{bad lands.}

you can dream. you can do whatever you want and who's to say you're ever wrong there's nothing wrong with you pace yourself don't just jump the gun this time it should be contemplated take it easy relax we're in a hurry here ohio and that's okay too and when the dogs are lying around the house looking bored and less than desperate you'll know it's time to go it's time to go and that's okay because you're okay and things are not okay but whatever. it's time to stop and it's time you realized you know yourself better than anyone else that's truth and it's bringing you to tears but hey sometimes it takes a little while to solve the problems you've accumulated get the fuck out of my way i'm walking here can't you see this is my side of the street and the kids'll never listen when you're screaming in their ears and the kids will never listen when you stay quiet all the time because honestly, the kids don't really give a shit about anything but the kids and you shouldn't bat an eye over anything but yourself i'm gonna be better i'm gonna be better and do right and right now bad habits are the hardest to kick and let me tell you that i've got a few too many of those and the worst ones are up in my head so you can't see them but i know they're there. it's true. this can be the fine line of life the one you step over to get somewhere else away from all your sentimentalities because honestly and you already know this that those are for the birds let's just drive let's just get out of here i'm gonna drink this whiskey until i have an out of body experience and then i'm gonna come back like a perverted resurrection because sometimes you really have to hit the ground before you can get back up.


{bad dreams.}

pouring out the skylight on the third floor of the house, was a large house plant. i had placed it there assuming it might manifest sort of organic aesthetic value, it's leaves and giant orange blossoms pushing their way out of the house, as though the house were filled with such exotic vegetation. i took the two girls outside, so they might judge my attempt at exterior decorating. they told me it looked really stupid.

the house belonged to my aunt, and for as far back as i can gather memories, that house has terrified me. at any age, if i found myself alone in any room, my chest would swell with terror. this happened most predominantly in the studio, which was positioned above the garage. in order to get to the studio, you had to use the raised walkway, which passed above, and separated, the living and dining rooms. it's difficult to explain. the house was put together in the strangest of ways. but the studio was mostly isolated from the rest of the living quarters. it's also hard to explain why the house was so petrifying. i wasn't used to being in the woods, which may have been part of it. in the day time it was an amazingly beautiful space, so full of character and light. the sun shone through the trees, into the large windows, creating a warm sense of comfort. but at night, as it tends to be the case, the entire mood of the house changed. even thinking of it now, i am brought to cold sweats imagining the times i watched the house while aunt and cousins were out of town. the structure was filled with peculiar angles and rooms, giving one no real sense of escape, if the cause were to arise. there was no real way to be aware of your surroundings. anything could enter the room from a dozen different places. it was a large, open house, but very complicated. the nights in that house were filled with quickly shifting eyes and perked ears.

it was day, so the house didn't seem so intense. the girls told me it was a dumb idea to put the plant half way out the window on the third floor, which happened to be the loft, my oldest cousin's room. i told them i would show them were the plant was in the house, as though it would somehow sway their opinion. "it's on the third floor," i said, "i mean the fourth. no- the third." we began to walk up the steps, into the loft.

we are outside again. the day has instantly shifted to night, and the house, not looking like its normal self, has taken on a foreboding state. from the lawn, we look to the third floor.

in the loft we find my brother at a giant security system. the monitors display all the different rooms of the house. he tells us we have to go. we can't stay here. he's been living here for years. ever room in the loft is filled with boxes of untouched, but spoiled food. i feel no sense of safety outside this room. there are horrid things looming on the property. my brother goes on to tell us about how he's been living here monitoring the zombies. but they've multiplied, and are completely out of hand. we have to make out way out of the house. the zombies on the screens are reminiscent of apes. they are slow and aloof.

we find ourselves in an underground room. despite the fact that we are underground, we are also outside. it is a gigantic room, made to look like farm land, and it is littered with zombies. they are kept from us by a giant gate. the gate beings to open. i look at my brother and we agree that it would be absolutely unfortunate to be caught in the midst of this "room".

the dog barks now and i am dreaming lucidly. i fall back.

i am in the house alone. as in, by myself, but the presence of the house is becoming clearer, more centalized. i live in the house now. me and an evil spirit. this specter is overwhelming. i feel him constantly. he is a weight on my life, it's difficult to breath. i know he's with me all the time. eventually i begin to speak to him, with a steady confidence. he can't hurt me, although he would like to. i have fear, but a great strength to contend with him, to question and break him. when i turn corners, his shadow is there. he carries knives across the kitchen. he watches me while i sleep. i say to him, "you have just as much choice to be evil as you do to be good. why don't you show yourself to me. i want to see you." i am filled with great compassion.

he says his name is Skeet. we are in the dining room. in the corner by the window, where once when i was very young, i drank wine alone. we argue, and i rebuke his presence. his face is made of fire. and we are screaming. there is compassion and great anger. the point of his existence escapes me. i am stronger. his face is made of fire, lacking features. and his body is white and shapeless. i am frightened but unwavering. i am tossing in my sleep. megan, megan, are you awake? it takes me a few seconds to feel my body. to connect with myself. yes, i am awake.



{it's time i came back from outer space.
and face the mirror i still have to face.}




presently, i'm very out of sorts. frustrated by my laziness. maybe it's just this place. but i think it's about time i stopped blaming the places, and started realizing that i'm the one who sucks. so i got all pissed with myself for lacking the ability to manage my money. or at least save it. i needed a new toothbrush and some double-sided tape. but the more time i spent outside my house, the more pissed i became. so i bought some chips and salsa, to eat while being pissed. so that's what i'm doing. it's delicious. why not have a drink you might ask. well, i did make a drink a while ago. note to self: don't used random knives lying on the counter to cut lemons for your gin and tonic. sometimes people have recently used them to cut onions. onions + gin/tonic/lemons = not so good. maybe it was an omen, because i definitely prepared the drink around 11 am. anyway. it's my day off, and there's much to be done. i'm gonna go be too chubby for summer in my room. and wonder how any hospital would let a 13 year-old boy perform any kind of surgery. fuck you doogie howser. you don't make any sense.


she told me i should see a neurologist. what the fuck is that supposed to mean. was it intended as some snide remark? or did she not know what she was talking about. maybe she meant psychologist. why didn't i ask why then? i guess i was confused. because when you go somewhere to have someone look at your vagina, and they say, "you should see a neurologist," it just doesn't make sense. honestly. now i'm wondering if i should see a neurologist. thanks lady. my vagina may be fine, especially fine if you don't call me back with abnormal pap test results. but now i'm wondering about my nervous system. back to square one.


{what is sad.}

questioning quietly in times
where burdens have been buried
dug up in the dark, laid to rest again.
in truth,
i am the last.

what can be said.
i am the lost,
confronting myself in mirrors
dismissing or accepting truth and fortitude.
the day breaks and i am the same

as i ever was

words write themselves these days.
wine drinks itself
these days there is nothing
but the act of waiting
and saying life is too short

if this were my last moment
would i be satisfied in it,

i think not.

love lingers in the hearts of men
and where i stand is not stable
the bed i sleep in
is not my own

the ground i walk on
was not meant for me

my breasts silently swell
and i anticipate
the quietness.


{finding the gin. on boys and cancer.}

i would have stayed up later, but i ran out of smoke. and would have written better, had i not been so tempted as to see who else had simpler things to say. this place is a riot. this town is a joke. like most. i'm lying. we stayed up late. read Calvin and Hobbes, felt much better about everything. is it so bad to be a dreamer. i'm honing my contemplations. if i thought about my dreams as much as i think about boys and cancer, i'd probably be a happy woman. the key is to keep writing. everyone always says there isn't anything to talk about. to update. but therein lies the fatal flaw, you just keep writing. even when there's nothing to say. even when you're dying of cancer. even when the boys have hurt you, but you keep on loving. i'd give you my last meal. i'd give you my blankets in the cold. there are certain people who do this to us. and those who don't. yet again, it's late at night, and i am running out of cigarettes. my new pact with myself is to think about writing, instead of boys and cancer. there is a dream in this world that keeps me going. i couldn't tell you what it is. it's not the one i go to sleep to. it's the fantasy of living. it's the sudden suppositions. the endless whimsical places. the problem being, we get older, and so easily forget about the places that we so unknowingly left behind. in a fit of independence. a hasty self-sufficiency. the parts of us we gave to love. or when we spent all our money on solidarity. existence can be such a joker. we've lost. we lose ourselves in the vastness of reality. the supposition of tranquility. and love. watched the movies as children. and felt the way we wanted. don't fool yourself. justification is a joke. who are you kidding.


{reading this won't be worth your time.}

due to this subtle state of desperation. it seems i'll be writing my way through the night. or just sitting staring into space. drinking wine and smoking cigarettes through supposed sickness. in the darkness of the dining room. or on the porch. where i live right now. for a month. i am a space cadet. i would like to keep from sleeping. i need a solid plan. i need an idea.

{stereo song.}

this is the edge and walking
over coals
used to be all there was to do
in the marshlands
in that valley.
you would think it hurts
but it's just a matter
of fine lines
and how hard you scream.
a fake pain face.

and in that valley
the warnings sing
with all its alarms
one might think the twisters
would come and eat you up
but they never do

this is the song that will be playing
while i'm waiting
always doing the right things
at the wrong time.
when i think it won't affect me

how much wine does it take
to keep a soul from sadness
what constitutes adulthood
or the opposite

everywhere ended displays
the unanticipated outcome
nothing is ever
what i had dreamed it would be
on innumerable nights
where i lie in bed
and made up stories
before sleep
just the little something
to keep me from truth

{two things..}


viewing them now, i recognize that the animators of the last unicorn also animated the other movie i watched all the time, which was this:

once my brothers and i put on a play of the hobbit for my parents. it was pretty awesome. i can even express how amazing these movies are to me, even now. i should watch them soon. everyone's invited.

additionally. how could i for get this:

and in that version, the actual, true interpretation of the story by hans christian anderson, she kills herself in the end. she turns to sea foam. because that's how the story goes. way to ruin everything you touch Disney..

so for good measure:

i used to watch these movies non-stop. and by that i mean, at least once a day for years. i think in some ways they have shaped who i am today.



fall in the best of ways
instant humility can be the greatest remedy
for all acquired cynicisms
there's nothing quite like hitting the ground
to wake you right up

be friends
for now and later
make me eggs
and we can climb mountains
recollect over and under
all the tall tales of love
and laughter will resonate
through bodies
breathing side by side
asleep or not
in the night
when it turns out
all we needed was perspective.


{still smoking.}

it's been said that all anyone ever has to talk about is themselves, because that's all anyone ever really knows. i am going to die. i said it aloud in my car at a stop light on the way to the grocery store. it seemed i needed to verbalize, so that i would come to terms with its factualness. i have been freakishly gripped by the all too common fear of dying. this plague consumed me very suddenly about a year ago. i was sitting in my car reading in the dark, and rubbing my left hand across my neck. as my fingers grazed the lateral tendons holding my head on place, i came across an ill-placed lump. panic swelled. i grew cold, chest burned and my throat closed up. there's nothing quite like discovering body malformations, while being a thousand miles from home and living in a car. thinking about it now, the ironic part of that story revolves around what i happened to be reading, No Exit, by sarte. but since that specific moment, i have been in a constant state of terror over the act of dying. i say "act of dying" because i'm not afraid of no longer existing, rather the timely progression towards death. the wilting of my body, eventual weakness, and the inevitable pity that i'm sure most people who know they are dying receive from the healthy, who are really thinking how glad they are that it isn't happening to them.

i've spent innumerable late nights finding and questioning many kinds of supposed abnormalities all over my body. in order to figure out what the problem might be, i would go online and look images depicting some similarity to my flaw. which turned out to be an absolutely terrible and accordingly, horrifying idea. there are so many pictures of mouth cancer on the internet. and i'm sure they only use the most grotesque cases to characterize cancer.

i believe the scientific term for these actions i exhibit is "hypochondria", however, using such a terminology makes me feel right cheap about the whole affliction. as though, my entire person can be simply written off in some respect. it's like calling someone an alcoholic. one can use the term, but have no real idea what it's like to be an alcoholic, like any other psychoneurosis. they just assume it means you drink too much. just like being a hypochondriac means you are afraid of illness too much. i'm sure no one really wants to know what it's like to be either, but it still strikes me as an easy oversimplification for such a considerably displeasureable state of mind.

it isn't that i'm necessarily afraid of dying alone either. this can be handled. and anyway, i'd be the one dying, so i would assume that the only individuals who might feel alone are the one's "left behind" following my death. i once told my father that if i died i hoped he wouldn't be too upset over the whole ordeal, because i would be dead, and being alive is pretty fucking hard anyway, so really, it would all be for the better. which isn't to say i don't enjoy the act of living. a good beer, fat and friendly chickadees on the sidewalk eyeing me for food, a quality climbing tree, hot days and cool grass, sticking my feet into the water while lying in the sweltering sun, all of these things please me to an infinite extent. daily i profess my gratitude for something worthy i witness. but lately the days seem long with work, and time doesn't seem to ever be mine. i wonder where the hours go. why i don't have the opportunities to bask in the natural richness of the day. co-workers invite me to the bar, where we go on and on about some caddishness that i don't care about and is in no way profitable to the life i would like to lead. then there are the obligations to the ones who have come to care for me greatly. more and more i feel completely detached from everything going on around me, and consequently can't seem to simply find myself in the mess of life i live in. what am i doing wrong. all i want is water. and the earth to speak to me in a place where pettiness is absent. where my car won't get towed. and i don't decide to drink myself to some state of artificial solidarity.

i guess the point of all of this is to tell myself that i am going to die, in order to realize that i am alive. and in all the instants where i find myself dissatisfied, there is actually an achievable graceful exit from that into something else. which, when chosen wisely, will decidedly bring me closer to where i should be. i'm not under the assumption that there is any sort of solid fulfillment, however, i would like to try and work my way towards that abstraction. and through such a venture, i might not feel so bad about dying. death will simply be what it is, for everyone who ever lived once.


{give me something better three beers later.}

a little less elastic


the binding has broken again.
what's left to say
after we've started talking.
telling all the thoughts we knew
we wouldn't say.
let's wrap this one up
place it in the back
it's tired and time for bed.
if i don't sleep now
all thoughts will escape
swarm and consume me.
like a bunch of bats.
there is no second wind. third or fourth.
and sick from speaking
the nights are slippery slopes
the days are dastardly. as mentioned
eyes heavy against the absence of light
hands tired from all the touching
chapped by winter.
who says i can't keep myself from dreaming
supposing i might just as well fall in.
don't depict charms
or manifest your mannerisms.
i have to be somewhere
and it's getting late.
go have whatever's yours
i'll be here humming to myself.


baby takes a deep breath and delivers
times are too convenient
kids keep fighting pulling hair
the bar is our new playground
and lonely

there was the only love ever liked
flaws and all
eventually we're all fools
the dumbfounded

friends stop calling
absorbed into little sacred lives
get used to the lonely lover
work in a dog pile of pettiness
most days it's hard to stay in touch
with any sort of self

i'd like to make great promises
but when it boils down the the sticky tar of feeling
it's just wanting you here
it seems we've lived many lives together
that's how i feel
but let's be serious for some seconds
i'm distracted again.


a fine time
to sober up and wait
lust and longing linger somewhere
suppressed and unadulterated
these new things. to have.
count the costs and say what i'm thinking.
of closeness and the surreality therein
the newness, i mean.
found fondness stumbled upon
while drunk and driving home.
ran you over on accident
three times. and you kept calling out
faking nonchalantness acting up to par
poorly made.
but after you dance naked at night
and stepped back
trying to make sense of the simple things
being beautiful to me
wondering where actuality lies
body next to mine maybe
where are the lines of living
i am captivated.
i am calling quietly through smoke.
passive and greatly pleased together.

{the fourth makes me a liar.}

i didn't mean any of that.
the house collapsed upon me.