i use it as deployment.
i use people like napkins and horrid dance moves. im not that twig or that rock. ive beaten it all before, and now im just trying to find my way back out.
you don't believe me.
but im magic, in the sense that my glitter is glued to the paper.
the rainbows drawn with crayola and dust.
my childhood eaten in a casserole.
baby girl, turn me on with you electric feel.
i think youre beautiful
i think that you are beautiful. i think that even with the air this bitter, i can snuggle away until crunchy snow is gone.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
aging back
My back is an old woman.
My lungs are an old woman.
Today my friend turned to an old woman.
I feel stupid.
I wonder if I'll get it done, or just be done.
My lungs are an old woman.
Today my friend turned to an old woman.
I feel stupid.
I wonder if I'll get it done, or just be done.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
night shaws
I have a really hard time talking these days. Maybe its because I spend so much time in the vacation resort (not) that is my head, or maybe its just because as I get older I get more and more socially insane. Maybe the two are not mutually exclusive.
I bought a bag full of snacks after work tonight. I don't know why, I didn't really want anything that I got...and it was a waste of money. This is my life. I'm finding it really hard to care about anything at all these days. Really, difficult. I have no passion left, just dull aches and pains. So, what do I do in order to feel again? IF ONLY IT WERE THAT SIMPLE. or is it?
I bought a bag full of snacks after work tonight. I don't know why, I didn't really want anything that I got...and it was a waste of money. This is my life. I'm finding it really hard to care about anything at all these days. Really, difficult. I have no passion left, just dull aches and pains. So, what do I do in order to feel again? IF ONLY IT WERE THAT SIMPLE. or is it?
hmm
interesting mood shift..
i guess talking makes a difference. who da thunk.
its snowy and beautiful out. i only work 5 hours today.
plenty of time for nothing. ive got back aches, and neck pains. ive been wrestling to get out of bed. but im turning it around (like i say everyday)
har
har
har.
stick bugs. mutiny. mutant.
id like to meet a mutant.
i probably am a mutant.
i guess talking makes a difference. who da thunk.
its snowy and beautiful out. i only work 5 hours today.
plenty of time for nothing. ive got back aches, and neck pains. ive been wrestling to get out of bed. but im turning it around (like i say everyday)
har
har
har.
stick bugs. mutiny. mutant.
id like to meet a mutant.
i probably am a mutant.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
events
currently im in limbo. i have no idea where i am, or where i'm going. im sitting here watching alias with my mom, and gorging on cheez-its. cheesy zits. might as well be. i didnt get into college. sydney bristow just kicked someones ass. im lonely, and i try not to say it out loud (because of how it sounds???) im insecure. extremely. its funny, almost. or it would be if it weren't me. im scared to be around people, because i dont care about anything, and its easier to not care when im alone.
maybe ill just build myself a cage. trap myself there so that i can blame the bars for holding me back. blame the locks and lions that bind me like cement. my cat is beautiful. im not a dog person. im freezing. i took a steaming bath today and read harry potter (this was after i was rejected from kawledge) and i thought 'why cant my life be like harrys?
'. hes a baby. he has the emotional capacity of a five year old. he never really has to do anything for himself.
now take frodo...he has a struggle. he has a fight. (this christmas i got stoned and watched all three lord of the rings. i had a particular connection with gollum. should this worry me?) frodo must truly face evil, and it is masked as happiness. who wouldn't have a hard time with that? i can't say that i have the will power or proper state of mind to make the "right" choice. im having a hard time deciding whats real and whats a lie.
i dont know who i am, but im starting to. i think? i hope so. i know that im more open to it at least. thats a start. and i have the rest of my life to figure that out, right? whats with the hurry. it seems that i cant be young and i cant be old. im not ready but im too ready. and yet when i found out i wasnt accepted i ran to my room to cry and hold my kitten. thats how old i am. thats how why-ze.
i dont know where to go from here. hopefully it will be up. up. i want to meet someone i can be real with. someone who can show me what real means. im not sure if thats realistic or not. but sydney bristow just escaped the bad guys. the pilots over. and ill watch more, just you wait and see.
i used to be in love with her, you know. this was right around the time of my freshman year idiocy. what a joke. mmmm. pie.
maybe ill just build myself a cage. trap myself there so that i can blame the bars for holding me back. blame the locks and lions that bind me like cement. my cat is beautiful. im not a dog person. im freezing. i took a steaming bath today and read harry potter (this was after i was rejected from kawledge) and i thought 'why cant my life be like harrys?
'. hes a baby. he has the emotional capacity of a five year old. he never really has to do anything for himself.
now take frodo...he has a struggle. he has a fight. (this christmas i got stoned and watched all three lord of the rings. i had a particular connection with gollum. should this worry me?) frodo must truly face evil, and it is masked as happiness. who wouldn't have a hard time with that? i can't say that i have the will power or proper state of mind to make the "right" choice. im having a hard time deciding whats real and whats a lie.
i dont know who i am, but im starting to. i think? i hope so. i know that im more open to it at least. thats a start. and i have the rest of my life to figure that out, right? whats with the hurry. it seems that i cant be young and i cant be old. im not ready but im too ready. and yet when i found out i wasnt accepted i ran to my room to cry and hold my kitten. thats how old i am. thats how why-ze.
i dont know where to go from here. hopefully it will be up. up. i want to meet someone i can be real with. someone who can show me what real means. im not sure if thats realistic or not. but sydney bristow just escaped the bad guys. the pilots over. and ill watch more, just you wait and see.
i used to be in love with her, you know. this was right around the time of my freshman year idiocy. what a joke. mmmm. pie.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Sunday, January 4, 2009
sunday
lets just get drunk and fool around with everyone we don't know.
lets cry for no reason and smack talk everyone who meant anything to us.
im ready.
lets cry for no reason and smack talk everyone who meant anything to us.
im ready.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
good morning
kill xx plastics (11:13:15 AM): hey thereeeee
kill xx plastics (11:13:24 AM): i'm listening to P.H.
samanthaschlein (11:13:35 AM): whats ph?
samanthaschlein (11:13:39 AM): HI!!!
kill xx plastics (11:13:44 AM): PARIS HILTON
samanthaschlein (11:13:59 AM): HOW COULD I NOT HAVE KNOWN?
kill xx plastics (11:14:05 AM): I DON'T KNOW!
kill xx plastics (11:14:23 AM): so when we hang out
kill xx plastics (11:14:32 AM): we're going to go to the middlebury bagel shop
kill xx plastics (11:14:40 AM): and goooo get a smoothie at the coop
kill xx plastics (11:14:42 AM): i've..decided
kill xx plastics (11:13:24 AM): i'm listening to P.H.
samanthaschlein (11:13:35 AM): whats ph?
samanthaschlein (11:13:39 AM): HI!!!
kill xx plastics (11:13:44 AM): PARIS HILTON
samanthaschlein (11:13:59 AM): HOW COULD I NOT HAVE KNOWN?
kill xx plastics (11:14:05 AM): I DON'T KNOW!
kill xx plastics (11:14:23 AM): so when we hang out
kill xx plastics (11:14:32 AM): we're going to go to the middlebury bagel shop
kill xx plastics (11:14:40 AM): and goooo get a smoothie at the coop
kill xx plastics (11:14:42 AM): i've..decided
Friday, January 2, 2009
green
our sex was dull
and with it it brought every bit of dust and dilly weed until our faces were numb
until the red light was gone.
in it i saw myself, but heckled and oozing, the slow pulsing wasn't like what i knew.
it was mischievous and the cold new
new
new
new
it was old
like a black man, who i never know
it was like a spoiled child
it was a monkey in paris
and i caught the last of its footage.
im all about the gratitude.
I'm all about the misshapen
its different for us, because we actually love
and its different because there is nothing but this longing
its different because the one
one
one
one
one
is always lost
we're always splendid
thats how we'll stay, we will dance to the northern.
we will cast the blue on the windows
until they cheat us out of the delicate that we know
and i am so glad that we have forsaken
its because there is a new "we" and i call it "myself"
i call it braver
and more like real.
there is nothing but the truth this time
something that the last one would have forgotten.
im breaking every bond that the other would have bled.
its time that we know whats red and whats blood cell.
this time we call the nameless.
we, myself, i, believe it.
there is nothing but us
and until we run waterless its the desert that takes us
and i will know it
love it
feel it
we are dancing because it means the world.
its every dare, its every spirit.
its every half drunk bottle of red and white that we every knew
its the total of two years from now and the morning after
its the dryness of every fucking morning since then.
and i am begging on two knees to let me in. to let the dawn break.
im sick of waiting. let me in mama.
my hope is a dull twitch and i only know you through your judgment.
sometimes i wonder "will you miss me?" and then i remember. i dont care.
you were the lost device. the lost divine.
and now my remote is universal. and my martini is black from lung cancer and gin.
my gin.
my gin.
for real though, its not the end. its the begining and im sorry you can't know me know.
i myself think that im great. I think that without the dark the dawn can't CUM.
the world is pink in this misty morning, this abandoned chic.
i circled the tip of montreal until the sun beat me pink. the color of women.
under the impression that we are all blue.
the mans world.
the universal remote.
call me. versatile
the russian spy.
the only one who sneaked a peak at the future.
he was just as damaged as my best friend.
in ruby glows.
and how long was i out of the country?
how long did my fire flies buzz?
right up until the moment that you smashed their guts along the side of your arm.
"look it glows"
and now we are dining on fish food and vibes.
the kind that tell the worried "itll all be ok"
the kind that eats us whole like maggots and hair.
and meg ryan and blonde hair.
i wonder if she ever knew, like her daughter what it was like to be sunk.
the paint chips on the wall over shadow the yellow of your grin.
I'm happy about it. really, because that means that our sallow is genuine.
the other day i spent the 12.4 hours dancing to music i had forgotten.
its a ritual, between the likely and the insane. feeding their fees to the rich.
to mccully culkin. he was home alone on the holidays. feel for him like i do.
he was shit faced at my new years party. i saved him a drink.
i spent my night feeding off of yellow butts and trying to make you care.
its a different you, so stop trying to figure me out.
there is nothing in that ocean blue that seizes me to you.
its only my epilepsy. and i prescribed the proper antidote.
i use spell check like there is no tomorrow. thats because i can't spell the difference betwean you and mea.
the only thing that sets us apart is you desire to know something real.
oh wait, that was my brain. tick. tick. ticking like there was something else.
like i was the one who waited.
instead i got a "goddess" who waits tables
as at night because there is nothing like the present.
i remember when the slow lights fell for the first time.
when my orgasm wasn't what it had always been.
and i blamed you. for three decades our hearts were bleak, and they toched each other black.
like a kid with dirty hands. and now im positive that artifical life is the only way.
my wool socks glow like mad in the shower. and the steam is starting to filter through to the sun. whats the news? shes asked but i wont answer, because these were the things i left behind.
my toes are numb. this is the real deal, the only real.
reel.
bug.
flesh.
and i can't let go.
teach me how, mama.
teach me to believe.
its not like the only thing i know is doom.
its the opposite.
its because i know the rest of the world that i can notice the shame
fear
and misplaced emotions.
i remember the other moment. i remember every bitchen dream..
how the swallows devoured me until all was left was bones and grease..
i (for the first time) ate the pigeons that lurked in your spinster grave.
it was black, like the dreams, and we called the police to see if the robbings had solved themselves. it was different. because we didn't know.
it was different this time, because no matter what we tried the fucking dark would push in. it was different because this time the wine in the gutter wasn't meant for me.
but i had forgotten that by now.
i swear. sweat.
II.
in the dust we scribbled our names.
i only did it to forgettttt. to let be what was almost the end.
to let sing what was the beginning and the slow decay.
my emptiness is less than that of the bear, the solitude.
my spirit. my ugly yellow. my teeth. blue.
its laughable, i could swear. its breakable.
i could dance.
and with it it brought every bit of dust and dilly weed until our faces were numb
until the red light was gone.
in it i saw myself, but heckled and oozing, the slow pulsing wasn't like what i knew.
it was mischievous and the cold new
new
new
new
it was old
like a black man, who i never know
it was like a spoiled child
it was a monkey in paris
and i caught the last of its footage.
im all about the gratitude.
I'm all about the misshapen
its different for us, because we actually love
and its different because there is nothing but this longing
its different because the one
one
one
one
one
is always lost
we're always splendid
thats how we'll stay, we will dance to the northern.
we will cast the blue on the windows
until they cheat us out of the delicate that we know
and i am so glad that we have forsaken
its because there is a new "we" and i call it "myself"
i call it braver
and more like real.
there is nothing but the truth this time
something that the last one would have forgotten.
im breaking every bond that the other would have bled.
its time that we know whats red and whats blood cell.
this time we call the nameless.
we, myself, i, believe it.
there is nothing but us
and until we run waterless its the desert that takes us
and i will know it
love it
feel it
we are dancing because it means the world.
its every dare, its every spirit.
its every half drunk bottle of red and white that we every knew
its the total of two years from now and the morning after
its the dryness of every fucking morning since then.
and i am begging on two knees to let me in. to let the dawn break.
im sick of waiting. let me in mama.
my hope is a dull twitch and i only know you through your judgment.
sometimes i wonder "will you miss me?" and then i remember. i dont care.
you were the lost device. the lost divine.
and now my remote is universal. and my martini is black from lung cancer and gin.
my gin.
my gin.
for real though, its not the end. its the begining and im sorry you can't know me know.
i myself think that im great. I think that without the dark the dawn can't CUM.
the world is pink in this misty morning, this abandoned chic.
i circled the tip of montreal until the sun beat me pink. the color of women.
under the impression that we are all blue.
the mans world.
the universal remote.
call me. versatile
the russian spy.
the only one who sneaked a peak at the future.
he was just as damaged as my best friend.
in ruby glows.
and how long was i out of the country?
how long did my fire flies buzz?
right up until the moment that you smashed their guts along the side of your arm.
"look it glows"
and now we are dining on fish food and vibes.
the kind that tell the worried "itll all be ok"
the kind that eats us whole like maggots and hair.
and meg ryan and blonde hair.
i wonder if she ever knew, like her daughter what it was like to be sunk.
the paint chips on the wall over shadow the yellow of your grin.
I'm happy about it. really, because that means that our sallow is genuine.
the other day i spent the 12.4 hours dancing to music i had forgotten.
its a ritual, between the likely and the insane. feeding their fees to the rich.
to mccully culkin. he was home alone on the holidays. feel for him like i do.
he was shit faced at my new years party. i saved him a drink.
i spent my night feeding off of yellow butts and trying to make you care.
its a different you, so stop trying to figure me out.
there is nothing in that ocean blue that seizes me to you.
its only my epilepsy. and i prescribed the proper antidote.
i use spell check like there is no tomorrow. thats because i can't spell the difference betwean you and mea.
the only thing that sets us apart is you desire to know something real.
oh wait, that was my brain. tick. tick. ticking like there was something else.
like i was the one who waited.
instead i got a "goddess" who waits tables
as at night because there is nothing like the present.
i remember when the slow lights fell for the first time.
when my orgasm wasn't what it had always been.
and i blamed you. for three decades our hearts were bleak, and they toched each other black.
like a kid with dirty hands. and now im positive that artifical life is the only way.
my wool socks glow like mad in the shower. and the steam is starting to filter through to the sun. whats the news? shes asked but i wont answer, because these were the things i left behind.
my toes are numb. this is the real deal, the only real.
reel.
bug.
flesh.
and i can't let go.
teach me how, mama.
teach me to believe.
its not like the only thing i know is doom.
its the opposite.
its because i know the rest of the world that i can notice the shame
fear
and misplaced emotions.
i remember the other moment. i remember every bitchen dream..
how the swallows devoured me until all was left was bones and grease..
i (for the first time) ate the pigeons that lurked in your spinster grave.
it was black, like the dreams, and we called the police to see if the robbings had solved themselves. it was different. because we didn't know.
it was different this time, because no matter what we tried the fucking dark would push in. it was different because this time the wine in the gutter wasn't meant for me.
but i had forgotten that by now.
i swear. sweat.
II.
in the dust we scribbled our names.
i only did it to forgettttt. to let be what was almost the end.
to let sing what was the beginning and the slow decay.
my emptiness is less than that of the bear, the solitude.
my spirit. my ugly yellow. my teeth. blue.
its laughable, i could swear. its breakable.
i could dance.
nothing
This one is directed to you-- I’ve told them all about the games, the judgmental joys. I always lost at sports, and even now when I know who the ending is talking to, I can’t let go of who you made me. My elbows are cold and my palms are sweaty, I’ve got less to go on now that I did twelve years ago
Pressed against the foundation of our daughter’s bedroom, spooning in her absence I caught the last train to Manistee, where they vacationed on their birthdays. Feeding dolphins toxic reform.
I’m whipping the back of my slaves, but only with good intentions . I’ve never been bought or paid for, something that I’ve always been remorseful of.
There are flakes of snow that drip like spit from the windows. Glass void of ideas or thought.
The inches of debris have lasted the longest, but not out of happiness. Out of boredom perhaps, maybe it was because when they touched, they didn’t mean it (I know I didn’t).
Pressed against the foundation of our daughter’s bedroom, spooning in her absence I caught the last train to Manistee, where they vacationed on their birthdays. Feeding dolphins toxic reform.
I’m whipping the back of my slaves, but only with good intentions . I’ve never been bought or paid for, something that I’ve always been remorseful of.
There are flakes of snow that drip like spit from the windows. Glass void of ideas or thought.
The inches of debris have lasted the longest, but not out of happiness. Out of boredom perhaps, maybe it was because when they touched, they didn’t mean it (I know I didn’t).
ben affleck
i want to be a cowgrrl.
i want to saddle up and ride into the sunset.
ill tip my hat to the ladies when i ride through town.
ill drink you under the table, whiskeys like air.
on a separate note, im watching the women.
not women in general, the film.
movie...not a film.
filmy filmy filmy filmy.
sea foam.
sea lion.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
its too darn hot
The rest of my evening will be spent lounging in my bed, listening to ella fitzgerald, and reading harry potter 4. I can't help but think that I am a fraud. every window seems to be slamming in my face.
i conned myself into feeling again, when i so wisely promised i would never open again. the only slits between storm clouds seem to be the stars and moon. there was sun again today, and i did not take that lightly, although i didn't get to spend as much time as i may have liked outside. i would not say that the day was a waste. a good learning opportunity if nothing else.
im tired of pretending to be someone im not. it just doesn't seem like i can ever get it right, tight, and im jealous in spite. of... of everything. there are very few real things left.
talk to ella.
i conned myself into feeling again, when i so wisely promised i would never open again. the only slits between storm clouds seem to be the stars and moon. there was sun again today, and i did not take that lightly, although i didn't get to spend as much time as i may have liked outside. i would not say that the day was a waste. a good learning opportunity if nothing else.im tired of pretending to be someone im not. it just doesn't seem like i can ever get it right, tight, and im jealous in spite. of... of everything. there are very few real things left.
talk to ella.
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