the easiest thing in the world is to stay quiet. kristen painted my face. it looked frightening but also lovely. lovely like some dead warrior or a fury. now i try to scrub and rub it away. it hurts. i am patched and andres hanna and kristen are making chicken nuggets.
today i bought a book. today i sang real loud, then my mom came in and told me to be quiet. while i was singing i felt real good, like i was connecting to someone or something. i remember eating at the blue star diner with alex hall. and we dreamed up some funny idea, some funny little world where we owned a diner and worked there and smoked cigarettes off the back porch. the food was great.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
today was a snow day
today was a snow day and it felt good. black out then white out and its good to be here. In the recent weeks I have found a new sense, it tastes like something familiar and nothing that I know. Drank 99 bananas and passed out yesterday, feels like a month ago. a year ago. this is not the same time. And today was a snow day and i laughed so hard. it would be nice to start reading more. it would be nice to have a routine. but ive never really done that before. pretty neat to have things be all flighty and shit, never know what you're gonna get. its nice, but its tired. i do actually have energy when i want to, thats something fun to know. today was a real person.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
spin doctor
Flash flood. Its cold out baby,its cold outside. I keep hearing these trucks dumping trash and pounding trash and playin real loud.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
from april 2008 - angry didn't want to lose it
You pressed your hand againts my mouth and instructed me not to breathe.
Locked in a house of matches, you douse me in gasoline.
Locked in my tin chest beats a potatoe heart.
Locked in my anger, I am a whimper
and I can't make you hear me over your own cacophony of shame.
How dare you?
My walls are crumbling and you are dreaming of sunshine.
You pressed your hand againts my chest and instructed me not to feel.
Strip me down, and you slice saw dust into my wounds.
You are wrong, I will escape this house of flame.
You are first on my list of things to forget,
and yet I still miss the smell of your laugh.
You are a catalyst of your own misfortune and I will dance out of your way as you spin out of control.
You held your face againts mine and promised me you'd never choke.
Not that I need air, I don't need to breathe.
And you sang me lies until my ears forgot truth.
Now, perhaps I will fight for my life, in your sea of hot cowardess.
And I am lost in the sight of you, and my body is burnt and cold.
You have me in an ashen grave, and by the time I pull myself out,
the buds of hope will be curled in your heart.
And until then, I will goosestep and rain until this fire is out.
Locked in a house of matches, you douse me in gasoline.
Locked in my tin chest beats a potatoe heart.
Locked in my anger, I am a whimper
and I can't make you hear me over your own cacophony of shame.
How dare you?
My walls are crumbling and you are dreaming of sunshine.
You pressed your hand againts my chest and instructed me not to feel.
Strip me down, and you slice saw dust into my wounds.
You are wrong, I will escape this house of flame.
You are first on my list of things to forget,
and yet I still miss the smell of your laugh.
You are a catalyst of your own misfortune and I will dance out of your way as you spin out of control.
You held your face againts mine and promised me you'd never choke.
Not that I need air, I don't need to breathe.
And you sang me lies until my ears forgot truth.
Now, perhaps I will fight for my life, in your sea of hot cowardess.
And I am lost in the sight of you, and my body is burnt and cold.
You have me in an ashen grave, and by the time I pull myself out,
the buds of hope will be curled in your heart.
And until then, I will goosestep and rain until this fire is out.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
