Wednesday, November 25, 2009
WE PEGGED YOU AS A PROTESTOR
When he was a young boy his parents deprived him of television and sugary snacks and all of the good things America has to offer, and for that, he was grateful. His parents were hippies, in the true sense of the word, they had spent their 20's fighting for what they believed in, which is more than he could say for himself. Now they lived in the country and raised chickens and grew pot in the basement of a house they had built themselves. I mean, he did his best to protest the way thing were, but the modern world had too many distractions, and not enough unity. His parents never showed their disappointment but he could tell they were less than impressed with their son's achievements (or lack there of). It's not that he didn't buy into the whole idea of starting a movement, he did, probably more than his parents ever did but it was hard to pick the right fight. In the '60's they had it all set for them. There was a war and a draft, the fight to choose was obvious. The fight had a name. These days things were just to fucking obscure. There were too many fights of equal importance and everyone chose their own personal “favorite” which didn't allow for as much unity as there was in the '60's. He had a girlfriend and she was fully invested in the environmental movement. His parents would probably love her, but they had never met her and he was going to keep it that way. He was afraid his parents would convince her that he wasn't doing enough with his life and that she should move onto someone more politically active. (And he really loved her, so that just wouldn't work for him.) He wrote angry poems and stories in secret, his own private protest against the modern world. Not everyone was born a fighter, he thought. Some of us were made just to float around and try to find the good things. His parents would never understand that, they considered protesting a part of one's civic duty. So he did his best to find his fight, but all he ever came up with was pages and pages of words. Perhaps, if he gathered enough of these pages, he could do something dramatic with them, like light them on fire. Maybe outside his parents house. See? He could protest with the best of 'em.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
EL CAFE
(the closest i have ever come to doing it justice.)
I wake up every morning
to the muffled sounds
of NPR, and the clatter
of cooking pots
my mother, in the kitchen
starting out a day
that will inevitably
end in varicose veins
and another 15 loaves of bread.
My father, making coffee
tests our patience
letting the kettle scream
until my brother and i
run out of our rooms, disgruntled
to shut the burner off.
My brother, six years my elder
trapped in his room
by his own inventions,
music slipping out
from under his door,
something that he has taken to calling work
and I have taken to calling,
a pretty excuse.
Thus, the day proceeds
and we try our best
to find sounds
to fill it with.
At night, i creep down the stairs
drawn in by the soft hum
of folk music.
I watch the reflections
dance off the guitar
in rhythm, as though
they know some secret
i am too human to understand.
I lean my head on my mothers shoulder
and right before
I fall asleep I think
if these
walls
could talk
[they wouldn't talk
they'd sing,
like a gospel choir
on Christmas morning,
like they've never loved
anything as much as they love
this place]
[they wouldn't talk
they'd yell,
they'd speak in tongues,
they would shake
themselves to pieces
from the mysterious beauty
of the things that happen here.
they'd bleed magic,
the sounds of all the voices
that have filled this room
at once
like an orchestra,
but better]
I wake up long enough to tip-toe
my way up the creaky stairs,
to my bed-room
where I collapse
onto the sheets
and fall asleep to the sounds
of muffled folk music
mixed with laughter
and wait for Jean Feraca
to gently wake me
in the morning.
This must be the place.
I wake up every morning
to the muffled sounds
of NPR, and the clatter
of cooking pots
my mother, in the kitchen
starting out a day
that will inevitably
end in varicose veins
and another 15 loaves of bread.
My father, making coffee
tests our patience
letting the kettle scream
until my brother and i
run out of our rooms, disgruntled
to shut the burner off.
My brother, six years my elder
trapped in his room
by his own inventions,
music slipping out
from under his door,
something that he has taken to calling work
and I have taken to calling,
a pretty excuse.
Thus, the day proceeds
and we try our best
to find sounds
to fill it with.
At night, i creep down the stairs
drawn in by the soft hum
of folk music.
I watch the reflections
dance off the guitar
in rhythm, as though
they know some secret
i am too human to understand.
I lean my head on my mothers shoulder
and right before
I fall asleep I think
if these
walls
could talk
[they wouldn't talk
they'd sing,
like a gospel choir
on Christmas morning,
like they've never loved
anything as much as they love
this place]
[they wouldn't talk
they'd yell,
they'd speak in tongues,
they would shake
themselves to pieces
from the mysterious beauty
of the things that happen here.
they'd bleed magic,
the sounds of all the voices
that have filled this room
at once
like an orchestra,
but better]
I wake up long enough to tip-toe
my way up the creaky stairs,
to my bed-room
where I collapse
onto the sheets
and fall asleep to the sounds
of muffled folk music
mixed with laughter
and wait for Jean Feraca
to gently wake me
in the morning.
This must be the place.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
ODE TO ORGANIC WHOLE MILK
skim milk is simply not my cup of tea
and two percent won't do the trick
but I love whole milk made organically
though most my friends say it makes them sick
to watch me drink straight from the carton
I tell them that I don't give a lick
so when the weekend is just startin
and everyone is buying beer
I go out to buy my milk carton
while many find this to be queer
I would have to disagree
that piss beer you drink comes no where near
organic whole milk of such high quality
and even thought it's full of fat
I drink it quite religiously
oh sorry, i'd love to stop and chat
but I drink whole milk, are you down with that?
not my best. but it was written in terza rima form, and i seem to struggle when writing in form. my new goal is to write a poem every week, and i will be putting them up here, but i warn you that they are all in their roughest stages, most likely. On weeks when i am not particularly busy, i am going to try to attempt writing in different forms.
and two percent won't do the trick
but I love whole milk made organically
though most my friends say it makes them sick
to watch me drink straight from the carton
I tell them that I don't give a lick
so when the weekend is just startin
and everyone is buying beer
I go out to buy my milk carton
while many find this to be queer
I would have to disagree
that piss beer you drink comes no where near
organic whole milk of such high quality
and even thought it's full of fat
I drink it quite religiously
oh sorry, i'd love to stop and chat
but I drink whole milk, are you down with that?
not my best. but it was written in terza rima form, and i seem to struggle when writing in form. my new goal is to write a poem every week, and i will be putting them up here, but i warn you that they are all in their roughest stages, most likely. On weeks when i am not particularly busy, i am going to try to attempt writing in different forms.
Friday, September 18, 2009
triumph of hash browns
i've spent months
trying to digest
your empty words.
(carbonation is rough
on the sensitive stomach).
my new plan
is to indulge
in large amounts of breakfast food
and forget about you
all together.
i'm just trying to figure out
when the thought of hash browns
became more appealing
than the thought of you.
trying to digest
your empty words.
(carbonation is rough
on the sensitive stomach).
my new plan
is to indulge
in large amounts of breakfast food
and forget about you
all together.
i'm just trying to figure out
when the thought of hash browns
became more appealing
than the thought of you.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
toothbrush revisited
I threw out
Your toothbrush
It was orange
And said “aquafresh”
but it’d served it’s purpose
and you’re supposed to get
a new one
every year.
Your toothbrush
It was orange
And said “aquafresh”
but it’d served it’s purpose
and you’re supposed to get
a new one
every year.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
an explanation for the tree on my arm
The best thing we can do is move forward from the pain. It’s only logical. But logic has never made sense to me, and I suspect the same is true for my family of bears. We sit and marinate in it, as though perhaps if we wait long enough, it will all make sense, and it won’t hurt at all anymore. Moving forward means leaving things behind, and I’m a pack-rat of the heart.
The other day, I was trying to rationalize a rash decision, like I am always trying to do, and which everyone always knows I am doing. I told my mother “I like trees. They seem so patient. Like they can’t go anywhere. And their okay with that.” There is something comforting about the permanence in trees. They stick around unless they are cut down or uprooted and even then they make a silent scene, something so awful it could make a person cry, or wretch, or whatever they are inclined to do when they’re upset. I am no tree now. But that’s what I want to be when I grow up. The chances of me growing up in this life time, they’re not so good. But when I die, and all that death wisdom soaks into my bones, all I want to do is be buried, and decomposed in to dirt and be mixed in with leaves, and worms, and other little things that live underground and to somehow, through all of that become a tree. I take comfort in the fact, and this is the only comfort I have for the thought of death, that when I die, I will be returned to the Earth whence I come from, be part of something bigger, and more beautiful, and more purposeful and functional than myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about ways to get attention, though I don’t think I realize that is what I am doing most of the time. I am doing my best to look for a new goal or perhaps not look for a goal at all but figure out what I like for the sake of liking it, not for the sake of impressing someone.
Did you know that people can stop loving you? You can say the perfectly wrong thing, just once, and it is over. “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me” what a crock of shit. I did that once, ya know. Maybe more than once. But only once that I know of. Said the wrong thing, spent months trying to swallow it back up, the ‘cause of a half year of stomach aches. Mistakes are tough on the digestive system. In return, they erased me. So I had to erase them. So it didn’t hurt so much. But we can not swallow or erase things. Just like your stomach gets full and the paper gets thin, people get tired. If you get broken once, can you ever get pieced together properly again?
I am beginning to believe there is no such thing as “moving on” in the sense I always assumed people meant. It is more like learning to be at peace, for a majority of the time, with the things that have happened or the things that have not happened or the things that will never happen at all. So you better find the love of your life fast, because the older you get, the more you have to carry, and it gets harder to know a person through and through, and it gets harder to explain yourself, because you have all these things, these memories, these, these things branded into your heart and your bones, and how do you sort through them properly to explain yourself? I am scared that I will be this way forever. It is not really a bad way to be, I suppose. But I can tell that it will get lonely. Lonely like being swallowed by the sea. Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter how hard you try. I am wondering if redemption is even a possibility ever. You can’t take back things, even if you didn’t mean them in the first place.
It seems like I’m stuck on this one thing, but it is not just one thing, but many things, perhaps all of the things. We all have our own personal terrors, and whether one person’s is worse than the others is really not the point, because our terrors seem big to us, because they are what we know, and they ARE important, even if they aren’t in the scheme of all the terrors ever heard of.
The trees are a comfort. I can hear them trying to sell me something, just by their existence. They’re whispering some sort of secrets with their leaves, and it is the only thing that convinces me that someway, it will be ok, even if I can’t understand how now. So I’m sticking with the trees.
The other day, I was trying to rationalize a rash decision, like I am always trying to do, and which everyone always knows I am doing. I told my mother “I like trees. They seem so patient. Like they can’t go anywhere. And their okay with that.” There is something comforting about the permanence in trees. They stick around unless they are cut down or uprooted and even then they make a silent scene, something so awful it could make a person cry, or wretch, or whatever they are inclined to do when they’re upset. I am no tree now. But that’s what I want to be when I grow up. The chances of me growing up in this life time, they’re not so good. But when I die, and all that death wisdom soaks into my bones, all I want to do is be buried, and decomposed in to dirt and be mixed in with leaves, and worms, and other little things that live underground and to somehow, through all of that become a tree. I take comfort in the fact, and this is the only comfort I have for the thought of death, that when I die, I will be returned to the Earth whence I come from, be part of something bigger, and more beautiful, and more purposeful and functional than myself.
I spend a lot of time thinking about ways to get attention, though I don’t think I realize that is what I am doing most of the time. I am doing my best to look for a new goal or perhaps not look for a goal at all but figure out what I like for the sake of liking it, not for the sake of impressing someone.
Did you know that people can stop loving you? You can say the perfectly wrong thing, just once, and it is over. “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me” what a crock of shit. I did that once, ya know. Maybe more than once. But only once that I know of. Said the wrong thing, spent months trying to swallow it back up, the ‘cause of a half year of stomach aches. Mistakes are tough on the digestive system. In return, they erased me. So I had to erase them. So it didn’t hurt so much. But we can not swallow or erase things. Just like your stomach gets full and the paper gets thin, people get tired. If you get broken once, can you ever get pieced together properly again?
I am beginning to believe there is no such thing as “moving on” in the sense I always assumed people meant. It is more like learning to be at peace, for a majority of the time, with the things that have happened or the things that have not happened or the things that will never happen at all. So you better find the love of your life fast, because the older you get, the more you have to carry, and it gets harder to know a person through and through, and it gets harder to explain yourself, because you have all these things, these memories, these, these things branded into your heart and your bones, and how do you sort through them properly to explain yourself? I am scared that I will be this way forever. It is not really a bad way to be, I suppose. But I can tell that it will get lonely. Lonely like being swallowed by the sea. Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter how hard you try. I am wondering if redemption is even a possibility ever. You can’t take back things, even if you didn’t mean them in the first place.
It seems like I’m stuck on this one thing, but it is not just one thing, but many things, perhaps all of the things. We all have our own personal terrors, and whether one person’s is worse than the others is really not the point, because our terrors seem big to us, because they are what we know, and they ARE important, even if they aren’t in the scheme of all the terrors ever heard of.
The trees are a comfort. I can hear them trying to sell me something, just by their existence. They’re whispering some sort of secrets with their leaves, and it is the only thing that convinces me that someway, it will be ok, even if I can’t understand how now. So I’m sticking with the trees.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
confessions
(number one)
i am in love
with the idea
of fickle love
of one night stands
and fuck buddies
and other
emotional
disasters
but
my life is
not
like the books
i read
and
i am not
reckless
enough
to satisfy
my cravings.
(number two)
i am
a narcissistic
bitch
who wants
to be loved
by anyone
that is willing
to listen to me
when i spew forth
my nothing nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
and who tries
to turn
her lackluster life
into art
by writing
shitty poems
about nothing
nothing
nothing
bet i had you
fooled.
(bet.
i.
didn't.)
(three)
i just
want
to write something nice
like a book
or a poem
or a scribble
on a bathroom stall.
i’m not nearly
as bad as i think i am
but perhaps
i’m worse.
(four)
we never had much in common
anyways.
except
and overwhelming
desire
to be in love
with something
tangible
because art
and music
and words
don’t give you kisses
and ideas
forget to tell you
that they love you
and dreams
forget to call you
the next day.
(five)
it will get me in trouble. i'm tired of being in trouble.
(six)
i’m thinking
of taking up smoking
because i love the idea
of destroying
expectations
and also
i think
it would drive you
crazy
which is kind of funny
because you
want me dead
though you’d never
really say it
quite like that.
(seven)
my mother
keeps saying
it’s depression
as though
she’s not surprised
that i’m falling
apart
and my brother
and i
make jokes
about how shitty
everything in the world is
and then watch a movie
and my father
asks “whats wrong”
because he is out
of the loop
and he loves me too much
and i wonder
if this is what it’s always like
when you grow up.
i am in love
with the idea
of fickle love
of one night stands
and fuck buddies
and other
emotional
disasters
but
my life is
not
like the books
i read
and
i am not
reckless
enough
to satisfy
my cravings.
(number two)
i am
a narcissistic
bitch
who wants
to be loved
by anyone
that is willing
to listen to me
when i spew forth
my nothing nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
and who tries
to turn
her lackluster life
into art
by writing
shitty poems
about nothing
nothing
nothing
bet i had you
fooled.
(bet.
i.
didn't.)
(three)
i just
want
to write something nice
like a book
or a poem
or a scribble
on a bathroom stall.
i’m not nearly
as bad as i think i am
but perhaps
i’m worse.
(four)
we never had much in common
anyways.
except
and overwhelming
desire
to be in love
with something
tangible
because art
and music
and words
don’t give you kisses
and ideas
forget to tell you
that they love you
and dreams
forget to call you
the next day.
(five)
it will get me in trouble. i'm tired of being in trouble.
(six)
i’m thinking
of taking up smoking
because i love the idea
of destroying
expectations
and also
i think
it would drive you
crazy
which is kind of funny
because you
want me dead
though you’d never
really say it
quite like that.
(seven)
my mother
keeps saying
it’s depression
as though
she’s not surprised
that i’m falling
apart
and my brother
and i
make jokes
about how shitty
everything in the world is
and then watch a movie
and my father
asks “whats wrong”
because he is out
of the loop
and he loves me too much
and i wonder
if this is what it’s always like
when you grow up.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
even words can't make music
GIVE ME MUSIC!" (blood curdling scream) "how do i make this sound come out of me?" (whisper)
my fingers don't do what they're told, my hands flinch inappropriate beats and my ankles get tired, the bass drum grows dim.
i like to play the role of the indie hipster girl, but it's incomplete without the sound. "WHY CAN'T I MAKE THE SOUNDS"
she drifts in and out of daydreams and sleep is too real for her taste.
dance dance dance dance, thats all she really knows how to do and it isn't much. she loves to watch the real bodies flail, she's in love with all the people, all the dancing people that she knows, they are all she wants to see ever.
harmonies harmonies harmonies, she always sings the harmonies much to everyone's dismay, she breaks the songs with her persistence.
she could sing for days, if the days would let her.
don't you see she's hungry? she looks harmless but i bet she's vicious by the way the tears stream from her eyes.
she's knows a girl named after a bear with a voice that could break your heart, has broken her heart, she wants to steal the sound away, from this sweet bear girl, but instead she just cries. it's the only way she knows how to release all these things.
there is always something more. she wants this. she wants to impress people with mere sound.
all these damn bears she knows make pretty sounds, their roars are magnificent.
'what makes us beautiful?'
hours minutes days years decades centuries eras life cycles.
we are all one song, we are all many songs but she just wants to make a song.
she is filled to the brim with silence.
my fingers don't do what they're told, my hands flinch inappropriate beats and my ankles get tired, the bass drum grows dim.
i like to play the role of the indie hipster girl, but it's incomplete without the sound. "WHY CAN'T I MAKE THE SOUNDS"
she drifts in and out of daydreams and sleep is too real for her taste.
dance dance dance dance, thats all she really knows how to do and it isn't much. she loves to watch the real bodies flail, she's in love with all the people, all the dancing people that she knows, they are all she wants to see ever.
harmonies harmonies harmonies, she always sings the harmonies much to everyone's dismay, she breaks the songs with her persistence.
she could sing for days, if the days would let her.
don't you see she's hungry? she looks harmless but i bet she's vicious by the way the tears stream from her eyes.
she's knows a girl named after a bear with a voice that could break your heart, has broken her heart, she wants to steal the sound away, from this sweet bear girl, but instead she just cries. it's the only way she knows how to release all these things.
there is always something more. she wants this. she wants to impress people with mere sound.
all these damn bears she knows make pretty sounds, their roars are magnificent.
'what makes us beautiful?'
hours minutes days years decades centuries eras life cycles.
we are all one song, we are all many songs but she just wants to make a song.
she is filled to the brim with silence.
mason jars
yesterday i cried a handful, and today another one and i though maybe i'd put them in a jar and send them to you because they aren't really mine. and then i thought what if we always sent our tears to the people they belonged to? how much more true would we feel. we could each have a closet or a small room where we store our jars of tears from various peoples. and then, when the sunlight hit them just right, we would get pretty little rainbows. and the sound, oh the sound! we could make with our little jars of tears. little tinkling rhythms.
tastless secrets
every morning she wakes up, shakes her head around, hoping that her thoughts are like dice, and she'll get a new roll everyday. she licks her lips, she sits up and hits her head, she smiles at herself. she laughs at the things that are hers, her things. her family, her wordless secrets, her happiness, her sadness, she owns these things and she doesn't let anyone else touch them. it's a troublesome thing, a lonely thing, to be so selfish one might suppose, but it is just as sad to share. she swallows her pills, she pushes away her confusion, she reads, she walks, she tries to pretend she doesn't feel the things that are always there. when she was little everyone always asked her not to grow up, joking about finding a doctor that could keep her little forever. they didn't know that this would make her so sad later. no one loves you when you're grown up.
she cringes at the sound of the ties breaking, the ties with the people that loved her when she was three. she cries as she feels the ties tugging at her skin, little pricks all over, because everyone is far, far away, and they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but she was already too fond to begin with. she's on a hunt for new people to add pricks and pins to her skin, and someday everyone will pull so hard that she will break into a million tiny pieces and she will be able to be a million different things and she will be happy.
does everyone change as much as i do? she asks herself each day, because she music is the only tie to her feelings, it reminds her how she felt, and where, and when. there is never a why. why is the worst sort of a question. she is happy when she realizes that she still has a regular, overwhelmed with life sort of sadness in her. not everything is lost.
what if sadness is her happiness? what troubled life, what a paradigm.
you can not ask everyone to love you. you can not ask everyone to love you as much as you love them. you can not ask your mother to hold you when you are sad, and to sing you lullabies every night before you go to sleep. you can not ask your friends to love you forever. you can not ask your friends to love you the most. because we all have different priorities. and it's not a conscious thing, it is a heart thing, and our hearts are the freest thing that we have. you can not ask your cousins to love you the most, because you get older, and you get less cute, and you get less relatable and you don't change enough, but you change too much. you can not ask strangers to love you the most of all the passers by.
you should not ask it of them. you should not be disappointed. you should not ask for so much. you should be humble. you should be happy. you should be quiet. you should keep yourself in line. you should make an effort. you should not want your mother when you are 18 years old. you should not expect things to be easy. you should not hope that people will understand you. you should not lie. you should not be sad, when there are so many happy things.
yesterday, i tasted all the things i ever wished i was. i am none of those, she counted on her fingers. i am not kind. i do not have the perfect warm smile. i can not sing like an angel. i can not make music. i can not create the pictures. i am not self assured. i am not a free spirit. i am not, ever, the things that everyone wants me to be. i am not the things i want me to be. i am not clay. i am not perfect for everyone, at all times.
she ran out of fingers.
she ran out of toes.
she ran out of time.
(in need of some editing)
she cringes at the sound of the ties breaking, the ties with the people that loved her when she was three. she cries as she feels the ties tugging at her skin, little pricks all over, because everyone is far, far away, and they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder, but she was already too fond to begin with. she's on a hunt for new people to add pricks and pins to her skin, and someday everyone will pull so hard that she will break into a million tiny pieces and she will be able to be a million different things and she will be happy.
does everyone change as much as i do? she asks herself each day, because she music is the only tie to her feelings, it reminds her how she felt, and where, and when. there is never a why. why is the worst sort of a question. she is happy when she realizes that she still has a regular, overwhelmed with life sort of sadness in her. not everything is lost.
what if sadness is her happiness? what troubled life, what a paradigm.
you can not ask everyone to love you. you can not ask everyone to love you as much as you love them. you can not ask your mother to hold you when you are sad, and to sing you lullabies every night before you go to sleep. you can not ask your friends to love you forever. you can not ask your friends to love you the most. because we all have different priorities. and it's not a conscious thing, it is a heart thing, and our hearts are the freest thing that we have. you can not ask your cousins to love you the most, because you get older, and you get less cute, and you get less relatable and you don't change enough, but you change too much. you can not ask strangers to love you the most of all the passers by.
you should not ask it of them. you should not be disappointed. you should not ask for so much. you should be humble. you should be happy. you should be quiet. you should keep yourself in line. you should make an effort. you should not want your mother when you are 18 years old. you should not expect things to be easy. you should not hope that people will understand you. you should not lie. you should not be sad, when there are so many happy things.
yesterday, i tasted all the things i ever wished i was. i am none of those, she counted on her fingers. i am not kind. i do not have the perfect warm smile. i can not sing like an angel. i can not make music. i can not create the pictures. i am not self assured. i am not a free spirit. i am not, ever, the things that everyone wants me to be. i am not the things i want me to be. i am not clay. i am not perfect for everyone, at all times.
she ran out of fingers.
she ran out of toes.
she ran out of time.
(in need of some editing)
burning down the house
if it came down to it, she would not be saved from a burning building.
"i'm going to burn alive"
she spends her days pairing them off. "well she would save him, because she would die without him, and SHE would save HER because she needs her in times of tragedy, and so on so forth"
but they would survive without her.
oh her mother? perhaps. but it really depends on who all is in the burning building. this strange metaphor is really just her way of weighing relationships.
or checking her weight in the world.
according to her scale, her weight is very light.
she is loved by many, but she does not come out on top in anyones charts. that is, assuming these people make charts. which they don't.
when she was little she used to think of what she would save.
her dog.
her cat.
herself.
her mother (but her mother was probably too strong to need saving).
her psychologist tells her that this is all very telling. the fact that she is the one needing the saving, and not the one doing the saving meant that she perceived herself as weak. and the fact that she assumed the building would burn all the way to the ground, and not be salvaged by the fire fighters meant she was a pessimist. like it was some big mystery. of course she was a fucking pessimist.
her psychologist was always full of bullshit like this.
she said "imagine the building is your life"
to which she responded "you mean, imagine my life is on fire?" which made her laugh, because it was a funny visual.
it was a rough test of character, she knew that. an unfair test of love, she knew. i mean, the chances of her being in a burning building with everyone she knew was not very likely. but perhaps at her birthday party? or her graduation party? or at her coming home party? (if ever she were to leave in the first place)
which brought her to the irony of the fact, that the only time all these people would be together would be to celebrate her. someone dropped the cake, it had too many candles, it was too close to the paper recycling, which was too close to coats, and so it spreads. and to think, they were all here for her, and she was the one that would burn alive. in chaos, she is lost.
lost, is not being unsure of where you are. lost is when you are unsure of where you are and no one else is thinking about you. then you are lost or drowning or burning. it all depends on which analogy you choose.
she was burning.
alive.
get her some water.
(incomplete.)
"i'm going to burn alive"
she spends her days pairing them off. "well she would save him, because she would die without him, and SHE would save HER because she needs her in times of tragedy, and so on so forth"
but they would survive without her.
oh her mother? perhaps. but it really depends on who all is in the burning building. this strange metaphor is really just her way of weighing relationships.
or checking her weight in the world.
according to her scale, her weight is very light.
she is loved by many, but she does not come out on top in anyones charts. that is, assuming these people make charts. which they don't.
when she was little she used to think of what she would save.
her dog.
her cat.
herself.
her mother (but her mother was probably too strong to need saving).
her psychologist tells her that this is all very telling. the fact that she is the one needing the saving, and not the one doing the saving meant that she perceived herself as weak. and the fact that she assumed the building would burn all the way to the ground, and not be salvaged by the fire fighters meant she was a pessimist. like it was some big mystery. of course she was a fucking pessimist.
her psychologist was always full of bullshit like this.
she said "imagine the building is your life"
to which she responded "you mean, imagine my life is on fire?" which made her laugh, because it was a funny visual.
it was a rough test of character, she knew that. an unfair test of love, she knew. i mean, the chances of her being in a burning building with everyone she knew was not very likely. but perhaps at her birthday party? or her graduation party? or at her coming home party? (if ever she were to leave in the first place)
which brought her to the irony of the fact, that the only time all these people would be together would be to celebrate her. someone dropped the cake, it had too many candles, it was too close to the paper recycling, which was too close to coats, and so it spreads. and to think, they were all here for her, and she was the one that would burn alive. in chaos, she is lost.
lost, is not being unsure of where you are. lost is when you are unsure of where you are and no one else is thinking about you. then you are lost or drowning or burning. it all depends on which analogy you choose.
she was burning.
alive.
get her some water.
(incomplete.)
Friday, May 29, 2009
untitled
i stuck my music in my shoes so the pick pocketers can't steal my tunes.
"i stuck it in my underwear because no one ever goes down there"
it makes my feet sore
"i've got ants in my pants"
i'm letting it go
"no save it up, don't you want them to hear your sound loud and clear?"
it won't matter when the time comes.
all she ever wanted was something that was her own, something she could share with others so they would remember to love her.
"oh, i want to sing these tears to sleep, can you make music with the light? these things always taste so good going down, but they grow rancid in my stomach"
your eyes are seeping some strange liquid
"i hope it tastes like candy"
it's nothing so sweet.
there is no music to be had hear
what a brick, what a brick
there is no sound to be found round here
what a trick, what a trick
she has words, piles of words stacked up in here closet, where the clothes should be. which word should i wear today?
"i stuck it in my underwear because no one ever goes down there"
it makes my feet sore
"i've got ants in my pants"
i'm letting it go
"no save it up, don't you want them to hear your sound loud and clear?"
it won't matter when the time comes.
all she ever wanted was something that was her own, something she could share with others so they would remember to love her.
"oh, i want to sing these tears to sleep, can you make music with the light? these things always taste so good going down, but they grow rancid in my stomach"
your eyes are seeping some strange liquid
"i hope it tastes like candy"
it's nothing so sweet.
there is no music to be had hear
what a brick, what a brick
there is no sound to be found round here
what a trick, what a trick
she has words, piles of words stacked up in here closet, where the clothes should be. which word should i wear today?
witch baby
She sits at the table by the window and plays the guessing game most days. She is one of those strange people, that isn't lonely, one of those people that is unreachable, too good for this world. She reminds me of Townes Van Zandt, the way she lives haphazardly, moving so fast, but so slow, always throwing people behind her. The type of person that never lets you know anything about them, not because they don't want you to know, but simply because you could never know. These people are angels. They are lovely in their tragic way and as much as you know you don't want to be them, you do.
She knows everything. I don’t mean the cheap dirty kind of knowledge that helps people get jobs and win money on game shows. The pure intuitive type of knowledge. She sums everything up in a look. I can see it as she stares out the window looking at all the people. She likes this game that she plays, the guessing game.
She sees a couple walk by and they clench their hands together, as though they would lose each other if they weren’t holding on. Then the girl with a razda hat and dreads walks by, braless, careless to the point of being moody. You can tell she is so concerned about not caring, that she is not enjoying herself. The true version of what this girl wants to be is walking right behind her, wearing a slight smirk, and strutting in a way that lets you know she is ready for whatever is going to happen, but she isn't waiting for anything. The boy behind this girl, he is pale and awkward. He walks cautiously and keeps his eyes straight forward; if he doesn't look at anyone, anything, he will remain invisible and he feels safer that way.
I walk up to this deathly pale, wiry haired angel with the piercing blue eyes. I want to see her as she sums me up. This girl is fierce, her eyes are the ocean, she is rough and dirty, her hair is in knots, and she is the prettiest thing I have ever seen. Oh, she is tragic, as though she holds all the sadness in the world.
She knows everything. I don’t mean the cheap dirty kind of knowledge that helps people get jobs and win money on game shows. The pure intuitive type of knowledge. She sums everything up in a look. I can see it as she stares out the window looking at all the people. She likes this game that she plays, the guessing game.
She sees a couple walk by and they clench their hands together, as though they would lose each other if they weren’t holding on. Then the girl with a razda hat and dreads walks by, braless, careless to the point of being moody. You can tell she is so concerned about not caring, that she is not enjoying herself. The true version of what this girl wants to be is walking right behind her, wearing a slight smirk, and strutting in a way that lets you know she is ready for whatever is going to happen, but she isn't waiting for anything. The boy behind this girl, he is pale and awkward. He walks cautiously and keeps his eyes straight forward; if he doesn't look at anyone, anything, he will remain invisible and he feels safer that way.
I walk up to this deathly pale, wiry haired angel with the piercing blue eyes. I want to see her as she sums me up. This girl is fierce, her eyes are the ocean, she is rough and dirty, her hair is in knots, and she is the prettiest thing I have ever seen. Oh, she is tragic, as though she holds all the sadness in the world.
enjoy your stay
hey toe tapper
i haven't seen you around
since the new feminine phenomenon
yeah, we wear wrist watches now.
jitter bug love.
we've got nothing but smiles.
so shine on miss sun-blissed.
mr. ax man.
cut me off.
i'm intoxicated on the love soaked drama.
i've got a mind void that i just can't see.
ms. sex addict.
it's okay to give it all you've got.
sometimes you have to pay to get paid baby.
yo giggle girls.
we've got your hearts duct taped together.
we know the new age spandex days have just begun.
we're ready.
why hello mr. heartbreaker.
i hear your kiss left a bad flavor.
you left a trail of empty words.
we're onto you.
good bye miss i know me.
wipe off those gritty teeth begin.
we hear that you love mysteries.
welcome to the new view.
i haven't seen you around
since the new feminine phenomenon
yeah, we wear wrist watches now.
jitter bug love.
we've got nothing but smiles.
so shine on miss sun-blissed.
mr. ax man.
cut me off.
i'm intoxicated on the love soaked drama.
i've got a mind void that i just can't see.
ms. sex addict.
it's okay to give it all you've got.
sometimes you have to pay to get paid baby.
yo giggle girls.
we've got your hearts duct taped together.
we know the new age spandex days have just begun.
we're ready.
why hello mr. heartbreaker.
i hear your kiss left a bad flavor.
you left a trail of empty words.
we're onto you.
good bye miss i know me.
wipe off those gritty teeth begin.
we hear that you love mysteries.
welcome to the new view.
scattered sentences
if tomorrow was the start of forever
i used to
read uncle walt
religiously
because he was
never too vulgur
and he knew
whats up
but now
all i want is some anger
with a dash of indifference
because it tastes better
everyone always says
"it's just a phase"
as though to say
it's o.k.
it will all be over
soon
but each phase
is taking
my time
and i think
i want it
back
could you send it
in the mail?
i'll be home all day
tomorrow
don't stop by
i'll be busy
waiting
for this kid
i used to know
because
he has something
of mine
and i think
he'll drop by
and things
will be better
than they are today
and if he doesn't
i'll still be busy
eating my socks
for breakfast
about me
i can be
less than charming
when i forget
to be charming.
(if i
told you
about my bicycle
would you
be my new friend?)
toothbrush
i still have
your toothbrush
because
i'm too cheap
to get my own
it's orange
and says
"aquafresh"
you left it here
in april 2008
but i'm not worried
that you'll be back
to get it
because we haven't
been friends
for months
a letter
my dearest
friends
i
love
you
but
i'm
neurotic
and
boring
and a little
bit messy
i'm not quite sure
what
my point is
love,
savannah
i used to
read uncle walt
religiously
because he was
never too vulgur
and he knew
whats up
but now
all i want is some anger
with a dash of indifference
because it tastes better
everyone always says
"it's just a phase"
as though to say
it's o.k.
it will all be over
soon
but each phase
is taking
my time
and i think
i want it
back
could you send it
in the mail?
i'll be home all day
tomorrow
don't stop by
i'll be busy
waiting
for this kid
i used to know
because
he has something
of mine
and i think
he'll drop by
and things
will be better
than they are today
and if he doesn't
i'll still be busy
eating my socks
for breakfast
about me
i can be
less than charming
when i forget
to be charming.
(if i
told you
about my bicycle
would you
be my new friend?)
toothbrush
i still have
your toothbrush
because
i'm too cheap
to get my own
it's orange
and says
"aquafresh"
you left it here
in april 2008
but i'm not worried
that you'll be back
to get it
because we haven't
been friends
for months
a letter
my dearest
friends
i
love
you
but
i'm
neurotic
and
boring
and a little
bit messy
i'm not quite sure
what
my point is
love,
savannah
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