there really isn't a whole lot to be said. in fact. i don't think i have to say anything at all. i'm very afraid that any audible noise might adulterate my affection. it's a careful stupid game no one knows about. and the idea that there are a vast number of thoughts i keep to myself delights me, and at the same time, makes me wonder what exactly is the point of thinking them. how are these profitable. what is the value in them. when one has thoughts that seem so affectionate, and tender because they are truthful, precious because they are secretive, and worthless because they are irrelevant. i would like to say that nothing bothers me. but what does is my inability to avoid my fruitless thoughts. the daydreams that go nowhere. just fanciful stories i make for myself to keep me wanting more of life. so they are fruitful? where exactly would i be if i didn't have them. probably saved from the world, which i do not like. which, for the most part, i cannot stand. the way it moves around, and the other half that stagnates. please don't stagnate. all my loves are sparrows, and nightingales, mockingbirds and chickadees. all very aloof. paying no real attention to my hands or my eyes. no more than they pay to their own. i'm being arrogant. but i'm frustrated. because i've always had the greatest in mind for the ones i care about. and it doesn't even matter. you get lonely. sometimes you feel better, and other times you don't. i guess it's all a matter of how you look at it.
i made my own bed today. for the first time in years. normally, i make my bed right before i disappear for a while. but today i simply made my bed.
9.26.2006
9.25.2006
i'm not afraid of death. that is to say, i'm not necessarily concerned about the non-existence of myself. but as of late, the act of dying is consuming me. my body deteriorating, while simultaneously developing lumps and boils. my hair falls out. my teeth come loose. and gradually my breathing ceases to be. i'm everyday eaten away by a sense of impending doom. which sounds so simple. sounds like something someone stupid would fear. but most nights i spend some odd amount of hours reading all i can about disease. about my body. when i walk around i imagine coughing up my own epiglottis. my breasts may be small but that doesn't me they won't rot off. it stresses me to such a degree i end up smoking endlessly. wondering where the cancer will begin. maybe it would take months. or years. to die. i'm not afraid of any plane crash. but cervical cancer sounds so terrifying. i feel myself fighting the world, the flesh and the devil. and i do believe in the last especially because i hear him. right behind my left ear he's always talking. i know that all the horrible notions i have about myself are all seeded in his influence. he's figured out the things that cripple and everything that makes me fall down. he uses them against me. everyday, everyday he does this. and i want to cast out all these thoughts like demons into a fire. be rid of them and watch the trees instead. sometimes i remember that deep within my body is myself. and i feel safe. the solace always comes from singing.
9.24.2006
maybe the second time around is better. but everyone tends to forget the important parts. equally, they forget the most simple. i don't recall asking for this. actually. i don't remember asking for anything at all. it was just given to me. hand fed. for whatever reason. we didn't think to use spoons at the time. which i am very grateful for. had we thought of it then, i don't think i would be as delighted by that presence of being as i am now.
during that time i would drive ten miles to a specific cemetery surrounded by nothing but agriculture, trees and a questionable creek that came and went as it pleased. the creek fed a moderately sized chocolate lake. at least it looked like chocolate to me. and several times while living there, i contemplated drinking that water. but it was mostly stagnant, and i couldn't look past that aspect of it. one should never drink from anything that is stagnating. instead i would sit under a strong tree and read william carlos williams, while drinking a forty. i would get drunk and cry over words and thoughts that weren't mine, along with the ones that were. why did william carlos williams have to be dead now. and why weren't the words he'd left me enough to satisfy. i wondered if i too would leave words to someone who would live much later than myself. and i would dread the eventual time that would come in a few hours. when i had to enter the world again. eventually, i would fall asleep. sleep was solid state around that time, but still no solution. and i would wake to the same day, that bore the same quandaries. my mouth dry and sticky.
when i was a child i lived out in the country. about five miles north of town. close enough that at night i could see the dome of light encasing the city. and the myriad of lights, varying in size, shape and colour, that were tossed on the horizon line. seemingly as casually placed as the location of the city itself. i would stare at the town and imagine all the tiny people milling about inside its supposed borders. there had to be thousands of little souls in that tiny place. just living lives. and i wondered what they were thinking. and what they were doing. kind of like when you are lying in the grass, and happen to notice a plane gliding dreamily overhead. for as long as i can remember, i have watched these planes fly by and imagined all the tiny people inside that tiny cylinder. but they aren't tiny at all, just distant. headed somewhere for some reason. and when i'm alone, and it is quiet outside except for the faint sound of jet engines, and this fragile looking ship trailing white smoke is passing me by, i find myself weeping. the notion of it, the sight of it, stirs up some vast and incomprehensible perspective of life. i am a slight speck of time. so tiny. and very very small. i can't help but cry happy tears. over the beautifully and infinitely temporary instances i don't understand.
but because i lived so far from town, and had no neighbors within my age, i formed a deep trust in my imagination, as most children placed in a similar circumstance are forced to do. i played with my brothers. but when i wanted to be alone, i would ride my bike to the cemetery. it was one of the oldest in ohio, i may have just made that up, but it was really old. it was across the cornfield from our house. and after the harvest, one could see portions of it in the distance. i rode my bicycle down the rocky road, where i always assumed older kids would go to have sex and do drugs. i did both of these things in that place later in life. maybe namely because of this childhood assumption. but there were two parts to the cemetery. a hill and a "forest." at least i liked to think it was a forest. and along the southern edge was a slummy trailer park. i was partial to the hill. it was the older portion. and i would sit. and speak with the dead people who lived there. we would watch the sun go down. and despite how dreary the day had been, the sunsets were always wonderful. the sort of beauty one mourns over. as it passes. in fact, the gloomiest days brought about the most luminous sunsets. so the dead and i would sit. and talk. because i felt, they were just as lonely as i was. we would watch the sun go down. and from time to time, the trailer park kids would come around and knock down the tombstones. my mother and i would do our best to restore the damage done. it always made me so sad. that they would do this to my friends. but they didn't know. that we were friends.
during that time i would drive ten miles to a specific cemetery surrounded by nothing but agriculture, trees and a questionable creek that came and went as it pleased. the creek fed a moderately sized chocolate lake. at least it looked like chocolate to me. and several times while living there, i contemplated drinking that water. but it was mostly stagnant, and i couldn't look past that aspect of it. one should never drink from anything that is stagnating. instead i would sit under a strong tree and read william carlos williams, while drinking a forty. i would get drunk and cry over words and thoughts that weren't mine, along with the ones that were. why did william carlos williams have to be dead now. and why weren't the words he'd left me enough to satisfy. i wondered if i too would leave words to someone who would live much later than myself. and i would dread the eventual time that would come in a few hours. when i had to enter the world again. eventually, i would fall asleep. sleep was solid state around that time, but still no solution. and i would wake to the same day, that bore the same quandaries. my mouth dry and sticky.
when i was a child i lived out in the country. about five miles north of town. close enough that at night i could see the dome of light encasing the city. and the myriad of lights, varying in size, shape and colour, that were tossed on the horizon line. seemingly as casually placed as the location of the city itself. i would stare at the town and imagine all the tiny people milling about inside its supposed borders. there had to be thousands of little souls in that tiny place. just living lives. and i wondered what they were thinking. and what they were doing. kind of like when you are lying in the grass, and happen to notice a plane gliding dreamily overhead. for as long as i can remember, i have watched these planes fly by and imagined all the tiny people inside that tiny cylinder. but they aren't tiny at all, just distant. headed somewhere for some reason. and when i'm alone, and it is quiet outside except for the faint sound of jet engines, and this fragile looking ship trailing white smoke is passing me by, i find myself weeping. the notion of it, the sight of it, stirs up some vast and incomprehensible perspective of life. i am a slight speck of time. so tiny. and very very small. i can't help but cry happy tears. over the beautifully and infinitely temporary instances i don't understand.
but because i lived so far from town, and had no neighbors within my age, i formed a deep trust in my imagination, as most children placed in a similar circumstance are forced to do. i played with my brothers. but when i wanted to be alone, i would ride my bike to the cemetery. it was one of the oldest in ohio, i may have just made that up, but it was really old. it was across the cornfield from our house. and after the harvest, one could see portions of it in the distance. i rode my bicycle down the rocky road, where i always assumed older kids would go to have sex and do drugs. i did both of these things in that place later in life. maybe namely because of this childhood assumption. but there were two parts to the cemetery. a hill and a "forest." at least i liked to think it was a forest. and along the southern edge was a slummy trailer park. i was partial to the hill. it was the older portion. and i would sit. and speak with the dead people who lived there. we would watch the sun go down. and despite how dreary the day had been, the sunsets were always wonderful. the sort of beauty one mourns over. as it passes. in fact, the gloomiest days brought about the most luminous sunsets. so the dead and i would sit. and talk. because i felt, they were just as lonely as i was. we would watch the sun go down. and from time to time, the trailer park kids would come around and knock down the tombstones. my mother and i would do our best to restore the damage done. it always made me so sad. that they would do this to my friends. but they didn't know. that we were friends.
9.04.2006
knock it off, cut to the quick
all washed up, makes me feel like clean
breaks don't exist
there's no nurse without a patient
that passes understanding
and we write our own prescriptions
for the ailments
whether or not they exist
at this point it doesn't really matter
and no one works the same
so don't be disappointed
or expect correct salvation
it doesn't exist
everyone's a misunderstood liar
a liar nonetheless
misunderstood nonetheless
preoccupied by justification
the oldest fucking joke
next to love
all washed up, makes me feel like clean
breaks don't exist
there's no nurse without a patient
that passes understanding
and we write our own prescriptions
for the ailments
whether or not they exist
at this point it doesn't really matter
and no one works the same
so don't be disappointed
or expect correct salvation
it doesn't exist
everyone's a misunderstood liar
a liar nonetheless
misunderstood nonetheless
preoccupied by justification
the oldest fucking joke
next to love
8.31.2006
i ate a can of beans, only to realize later that they had expired exactly four years ago this month. but what does that even mean, really. i stared at the empty bowl for a time. then decided not to think anything of it. tonight i work. it's my second day. as we closed up on the first day of my employment i asked another worker if we were permitted to buy a beer from the restaurant and drink it as we cleaned the place up. she paused and eyeballed me. and after a few seconds flatly said, "no." it seemed like a pretty reasonable question to me, but the judgments had poured from her eyes, and i knew that she thought i was a lush. well shit. i can't seem to remember how to make friends anymore.
apologies for all the shitty writing. i've been drinking a bit less, so it might improve. in the sense that i won't drunkenly plop down in front of this computer and start typing. it always seems like such a good idea at the time. i guess i have more to think about than write about. to compensate for this i've been making lots of collages. many nude ladies from the 50's. which strikes me as pretty scandalous for the time. i've started making story boards instead of lists, for the things i have to do. today i felt french. i have no money for cigarettes. i like neutral milk hotel a lot. my job is a terror. the amount i talk to myself is at a record high. i don't know what i expected. well, actually i think i did expect this. fancy that. wow, i can't believe you just read that.
apologies for all the shitty writing. i've been drinking a bit less, so it might improve. in the sense that i won't drunkenly plop down in front of this computer and start typing. it always seems like such a good idea at the time. i guess i have more to think about than write about. to compensate for this i've been making lots of collages. many nude ladies from the 50's. which strikes me as pretty scandalous for the time. i've started making story boards instead of lists, for the things i have to do. today i felt french. i have no money for cigarettes. i like neutral milk hotel a lot. my job is a terror. the amount i talk to myself is at a record high. i don't know what i expected. well, actually i think i did expect this. fancy that. wow, i can't believe you just read that.
8.27.2006
it never feels as good as it did when i made it up in my head.
what feeds me now?
there's a worm on the ground
but i'm out of cigarettes
and i can't have one without the other
i can't drink stably without you
there's a run in my tights
and i can't drink courageously without you
it's all haunted and pitiful
it's the one without the other
and pointless taxing tribulations
i can't drink righteously without
all the daydreamed thoughts
about wantings and being wanted
and wanton thoughts about
someone who might care for me so much
and this is the body you dress in the daytime
taking showers and cleansing
i take so much delight in
a communion
jesus said it once
a feast of the assumption
that i might not have to wake up on the floor
alone and despondently careless
about everything i ever thought might take delight in me
i think about these things
more than i'd like to let on
i'm nothing new under the sun
i'm the sad drunken chain smoker
who dreams more often than she lives
from what i can tell
the rain can't even take delight in me
and the snow tries its hardest
to pull me under
what feeds me now?
there's a worm on the ground
but i'm out of cigarettes
and i can't have one without the other
i can't drink stably without you
there's a run in my tights
and i can't drink courageously without you
it's all haunted and pitiful
it's the one without the other
and pointless taxing tribulations
i can't drink righteously without
all the daydreamed thoughts
about wantings and being wanted
and wanton thoughts about
someone who might care for me so much
and this is the body you dress in the daytime
taking showers and cleansing
i take so much delight in
a communion
jesus said it once
a feast of the assumption
that i might not have to wake up on the floor
alone and despondently careless
about everything i ever thought might take delight in me
i think about these things
more than i'd like to let on
i'm nothing new under the sun
i'm the sad drunken chain smoker
who dreams more often than she lives
from what i can tell
the rain can't even take delight in me
and the snow tries its hardest
to pull me under
8.26.2006
i used to like to be reminded.
the epsom salts late night soaking now
and nostalgia paves over pastways
the old cobblestones treks
of these poor burnt out synapses
their buggies and rickshaws
their familiar and deceptive scenery
i don't remember what anything was really like
this is an ingrained path
sometimes seems too hard to tear it all up
cave into the up coming times
these poor burnt out synapses
i forget your all closed off
with your muddy streets
because it's always raining down there.
let's have a bypass
a four lane major highway
serious rerouting
i could cut the red ribbon
with novelty sized gold scissors
raise a toast to the new age
a new found raison d'etre
build a monument
over the tyrannical ways of was
+++
the neighbors
eating meat everyday paunched naked bellies
with their big dog barking named buster
daily spats through run down
artificially brick
walls
someone to slap around
he probably makes her feel like a woman
she probably makes him feel a man
they laugh at chinese babies
together. they live
they are together, know eachother
as much as.
i like to listen to them
from the other side of the chain-linked fence
ten yards
in my red shoes
my nails are red
my tongue is red
my throat and stomach red.
i smoke and listen to the neighbors
as they live
together.
+++
just a warning
if life is progression
the next one will be better
four walls for me and hardwood floors
a tiny bed, a long bath, deep tub
i'll bake bread for me, beat eggs
and eat them
i won't feel so guilty
over laying under windows
and watching breezes blow the blinds
gently
drinking too much alone
in one room for hours
and who's to say
you couldn't come and visit in the summer
not my finest season
after autumn winter and spring
have left me so alone for longer hours
i'll need the company
but won't ask for it.
just a warning
my control sleeps with my solitude
like worms hide in the dirt
i'm not a seeker anymore
it's too dangerous
if you can be good to me
the epsom salts late night soaking now
and nostalgia paves over pastways
the old cobblestones treks
of these poor burnt out synapses
their buggies and rickshaws
their familiar and deceptive scenery
i don't remember what anything was really like
this is an ingrained path
sometimes seems too hard to tear it all up
cave into the up coming times
these poor burnt out synapses
i forget your all closed off
with your muddy streets
because it's always raining down there.
let's have a bypass
a four lane major highway
serious rerouting
i could cut the red ribbon
with novelty sized gold scissors
raise a toast to the new age
a new found raison d'etre
build a monument
over the tyrannical ways of was
+++
the neighbors
eating meat everyday paunched naked bellies
with their big dog barking named buster
daily spats through run down
artificially brick
walls
someone to slap around
he probably makes her feel like a woman
she probably makes him feel a man
they laugh at chinese babies
together. they live
they are together, know eachother
as much as.
i like to listen to them
from the other side of the chain-linked fence
ten yards
in my red shoes
my nails are red
my tongue is red
my throat and stomach red.
i smoke and listen to the neighbors
as they live
together.
+++
just a warning
if life is progression
the next one will be better
four walls for me and hardwood floors
a tiny bed, a long bath, deep tub
i'll bake bread for me, beat eggs
and eat them
i won't feel so guilty
over laying under windows
and watching breezes blow the blinds
gently
drinking too much alone
in one room for hours
and who's to say
you couldn't come and visit in the summer
not my finest season
after autumn winter and spring
have left me so alone for longer hours
i'll need the company
but won't ask for it.
just a warning
my control sleeps with my solitude
like worms hide in the dirt
i'm not a seeker anymore
it's too dangerous
if you can be good to me
8.21.2006
8.10.2006
under eye bags begin and multiply
sleep deprived documentaries about
the sister wives of polygamy sleeping
while their husbands touch their children
yeah your a murderer
plugging away
it's a wicked world i don't want
a middle class bitch making
problems for myself
so life is more interesting
am i really? you don't even know anymore.
dream i'm driving through floods
with lanky black men
maybe you'll make me happy
but remembering truth isn't nearly as exciting
as initially discovering it
so easily displaced
snubbed
that reflection makes me sad
those words aren't mine
and i miss to be nowhere
good has come from company
but when we're there i'm not really
now really losing
not excited
no dreams
i want nothing
the question now is
what has really happened here
where has life gone to
it's a cold world and i hate it here
i need something to cling to
keep me warmer
sleep deprived documentaries about
the sister wives of polygamy sleeping
while their husbands touch their children
yeah your a murderer
plugging away
it's a wicked world i don't want
a middle class bitch making
problems for myself
so life is more interesting
am i really? you don't even know anymore.
dream i'm driving through floods
with lanky black men
maybe you'll make me happy
but remembering truth isn't nearly as exciting
as initially discovering it
so easily displaced
snubbed
that reflection makes me sad
those words aren't mine
and i miss to be nowhere
good has come from company
but when we're there i'm not really
now really losing
not excited
no dreams
i want nothing
the question now is
what has really happened here
where has life gone to
it's a cold world and i hate it here
i need something to cling to
keep me warmer
pray for me today. even if you don't, just try and fake it. a senseless state of self hate is solidifying inside of me. and i don't want to talk anymore. it's not my fault it's all my fault. at night the kids come in to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. with them they bring their sense of infallibility. and they act so infinite. i sit and watch, smoking endlessly and silently beseeching any higher cause to let me feel that way again. but it's true i've been dying for years, and more so now than ever i believe it. and i'm not really living. it seems that what i see in myself isn't there at all and every cell and fiber is simply stagnating. congealing slowly into the thick milky blemish that has come to be recognized as me. and i don't even see anymore, correctly. i don't remember visions. my breasts are rotting off, and i sit in the tub feeling for the tumors. there are lumps that won't go away like i've so kindly asked them to. i think of eating healthier foods, which turns into simply just not eating. the veins develop on my legs, and remind me of my mother. it doesn't matter how much your parents love you, they can't cure your lungs of cancer. or your epiglottis. and they'll tell you that you're fine. there's no hope. it's a vicious cycle of fear and antifear. they ending result of any self diagnosis is that i'm going to die soon, so i'd better just enjoy myself. everyone dies. i don't fear death. i'm terrified. the worst disease i've ever had is own mind. and i pray to god to help me be better than i am. to fix me. to save me from myself. i'd like to be so sturdy. but i'm not. and now i keep my fears and hatred silent and only to myself. because no one wants to hear anymore sad stories. and i don't want to tell them. and no one can cure you of yourself.
8.05.2006
7.30.2006
there are certain detrimental things i spend my time doing. these things are what make me a bad person. i don't mean overtly bad. or evil. just secretly and quietly bad. the kind of things that make me feel my life is a complete waste. yesterday i watched a dog eat vomit. at first, upon initially witnessing this, i told the dog to stop. still staring at the little animal gobbling up some other animals regurgitate, at least i think that's what it was, i realized that if this little fellow ate up all that vomit, i wouldn't have to clean the carpet. or feed the dog. so it was settled, and i continued doing whatever it was i was doing. later in the day, this same dog, smaller than a cat, started humping its friend, a very large dog, about the size of a fat goat. or a shetland pony. i told him this other dog was far too big for him, and he should quit while he was ahead. do himself a favour. but he must have been having a good time, because he continued , and had a particular dog elation written on this bland face. sometimes he would try to hard and fall over, but get right back up again and continue where he left off. about the same time this was all happening a swarm of bees surrounded us and we all ran about trying to escape. i still have a bone to pick with those bees. and i told them they were going to pay severely for what they did. i'm going to get a drink now. i'll be right back.
well, i'm tired. time to go to sleep in a strange lady's bed. in her lonely house. it feels very lonesome in this house. just the sense of a sad lady lives here. and you can justify these feelings based upon the set up of the home. and the stupid little poems she has taped to her bathroom mirror.
well, i'm tired. time to go to sleep in a strange lady's bed. in her lonely house. it feels very lonesome in this house. just the sense of a sad lady lives here. and you can justify these feelings based upon the set up of the home. and the stupid little poems she has taped to her bathroom mirror.
7.25.2006
out of context by now. psychoanalyzing the parts of myself that shouldn't exist anymore. or tampering with thoughts too much, turning them into problems. these city sidewalks so full of every hope ever had. and all the footsteps bring it back. i am slow going these days in such a bad way. self-inflicted lethargy and disappointments are my bed mates, my adulterated conscience. conning the science of good thought. i slowly build glass boxes around happiness. shut it out away from me and turn it into observation. i'm looking in these windows at what i don't know how to touch. now there are no attempts. just something pretty. brings me back to my contrived times. to beg for solutions. a last chance salvation by something human. medications can't stand to be afforded. for two reasons. you're much smarter. much stronger. conclude that i'm a bad memory, and i'll die. decide that i'm as i think i am. can i ever manifest my good. be what i am. the expectation in my head. and not my myriad of false starts. saying what doesn't need to be said. thinking like a washing machine. feeling sorry for it. all the time. cowering inside when in the room. disappointing everyone. letting them down. to be nothing nowhere seems so much nicer than being someone somewhere. having nothing to prove. give me this time to cultivate my worth, and when it's enough, present it. truth be told. i don't love myself because i don't think anyone else does. my self-worth is solely based on others affirmations. a giant anticipater and high expecter. that's right. it's true. the absolute. behind every word is desperation. i speak two separate stupid languages. and perpetually feel like no one's listening. only one heard every word i said. at least i thought so. that one time. i can't smoke my way out of this one. it's all changing, maybe ever, i can't tell too much anymore. and that's okay as long as i know i'm just this person. this one time. i'll try a little harder.
{do you remember that night in context.} i'm not making up shit. and the prettiest skies lie at night in oklahoma. space is much larger there. {can you see the moon that i saw hollow what's the use when i can see right through you.} i drove down the highway almost lacking light pollution. completely. got distracted and listened. let's go find distraction and listen. by ourselves remember. this may just be for me. my way of doing. and sometimes i hate it. how i have to do. {it makes no sense.} to me.
i'm not going down that road. i'm sick of you people. seekers. there's a way to live and a way to exist. both are different things don't forget or be confused. whatever makes you happy. go ahead tell yourself your happy. the way you want it. there's always something you don't really need that you can't let go of and it consumes you more than you'd like to let on. be stupid your heart out. let something stupid suck your heart out. i'm not going down that road. you think i'm jealous? let's all burn out justifying our causes. let's crumble self-deprecating blaming others. why don't we frame our compassionate achievements? how about it, let's compare heartache. who can whine so lovely and more often. who drank to excess during sickness. smoked with more conviction. i don't have time for this anymore. and if i choose to so lightly lend myself, that belongs to me. don't go grabbing for appreciation. i'll do what i do. i don't have time for anything else. having already wasted so much. and you won't really see me anymore. i don't want you to. i'm not ashamed or sorry. it's eating up my time in such a detrimental way. fuck this world's fair. it doesn't mean that i don't love you.
{do you remember that night in context.} i'm not making up shit. and the prettiest skies lie at night in oklahoma. space is much larger there. {can you see the moon that i saw hollow what's the use when i can see right through you.} i drove down the highway almost lacking light pollution. completely. got distracted and listened. let's go find distraction and listen. by ourselves remember. this may just be for me. my way of doing. and sometimes i hate it. how i have to do. {it makes no sense.} to me.
i'm not going down that road. i'm sick of you people. seekers. there's a way to live and a way to exist. both are different things don't forget or be confused. whatever makes you happy. go ahead tell yourself your happy. the way you want it. there's always something you don't really need that you can't let go of and it consumes you more than you'd like to let on. be stupid your heart out. let something stupid suck your heart out. i'm not going down that road. you think i'm jealous? let's all burn out justifying our causes. let's crumble self-deprecating blaming others. why don't we frame our compassionate achievements? how about it, let's compare heartache. who can whine so lovely and more often. who drank to excess during sickness. smoked with more conviction. i don't have time for this anymore. and if i choose to so lightly lend myself, that belongs to me. don't go grabbing for appreciation. i'll do what i do. i don't have time for anything else. having already wasted so much. and you won't really see me anymore. i don't want you to. i'm not ashamed or sorry. it's eating up my time in such a detrimental way. fuck this world's fair. it doesn't mean that i don't love you.
7.14.2006
out with it
you win
i'm at your tender mercies now
humiliated and hungry for more
hating selves secretly
with many miles to go
before any so-called final blow
and i'm aching masochistic
filthy-
call me baby
my great misfortune
i'm not good enough
even for myself.
between love and blood
i've always bought my own drinks.
be quiet and good
you're my favourite song
good morning to the bugs
and bicycle rides
you win
i'm at your tender mercies now
humiliated and hungry for more
hating selves secretly
with many miles to go
before any so-called final blow
and i'm aching masochistic
filthy-
call me baby
my great misfortune
i'm not good enough
even for myself.
between love and blood
i've always bought my own drinks.
be quiet and good
you're my favourite song
good morning to the bugs
and bicycle rides
7.13.2006
southern story.
vicious cycles of stranger awkwardness. the gaunt gas station beard man has been bombarded (after touching my back and kissing my fingers) by the tanned crystal meth queen cadaver. speaking to herself and everyone at once. kissing the rim of her coffee mug she throws her hair and hands back into the air towards the ceiling stretching strangely. only then to be a delicate lamb, sipping quietly daintily on sugar water. with care asking. if the hurricane hit yesterday.
whispers around, i'm pretty don't you think. back straight both hands upon ceramics shakes her head slightly sets the cup down and laughs tossing back a heavy skull, then drops it on the counter. still it shakes from side to side. putting on sunglasses fist on the chin a finger extends to the lip melodramatically thoughtful. and from her mouth comes muttering. eyebrows down to look confused. straightens up again and throws a hand behind her. lights a mentholated cigarette. takes the glasses off, with eyes alarmed and opened widely, her mouth puckers as the distant deep questions excrete from a brain, supposedly. she's asking. about the existence of a so-called "johnny cash."
she looks put together and clean. a pretty little woman with small hands that move with grace when not flailing. scrunches her nose, she is chuckling. to herself and no one else now.
stepping outside she is standing there asking me for bandages. pouring peroxide on her blood soaked foot i ask a name, and am apologizing for the pain as her toes begin to foam and bubble over infection. hesitating looking towards the sky as if she can't remember proclaims her name is "sun" suspiciously then says, what is pain, but a feeling. i say lady i guess.
+++++
loved too much to talk anymore.
this is the last supper
for now i fast
to find a final resting place
of sorts
be at ease
lie down in a new body
a brighter mind
reiterating
i know what now is
and don't enjoy it
in so many words
this is loneliness
self-reliance seems so far from here
justification a joke
and often times the thief of truth
what a cloud
a haze this life is
i see it so clearly
taking place before my eyes
and why is grief
its cause and existence
the daily threats of nothing
in particular
here with simple folk
i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.
+++++
suzy after
nothing substantial
just talking
you don't even have to read this
pathetic lamenting over past nothings
a giant glass of gin at the table
next to the phone no one calls
i am nobody's no one
and know they are there
at their parties with their people
laughing and such
even when they've dismissed it
say they hate it
despise that little town
at their parties
with their people
i'm lamentic
that's not a real word
being bitter
wishing i had the gumption
to off myself
knowing i never will
whatahack
why does this seem so never-ending
why am i so impatient
i don't get it
and all its shadowy sadness
i don't even have a drinking buddy
cultivating contrived better times
my eyes close so tightly
my heart aches
there's a dead man
inside this chest cavity
rolling in his grave
over how i'm reacting
he'd be so ashamed
were he still breathing
+++++
they say they don't mean anything
these tornado dreams
i believe them
but am under the impression
that there's more to it than i think
either that
or these thoughts simply make for more
+++++
vicious cycles of stranger awkwardness. the gaunt gas station beard man has been bombarded (after touching my back and kissing my fingers) by the tanned crystal meth queen cadaver. speaking to herself and everyone at once. kissing the rim of her coffee mug she throws her hair and hands back into the air towards the ceiling stretching strangely. only then to be a delicate lamb, sipping quietly daintily on sugar water. with care asking. if the hurricane hit yesterday.
whispers around, i'm pretty don't you think. back straight both hands upon ceramics shakes her head slightly sets the cup down and laughs tossing back a heavy skull, then drops it on the counter. still it shakes from side to side. putting on sunglasses fist on the chin a finger extends to the lip melodramatically thoughtful. and from her mouth comes muttering. eyebrows down to look confused. straightens up again and throws a hand behind her. lights a mentholated cigarette. takes the glasses off, with eyes alarmed and opened widely, her mouth puckers as the distant deep questions excrete from a brain, supposedly. she's asking. about the existence of a so-called "johnny cash."
she looks put together and clean. a pretty little woman with small hands that move with grace when not flailing. scrunches her nose, she is chuckling. to herself and no one else now.
stepping outside she is standing there asking me for bandages. pouring peroxide on her blood soaked foot i ask a name, and am apologizing for the pain as her toes begin to foam and bubble over infection. hesitating looking towards the sky as if she can't remember proclaims her name is "sun" suspiciously then says, what is pain, but a feeling. i say lady i guess.
+++++
loved too much to talk anymore.
this is the last supper
for now i fast
to find a final resting place
of sorts
be at ease
lie down in a new body
a brighter mind
reiterating
i know what now is
and don't enjoy it
in so many words
this is loneliness
self-reliance seems so far from here
justification a joke
and often times the thief of truth
what a cloud
a haze this life is
i see it so clearly
taking place before my eyes
and why is grief
its cause and existence
the daily threats of nothing
in particular
here with simple folk
i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.
+++++
suzy after
nothing substantial
just talking
you don't even have to read this
pathetic lamenting over past nothings
a giant glass of gin at the table
next to the phone no one calls
i am nobody's no one
and know they are there
at their parties with their people
laughing and such
even when they've dismissed it
say they hate it
despise that little town
at their parties
with their people
i'm lamentic
that's not a real word
being bitter
wishing i had the gumption
to off myself
knowing i never will
whatahack
why does this seem so never-ending
why am i so impatient
i don't get it
and all its shadowy sadness
i don't even have a drinking buddy
cultivating contrived better times
my eyes close so tightly
my heart aches
there's a dead man
inside this chest cavity
rolling in his grave
over how i'm reacting
he'd be so ashamed
were he still breathing
+++++
they say they don't mean anything
these tornado dreams
i believe them
but am under the impression
that there's more to it than i think
either that
or these thoughts simply make for more
+++++
7.03.2006
6.28.2006
one thousand cups of coffee. the dirt is deep in my eyebrows. have i been foolish? the array of diners, motels and bad directions makes me feel more misplaced within such a vast land, filled with so many people. eating from the buffet table where steam is rising from the fried chicken breasts. people pick at them with tongs. i'm no better. what a large world to wander around alone in. wanting to turn to my right and say something to someone. about nothing, the way one speaks to a loved one, someone very close to talk with, about nothing. whatever comes to mind, spouting random thoughts and observations. not bullshit, it's not bullshit. it's the most warm and loving dialogue. simple and open. to be so close to someone else's mind that your mouth harbors no hesitation. simply saying, and knowing everything is accepted. every word considered in a simple way, a gentle manner. even when they aren't cohesive. cognitivity need not exist between true and trusted friendship. that is to say, it is irrelevant due to deeper understanding. here there are only strangers. delightful strangers coming and going, smiling and giving me coffee. but strangers are like masturbation, as sex is to actual friendship. the brain requires social interaction, and these strangers don't provide complete gratification. but i love to watch them eat.
i had just rented an exorbitant amount of film from the local Blockbuster. the change handed back was enough for a pack of smokes, so i plodded through the ridiculous heat, contemplating my addictions, fifty paces to Kmart. while waiting in line to make my purchase, i stared at the woman in front of me. she was older, chewing gum forcefully, herself buying cigarettes. the skin around her mouth failed to efficiently cling to the bone any longer, making her appear much older than she probably was. from behind she could pass for thirty. i watched the folds surrounding her furiously moving mouth, hoping i could quit smoking before this happened to me. the cigarettes were $3.84. camel filters. full flavour.
as i headed for the door, lost in thoughts about nothing particular, i glanced quickly at some children sized bikes on clearance. they were schwinns. pink with white tires. my lack of thought was interrupted by a voice to my left saying, "fun fun!" i quickly turned to address it, saying "huh?" and witnessed an older man, red-headed and freckled, with a red, lemon-sized goiter on his neck. i only looked at him for a moment, as i was confused, and slightly taken aback by his deformation. he said again, "fun-fun!" i had no idea what he was talking about. "yeah." was the only response i could muster. was he speaking of the cigarettes? trying to shame me for being a smoker? maybe he was once a smoker, then he got the goiter, so the comment was the jealous revenge of an embittered, sickly man. was he talking about the bikes? reminiscing over the days of his childhood, when he too owned a pink bike with white tires? was he even talking to me? as i walked through the field of asphalt i contemplated this heavily. was it a sign? an evil prophecy or sarcastic prediction. the vague flashbulb memory of his potato shaped head consumed my thoughts, as i crossed the busy southern street towards home.
as i headed for the door, lost in thoughts about nothing particular, i glanced quickly at some children sized bikes on clearance. they were schwinns. pink with white tires. my lack of thought was interrupted by a voice to my left saying, "fun fun!" i quickly turned to address it, saying "huh?" and witnessed an older man, red-headed and freckled, with a red, lemon-sized goiter on his neck. i only looked at him for a moment, as i was confused, and slightly taken aback by his deformation. he said again, "fun-fun!" i had no idea what he was talking about. "yeah." was the only response i could muster. was he speaking of the cigarettes? trying to shame me for being a smoker? maybe he was once a smoker, then he got the goiter, so the comment was the jealous revenge of an embittered, sickly man. was he talking about the bikes? reminiscing over the days of his childhood, when he too owned a pink bike with white tires? was he even talking to me? as i walked through the field of asphalt i contemplated this heavily. was it a sign? an evil prophecy or sarcastic prediction. the vague flashbulb memory of his potato shaped head consumed my thoughts, as i crossed the busy southern street towards home.
6.26.2006
and every night before bed, thoughts come back, like a bad dream i had once,
or a really pathetic story i hated so much.
fuck you for all false starts. your backwashed ideas
supposing going nowhere neverletting
while sitting up in dirty rooms drinking expirations
cheap beer
just barely chokingdown for no good reason
i hope you see the joke you're making
the self squabbling moments when you say
i'm just a person justaperson for that and
for that reason
the world is here
there have been heavier hands
brows have been furtherfurrowedfucking shit
how can you call yourself
and i don't care just how you do
at all when you wake up alone and the day is yet another
but seemingly so new
you ruin
again comes the millionth chance
to just
andtojust nothing ever happens
the days wear on and you wear yourself thin in broken shoes
i wonder what you're sorry for i wonder why everynight
when you go home
now
when you've completed so-called productive breathing patterns
for the day
why you do
not how
you sorry
piece of shit
i'm sorry
for the both of us
you are just aperson faking it for real
and just
doing is for nothing
at all
in the whole
you're going nowhere.
or a really pathetic story i hated so much.
fuck you for all false starts. your backwashed ideas
supposing going nowhere neverletting
while sitting up in dirty rooms drinking expirations
cheap beer
just barely chokingdown for no good reason
i hope you see the joke you're making
the self squabbling moments when you say
i'm just a person justaperson for that and
for that reason
the world is here
there have been heavier hands
brows have been furtherfurrowedfucking shit
how can you call yourself
and i don't care just how you do
at all when you wake up alone and the day is yet another
but seemingly so new
you ruin
again comes the millionth chance
to just
andtojust nothing ever happens
the days wear on and you wear yourself thin in broken shoes
i wonder what you're sorry for i wonder why everynight
when you go home
now
when you've completed so-called productive breathing patterns
for the day
why you do
not how
you sorry
piece of shit
i'm sorry
for the both of us
you are just aperson faking it for real
and just
doing is for nothing
at all
in the whole
you're going nowhere.
6.19.2006
Jackson Town.
waiting for the gunshots. keep the money in the icebox. my two companions are woody guthrie and herman hesse. one is made of plastic, the other, paper. before i left again, i was sent a french press and a bag of coffee from a local roaster. using both now, i realize the water wasn't hot enough, but there is a delightful grainy taste that does not upset. the deluxe inn. actually "the" doesn't even exists in the title, simply "deluxe inn." thirty-five dollars. and if i return the key, i get five back. the room smells of rot. stale cigarettes and the cheap cleaners used to try and make it smell like cleanliness. coat ugly aromas. why do people assume clean has a smell. and why is there an association between chemicals with this nonexistent fragrance called cleanliness. the notion of how many people have fucked in this bed makes one neurotic. question secrecy and infidelity. rotten old hairy genitals, with matching bodies excreting personal odors. sweat.
i've made a picnic for myself on the hotel floor. using the bathroom towels, which need never be used against clean skin. the soap smells like old plastic ladies, and i feel sorry for the hands that will use it. a chair has been placed in front of the door and the couch has been moved in front of the window. overlooked by a large mirror, the desk is arranged against a wall, ideal for my needs, but its placement adjacent to the door and window makes me uneasy. so i've set myself up at a range where, if there were shots fired in my direction, i'd be too low to the ground for a direct hit, hence the picnic. the bathroom was considered, as it is farthest from the entrance, but after close examination, its condition is wary. i can almost see the bacteria multiplying. and it had no outlet.
after lying on the bed for a time, it became disturbingly clear that the five foot by three foot horizontal mirror at bed level was not placed just so for the purpose of people looking into it with their clothes on. and left of center on the mirror itself is a large smudge of sorts. i stared at it for some time wondering what part of who's body had created this smear. and why were they here and with whom, never thinking such thoughts are none of my business. maybe because they are only thoughts. so the money's in the icebox, wrapped in a floral handkerchief. the air conditioner is on. and night is decidedly a strange and funny time. nine miles from jackson there was an angry black man yelling at a vending machine. the phone rang and a man with a thick middle eastern accent asked if a wake up call was desired. ten thirty a.m. are you sure? is everything okay? everything is just fine.
waiting for the gunshots. keep the money in the icebox. my two companions are woody guthrie and herman hesse. one is made of plastic, the other, paper. before i left again, i was sent a french press and a bag of coffee from a local roaster. using both now, i realize the water wasn't hot enough, but there is a delightful grainy taste that does not upset. the deluxe inn. actually "the" doesn't even exists in the title, simply "deluxe inn." thirty-five dollars. and if i return the key, i get five back. the room smells of rot. stale cigarettes and the cheap cleaners used to try and make it smell like cleanliness. coat ugly aromas. why do people assume clean has a smell. and why is there an association between chemicals with this nonexistent fragrance called cleanliness. the notion of how many people have fucked in this bed makes one neurotic. question secrecy and infidelity. rotten old hairy genitals, with matching bodies excreting personal odors. sweat.
i've made a picnic for myself on the hotel floor. using the bathroom towels, which need never be used against clean skin. the soap smells like old plastic ladies, and i feel sorry for the hands that will use it. a chair has been placed in front of the door and the couch has been moved in front of the window. overlooked by a large mirror, the desk is arranged against a wall, ideal for my needs, but its placement adjacent to the door and window makes me uneasy. so i've set myself up at a range where, if there were shots fired in my direction, i'd be too low to the ground for a direct hit, hence the picnic. the bathroom was considered, as it is farthest from the entrance, but after close examination, its condition is wary. i can almost see the bacteria multiplying. and it had no outlet.
after lying on the bed for a time, it became disturbingly clear that the five foot by three foot horizontal mirror at bed level was not placed just so for the purpose of people looking into it with their clothes on. and left of center on the mirror itself is a large smudge of sorts. i stared at it for some time wondering what part of who's body had created this smear. and why were they here and with whom, never thinking such thoughts are none of my business. maybe because they are only thoughts. so the money's in the icebox, wrapped in a floral handkerchief. the air conditioner is on. and night is decidedly a strange and funny time. nine miles from jackson there was an angry black man yelling at a vending machine. the phone rang and a man with a thick middle eastern accent asked if a wake up call was desired. ten thirty a.m. are you sure? is everything okay? everything is just fine.
6.15.2006
a converted house coffee shop. outside, on the porch, tiny fire ants deconstruct a piece of food. the air has thinned, and a fresh wind blows the giant oak. smoking a cigarette, my body wishes to succumb to this deep exhaustion. and the sadness subtly speaking behind it. all the feelings of loneliness and grief that come simply from being alive. i need a newer water.
6.12.2006
6.09.2006
what now so much
from time to time i still stumbled around
like a drunk looking for what i have
intentionally misplaced
so i don't find it
but its absence makes its presence
that much more obvious
knowing if i found it
i would forget that it was mine
stop distracting me
now the actual drunk calls
i say okay why not
and i do
make
opening eyes wide
with an affectionate disdain
stare down great loneliness
scowling
sitting back and grinningsayingfine
and how vast because of it
the sense of solitary life so powerful
so quiet
the sky is mine
alone
from time to time i still stumbled around
like a drunk looking for what i have
intentionally misplaced
so i don't find it
but its absence makes its presence
that much more obvious
knowing if i found it
i would forget that it was mine
stop distracting me
now the actual drunk calls
i say okay why not
and i do
make
opening eyes wide
with an affectionate disdain
stare down great loneliness
scowling
sitting back and grinningsayingfine
and how vast because of it
the sense of solitary life so powerful
so quiet
the sky is mine
alone
6.06.2006
there is some stuff i saw, while in mississippi. the first picture is, without a doubt, the best. i often wonder what crazy things people do when they're alone. or with someone very close to them. just weird stuff, like talking in funny voices, or making ugly faces. just being completely stupid. things they wouldn't ever do in front of other people. these are usually my favourite moments i share with lauren. just being stupid. instances where she is the only person in the world who i know won't judge me. and when she says, "you're crazy." i know she means it. in the best of ways...
(this is reminding me of "schizopolis," steven soderbergh, a movie that must be seen.)
anyway. i will be gone soon.
(this is reminding me of "schizopolis," steven soderbergh, a movie that must be seen.)
anyway. i will be gone soon.
6.05.2006
6.04.2006
6.03.2006
"well, megan, i hate to have to tell you this, but we need you moved out by sunday." i wasn't shocked. it seemed like an inevitability. i told him i understood. pointlessly explained the details of my life that had slightly led up to this point. he said he was sorry, and good luck. i stood to go, and for whatever reason, simply started bawling. i sobbed some words to him about how i was very grateful, and i knew they were busy people, kind people, "for christ's sake, you let me come to your easter lunch. i'm sorry. goodbye." i walked down to the piece of shit trailer i so temporarily called home, to call my mother. the church was hiring a new staff member, which meant i got the boot. that and i hadn't been volunteering as much as they would have liked. my mother didn't answer. just as i was attempting to phone her again, knowing she usually doesn't answer because she can't find her phone, lauren step inside. to console me. i tell her the story.
somehow my confused sorrow turned into the two of us trying on my new sundresses, taking pictures of ourselves, and me making some short film upsidedown on the bed, while she brushed her teeth. we discussed how "diarrhea" might not be such a disgusting word, were it not for the meaning. but the word itself is almost pretty, and very fun to say.
so it's homeless again. and i don't even care. i'll be gone in a week. i don't even bother about my job anymore. for the most part i sit in the back room drinking either coffee or chocolate milk, smoking and reading david sedaris, while chaos reighns in the restaurant. lately his stories have kept me alive. or at least in better spirits. the portion of my job i do care about, in the sense that it is the only part of my job that impacts me, is the constant feeling of objectification. when a man slaps your ass to make some sort of masculine point i wish with all my little girl heart that i could vomit on demand. because i would puke in his face. this happened to me the other night, after i spent a half an hour telling this man i didn't want to give him my number, i didn't want to go out with him, i didn't want to have sex with him, and i am not "freaky" like he so unfoundedly assumed, after all i had done was give him coffee. somehow, through this fifteen second act, his judgment call was accurate, not to mention his super power brains could tell i have "a really nice personality." he proceeded to say, "i like the way your built. you look sporty. and that ass, you could make a black man so happy." call me crazy, but do people actually get persuaded by such statements? do people like that? because when someone walks up to me for the first time and informs me they think i have a nice booty, and would like for me to have sex with them, my initial instinct is to vomit. actually, i would probably just raise a confused eyebrow, which, my luck, would be completely misconstrued. what does "freaky" even mean.
upon leaving work i found a kitty. it wouldn't come to me when i called, but we meowed back and forth for about twenty minutes. i left it some bacon i stole from someone's plate in the backroom. i think they were still eating it, but obviously, there were more important kitties at hand.
somehow my confused sorrow turned into the two of us trying on my new sundresses, taking pictures of ourselves, and me making some short film upsidedown on the bed, while she brushed her teeth. we discussed how "diarrhea" might not be such a disgusting word, were it not for the meaning. but the word itself is almost pretty, and very fun to say.
so it's homeless again. and i don't even care. i'll be gone in a week. i don't even bother about my job anymore. for the most part i sit in the back room drinking either coffee or chocolate milk, smoking and reading david sedaris, while chaos reighns in the restaurant. lately his stories have kept me alive. or at least in better spirits. the portion of my job i do care about, in the sense that it is the only part of my job that impacts me, is the constant feeling of objectification. when a man slaps your ass to make some sort of masculine point i wish with all my little girl heart that i could vomit on demand. because i would puke in his face. this happened to me the other night, after i spent a half an hour telling this man i didn't want to give him my number, i didn't want to go out with him, i didn't want to have sex with him, and i am not "freaky" like he so unfoundedly assumed, after all i had done was give him coffee. somehow, through this fifteen second act, his judgment call was accurate, not to mention his super power brains could tell i have "a really nice personality." he proceeded to say, "i like the way your built. you look sporty. and that ass, you could make a black man so happy." call me crazy, but do people actually get persuaded by such statements? do people like that? because when someone walks up to me for the first time and informs me they think i have a nice booty, and would like for me to have sex with them, my initial instinct is to vomit. actually, i would probably just raise a confused eyebrow, which, my luck, would be completely misconstrued. what does "freaky" even mean.
upon leaving work i found a kitty. it wouldn't come to me when i called, but we meowed back and forth for about twenty minutes. i left it some bacon i stole from someone's plate in the backroom. i think they were still eating it, but obviously, there were more important kitties at hand.
6.01.2006
has this life become so boring? i feel it is when i talk on the phone. when i tell my stories. i am constantly questioning my own pettiness. someone told me that i would stop feeling so anxious and depressed if i just recognized that life isn't constantly exciting. but i find that advice hard to grasp. for as boring as my days are i still find so much pleasure in them. maybe not minute after minute, but there are always interesting things happening. always strange social interactions and instances. i find myself forever in this state of quiet fascination witht the world around me. why it acts in such a way. why people say the things they do, or insert strange antecdotes into conversations with complete strangers. everyone is searching for common ground. everyone strives to be different. or they don't. either way it intrigues me. and i feel like a satillite. just orbiting, unnoticed. most days i feel completely invisible. except for on the rare occasions where someone asks me if i'm gay because i have short hair. i've begun to tell them, "yes, but only when my hair is short. when it's long i'm completely straight. because i base my entire sexual orientation on the length of my hair. the other day i was walking to the movies and some teenage boys in a beat up buick rolled down their window to call me a faggot. i turned to look at them, and upon doing this they realized i was a girl, laughed and drove away. the world is funny to me. and i for the life of me, i couldn't understand why they would even bother to make any remark at all. as though it were some concern of theirs. like they had to defend their masculinity by demeaning my own. assuming i were gay man. which i would like to add, i completely felt like the other day. i'm sure that statement doesn't make any sense, and i accept that. honestly i have no explanation for the feelings i had. and even if i were to try an elaborate, it wouldn't make any sense. sometimes i wonder where my head is. and being alone so much probably doesn't ground me any. i've become a complete hypochondriac. having no one to tell me i'm not dying. what if i have a brain tumor the size of a tennis ball, and that's what's causing all these strange thoughts. what if i've had it since infancey. i miss my doctor. they tell me it's just the bad air down here, but i'm beginnging to think there is a blood clot in the back of my head. all this to say, mississippi is a terrible place. containing lots and lots of sad people i contend with on a daily basis. they tell me their stories in tears. and i have lost my sense of apathy. i trust no one. i let no one in.
5.30.2006
i step into this room and open my mouth to talk
but seem to have forgotten all the thoughts i've had over the past twelve hours
so instead of saying anything
i just put on some music
and blow my brains out
i mean
literally
i sit like a drug addict
staring off not blinking
listening to this
so happy i'm almost dry heaving
two people
one man stands up midsentence and asks me, are my pants on backwards
he turns and i see the zipper in the back and say, yes sir they are
he tells me he's tired his wife is out of town and he needs coffee
i give him coffee
an engineer talks to me for twenty minutes straight, no breath
telling me an array of engineering tales, with terminologies i don't understand
he assumes i do
yeah.. yeah.. oh!.. yeah.. wow.. huh..
i become so awkward within myself i begin stabbing my thumb into my side
as hard as i can.
the only word i remember him saying is mathematics.
mathematics.
and i thought, that is a really good word
repeating it in my head quite a few times
amidst saying, yeah.. hmm..
mathematics.
now i'm electric
motherfuckahs
you can't stop this
mc suckahs
get your damn hands off my microphone
give it to me
it's gold chains property.
oh! gold tooth in several days.
bitches.
but seem to have forgotten all the thoughts i've had over the past twelve hours
so instead of saying anything
i just put on some music
and blow my brains out
i mean
literally
i sit like a drug addict
staring off not blinking
listening to this
so happy i'm almost dry heaving
two people
one man stands up midsentence and asks me, are my pants on backwards
he turns and i see the zipper in the back and say, yes sir they are
he tells me he's tired his wife is out of town and he needs coffee
i give him coffee
an engineer talks to me for twenty minutes straight, no breath
telling me an array of engineering tales, with terminologies i don't understand
he assumes i do
yeah.. yeah.. oh!.. yeah.. wow.. huh..
i become so awkward within myself i begin stabbing my thumb into my side
as hard as i can.
the only word i remember him saying is mathematics.
mathematics.
and i thought, that is a really good word
repeating it in my head quite a few times
amidst saying, yeah.. hmm..
mathematics.
now i'm electric
motherfuckahs
you can't stop this
mc suckahs
get your damn hands off my microphone
give it to me
it's gold chains property.
oh! gold tooth in several days.
bitches.
5.26.2006
letting life be what is wanted
i hear what i need
aint nobody else gonna lay it all down
aint nobody else gonna tell me the truth
all i've found is the world is a liar
when it lies i say
how do you do
shaking hands and i'm
full well and aware.
praying more for myself
sleep less than i should do
they say
you done loss your mind
i say jesus.
integrity
and where is the wisdom
all i want is to be still.
i hear what i need
aint nobody else gonna lay it all down
aint nobody else gonna tell me the truth
all i've found is the world is a liar
when it lies i say
how do you do
shaking hands and i'm
full well and aware.
praying more for myself
sleep less than i should do
they say
you done loss your mind
i say jesus.
integrity
and where is the wisdom
all i want is to be still.
{i keep a close watch on this heart of mine
i keep my eyes wide open all the time}
5.24.2006
5.23.2006
birthday.
it takes a second
always and many
more before it's recognized
the descention of memory
running its course
the ways and hows
of was
and what are we forgetting
nostalgia overwhelms
the strongest state of mind
bad and good together, everything else
and everywhere else it follows
the scent of skin still in me
stored away, locked up
colours and the current
of tiny hairs streaming along the face
down the arm
the back of a neck
i know them better than you.
believe me.
pardon me, i did
and where the bones were placed so properly.
it takes a second
always and many
more before it's recognized
the descention of memory
running its course
the ways and hows
of was
and what are we forgetting
nostalgia overwhelms
the strongest state of mind
bad and good together, everything else
and everywhere else it follows
the scent of skin still in me
stored away, locked up
colours and the current
of tiny hairs streaming along the face
down the arm
the back of a neck
i know them better than you.
believe me.
pardon me, i did
and where the bones were placed so properly.
5.21.2006
the condition of my job situation, has rapidly gone from bad to absolute torment. the end of my shift involves a strong urge to crawl under a table, into the fetal position, and weep, while slowly rocking back and forth. which is unfortunate. all i do is serve food to people. and i'm good at it. stating this and knowing the truth behind it makes me question whether or not i should be ashamed of this life. that i know so much about eggs. ways to prepare them. i talk about eggs for twelve hours a day. and somehow, still manage to enjoy eating them. there are points within the night where i find myself completely aloof with madness. i just stand in front of the grill for about thirty seconds saying the word "eggs." speaking the four letter word in a manner of desperation. reminiscent of a marlon brando screaming stella. madness i tell you. just madness. lately however, i've been increasingly depressed about being at my job. i desperately try to snap out of it. but from time to time i find myself hiding in the bathroom, smoking cigarettes, staring into the stained mirror, crying to myself. calling my mother and telling her i think i'm dying all the time. i have cancer. i just know it. so apart from being depressed, stressed out and in a terribleplace, and frantic about life, i constantly have death looming over my thoughts. then the crazies come in, and i realize, well, if the cancer doesn't get me, these bastards surely will. what is the statistic probability that i will be shot or stabbed. or asked out on a date. or told i am "sexy." what does that even mean. i absolutely despise flattery in the work place. or anywhere for that matter. how can someone simply look at me and then say, "i would like to take you out." or "give me your number." or "hey, i been lookin fer somebody to be lickin.." oh really? that sounds like such a good time, honestly, i would just love to partake in such a romantic experience with someone i've never met before, who's probably old enough to be my dad. gee whiz that sounds like a swell time.
but now all of that is over for the night. and i sit in the shade slowly devouring giant hunks of fruit. it isn't that i'm eating daintily, or gracefully taking small bites of pineapple from a larger portion, no, i'm thoughtlessly and very slowly shoving huge pieces of fruit into my gaping hungry mouth. almost catatonically. staring off into the brick wall in front of me. realizing i will sleep soon, and then wake, put on my uniform and walk right back into that same cement box to serve fried goods. doing the world a great disservice. one waffle at a time.
but now all of that is over for the night. and i sit in the shade slowly devouring giant hunks of fruit. it isn't that i'm eating daintily, or gracefully taking small bites of pineapple from a larger portion, no, i'm thoughtlessly and very slowly shoving huge pieces of fruit into my gaping hungry mouth. almost catatonically. staring off into the brick wall in front of me. realizing i will sleep soon, and then wake, put on my uniform and walk right back into that same cement box to serve fried goods. doing the world a great disservice. one waffle at a time.
5.20.2006
5.19.2006
hot flashes begin to feel there is no validation of this womanhood.
what is a waste of time anyway.
where does it lie
in bed with me?
or not now, no,
who knows.really.
maybe apathy strikes again.
just one more thing to think about.or not, for now,
i have no idea.
having begun this silent game with my own head
we are almost separate
and i know what it wants
every sense of satisfaction
the well-beings.humans. homogeneous.
so the essence of biological living within me wants-
and it wants a lot of everything,
to all of which there are two sides
each double-edged sword
i might be learning to read the lifesigns
but in all reality they change with the day
minutes like strawberries
all beautifully red, and sour or sweet depending
when will all of this ripen.
stripped down.
settle down in the snow.
go to white.and nothing.
what is a waste of time anyway.
where does it lie
in bed with me?
or not now, no,
who knows.really.
maybe apathy strikes again.
just one more thing to think about.or not, for now,
i have no idea.
having begun this silent game with my own head
we are almost separate
and i know what it wants
every sense of satisfaction
the well-beings.humans. homogeneous.
so the essence of biological living within me wants-
and it wants a lot of everything,
to all of which there are two sides
each double-edged sword
i might be learning to read the lifesigns
but in all reality they change with the day
minutes like strawberries
all beautifully red, and sour or sweet depending
when will all of this ripen.
stripped down.
settle down in the snow.
go to white.and nothing.
5.18.2006
5.17.2006
exceptionally tired now but peaceful. feeling fine albeit achy, not too much to take care of. i would like to recap. check my progress as this person. be confused by the brains strategies. knowing they are there. is the brain one giant justification of itself? how is it even possible for us to study ourselves. how bizarre and seemingly impossible. ohwell. i'm missing my favouites and loathing the fears of insecurity. a bit worried i've said too much or something. i should be quiet now, yes? and let this pass, cease the act of speaking while simultaneously scared of introspectiveness. or at least too deep a dive into it. maybe it's just the monotony of days tugging at the right side of my brain. or the slight desperation talking into my left ear. but the hope i have is a curious thing. i want to wear more dresses. red ones. i should. i will. maybe some green and yellow ones, too.
there are crazy christians afoot. firing the sacred souls. shooting them between the eyes with southern hospitality. saying we are god's chosen people, and no one does a better job than us. we are the blessers of benefactors. these bastards of beasts. knitting a blanket over truth over themselves. wrapping up in the warmth of close-mindedness. i'm being melodramatic. half truths always. if i could only be so eloquent. i'll probably just end up saying, "you're a fucking bitch, and no one likes you." while violently gesturing with my large hands. i should paint my nails red too.
anyway.
the moral of the story is, it's almost finished. i'm confused and excited. perplexed because i've become so peaceful. then confused by peace, i'm getting frantic. oh woe is me. not really. no. really. seriously. i just diagnosed myself with an unfamiliar disorder. i'm sure you've never heard of it. the ailment involves too many words flocking the the forefront for my brain at the same time. it's like an imaginary blood clot, only with words, not blood. that's when the emotional fits begin. ohdear. last night i drank a good red wine. it was pleasing.
there are crazy christians afoot. firing the sacred souls. shooting them between the eyes with southern hospitality. saying we are god's chosen people, and no one does a better job than us. we are the blessers of benefactors. these bastards of beasts. knitting a blanket over truth over themselves. wrapping up in the warmth of close-mindedness. i'm being melodramatic. half truths always. if i could only be so eloquent. i'll probably just end up saying, "you're a fucking bitch, and no one likes you." while violently gesturing with my large hands. i should paint my nails red too.
anyway.
the moral of the story is, it's almost finished. i'm confused and excited. perplexed because i've become so peaceful. then confused by peace, i'm getting frantic. oh woe is me. not really. no. really. seriously. i just diagnosed myself with an unfamiliar disorder. i'm sure you've never heard of it. the ailment involves too many words flocking the the forefront for my brain at the same time. it's like an imaginary blood clot, only with words, not blood. that's when the emotional fits begin. ohdear. last night i drank a good red wine. it was pleasing.
5.16.2006
there's a mosquito on the window. stretching it's hind legs. curling them back. arching them above its head. reminiscent of a skinny ballerina. it's beautiful, it really is, but i am wary. i don't want it to stick me. so i keep a watchful eye on its location. when it starts to fly away i jump and yelp, make a fool of myself. but it just flies towards the window for about five minutes. paying me no mind. i think it might be trying to mate with itself. it's about that time, isn't it. just stay away from me.
5.15.2006
drove to new orleans in a giant, green pick-up truck. the cotton exchange hotel. narrow city streets. trolleys. we devise a plan to jump two floors down into the outdoor pool room. realizing we will be drunk later, and in need of a dip. this never transpires. it's a dirtier city. everyone litters. just throwing trash on the ground. beers and/or liquors in hand, they sip and walk down the claustrophobic lanes and avenues, without thinking twice. a beautiful ancient city. at least old. a beat up jalopy. some restaurant, and i decide to try some alligator. breaking my vegetarian streak, initiated through poverty. it tastes like chicken. a strange group surrounds me. a bottle of displeasing red wine. i drink it all anyway. and become drowsy. sitting alone at the bar smoking cigarettes. in a brown shirt. vodka tonics. exit. art galleries litter the block, along with seedy bars. what a combination. drunk fat middle aged gay men in soft pink button up shirts. they try and force me to drink a radiation green coloured beverage dubbed "the hand grenade." it has "this will make you puke" written all over it. i politely refuse.. i forcefully say no fucking thank you. bourbon street. absolute debauchery. and i do "the robot" by myself amidst it all, in the middle of the crowded street. cigarette in hand. blues man "big al." they call him "jabba the hut." for a reason, mind you. i use the WC at the oldest bar in the country. converse with funny drunk ladies. vodka tonic, no lime: $5! old white man plays the keys, covering jimmy buffet songs. and for the first time in my life i slightly enjoy "margaritaville." some pirate/blacksmith started this bar in the 1600s. got caught with a rich man's lady, so they threw them in the marshes to drown in an embrace. so the story goes. condoms on the curb. i trample the many bead necklaces strewn about the streets. and have assured the group that if anyone even tries to put a bead necklace on me, i'll break their knees. i find them to be trite and tacky. more robot in the streets. we cross "the violet line," and some middle-aged man with a goatee in a cowboy hat storms out of the gay bar screaming, you people are sick. i laugh and psychoanalyze. breasts, and the bearing witness to the bare male ass popping out of a mini skirt entering some transvestite club. some random bar among millions. a worn looking hispanic man in a camouflaged tank top plays the electric fiddle. innocent bystanders are forced to hop on stage and play the washboard. i hide in the corner like always. and can't tell if i'm watching the hilarity or the horror. he plays the accordion now, backed solely by a drum machine. more vodka. back to the streets. i attempt to take everything in, but there's just so much happening it's overwhelming my senses. people dance, and it amuses me. heading to one-eyed jack's. then to some other bar, i'm not really paying attention anymore. stop touching me, i'm not feeling affectionate. and you ma'am are drunk! i'm tired now. body rejecting itself. to an irish pub. where the irish band covers ramones songs, incredibly surreal. i sit at my table alone while they dance. i smoke heavily, and drink their beers. stumbling home, past the police, the drunks, the buskers, the kids sitting in doorways, the hobos, the bachelorette brigades, and that extremely fat, half-naked man sleeping on the sidewalk, i find myself pleased to be where i am. and the world seems full of promise. lying in bed, i finally realize i'm drunk, when i have to close one eye to read a piece of paper. curl up in the bed spread. she attempts to steal it back from me. i'm told i informed her it wasn't going to happen. in the morning we drank slim fasts. the end.
5.14.2006
we slept on a mattress on the floor. there was no box spring, and it was bad for our backs. neither complained. the initial attraction revolved around the fact that he only had one arm. but somehow still managed to make such wonderful music, with a drum machine, and some ordinary kitchen appliances. young people holding hands makes me feel nostalgic. i was on the left. and on sunday afternoons we would sit in the giant birch tree outside the apartment complex and smoke cigarettes, making dinner plans. winter involved down comforters and cold hardwood floors.
sometimes snow is so beautiful you find yourself desiring to just lie down in it.
curling up and sleeping until your body shuts off. and you die.
sometimes snow is so beautiful you find yourself desiring to just lie down in it.
curling up and sleeping until your body shuts off. and you die.
5.11.2006
there were maggots in the sink today. margot is a good name, i think about it often. but for the past week i've gone by martha. for about a month it was yvette. there's something to be said about working eighty hours in one week. standing in a cement box serving fried goods. sometimes i feel i'm doing the world a great disservice. and the military men come in by the dozens in the morning. and they don't tip. and they ask for their military discount. ten percent off. sons of bitches, these guys. ever once and again, usually on the night of a full moon, i'm accused of being racist, when i say "you guys" instead of "y'all." i'm from ohio. so they tell me i am racist and leave with a confident "fuck you!" fucking fuming, i am. hot boxing cigarettes. five minutes later they come back in and ask for orange juice. i tell them they've offended me, pissed me off, and i don't want to get them anything.
the large group of boys come in screaming steak and eggs i want steak and eggs. i take their order, how do you want your eggs.
how do you want your eggs, baby?
i don't want any eggs. i'm not hungry.
well if you ain't hungry, then i ain't hungry.
how do you want your eggs.
i want my eggs however you want yours. let me feed you eggs.
i'm not hungry.
another man walks in and the trouble beings. i watch it unfold quickly. lately, i've been very soft spoken, and i frighten myself when i begin the scream expletives at the top of my lungs directed at the giant fight about the break out. they've puffed up their chests. they're looking down their noses. the cop comes in. disturbing the peace, sir. so they all start to pile out the door. the cops stands there. furious i eye him and inform him these customers haven't paid for their fucking food. is he just going to fucking stand there, or arrest them for not paying? he straightens up. goes to get them. they pay for their fucking food.
i work with this guy who has a withered hand. who goes out of his way to make jokes about it. so i ask, what happened to your hand. oh my mom did crystal meth while she was pregnant. i'm missing the longest bone in my arm. actually, she just over-dosed yesterday, so i have to leave at two, she has surgery.
then there's this lady named gwen. a very sweet lady. on thursday they took her kids away. because her boyfriend spanked the littlest one, who proceeded to mention it in school. so they just call up child services, and take her kids away. no ma'am, you can't see your kids. and if you do get them back, and lay so much as a finger on them, you'll never seem them again. you're going to have to take parenting classes before you regain custody as well.
jessica has had a brain tumor since she was nine. her parents are crackheads, so they don't really care to invest the money into the situation. she works innumerable hours at two jobs to afford her own medication. she's sixteen. she's done everything for herself. and no one seems to want to do anything for her. she wants to join the military. the other days she told me she is pregnant. she comes to work to tell me her house was broken into, and all their belongings stolen. including the money she had saved up to send to the doctors. and i think, oh god, i am grieving for you. and please don't get discouraged. she tells me, now i'm going to die, because people want to steal my money.
and what am i to do. this compassion is overwhelming. had i money in my pocket i would say take it.
occasionally, at some point late at night, she will play a handful of songs, one of which being "american soldier." i try in vain to explain to her why i hate it. because i don't like country, i don't like people writing songs about america, and i especially don't like songs where someone talks about how great they are. then we play johnny cash, which is glorious. the line, "i shot a man in reno, just to watch him die" may be one of the best lines in a song, ever. i need a hair cut. why are eggs so delicious to me? i don't understand. is it because my dad used to make eggs for breakfast every wednesday before school. scrambled, poached, sunny side up, over medium, over easy/light, over hard/well, basted, hard boiled, soft boiled. holy-shit. there are a lot of ways to cook eggs. and now, i'm going to go to work and eat some. someone told me once that they had seem an old woman drinking red wine out of a huge glass, while eating a soft boiled egg, and thought of me. i do hope i am that lady some day.
the large group of boys come in screaming steak and eggs i want steak and eggs. i take their order, how do you want your eggs.
how do you want your eggs, baby?
i don't want any eggs. i'm not hungry.
well if you ain't hungry, then i ain't hungry.
how do you want your eggs.
i want my eggs however you want yours. let me feed you eggs.
i'm not hungry.
another man walks in and the trouble beings. i watch it unfold quickly. lately, i've been very soft spoken, and i frighten myself when i begin the scream expletives at the top of my lungs directed at the giant fight about the break out. they've puffed up their chests. they're looking down their noses. the cop comes in. disturbing the peace, sir. so they all start to pile out the door. the cops stands there. furious i eye him and inform him these customers haven't paid for their fucking food. is he just going to fucking stand there, or arrest them for not paying? he straightens up. goes to get them. they pay for their fucking food.
i work with this guy who has a withered hand. who goes out of his way to make jokes about it. so i ask, what happened to your hand. oh my mom did crystal meth while she was pregnant. i'm missing the longest bone in my arm. actually, she just over-dosed yesterday, so i have to leave at two, she has surgery.
then there's this lady named gwen. a very sweet lady. on thursday they took her kids away. because her boyfriend spanked the littlest one, who proceeded to mention it in school. so they just call up child services, and take her kids away. no ma'am, you can't see your kids. and if you do get them back, and lay so much as a finger on them, you'll never seem them again. you're going to have to take parenting classes before you regain custody as well.
jessica has had a brain tumor since she was nine. her parents are crackheads, so they don't really care to invest the money into the situation. she works innumerable hours at two jobs to afford her own medication. she's sixteen. she's done everything for herself. and no one seems to want to do anything for her. she wants to join the military. the other days she told me she is pregnant. she comes to work to tell me her house was broken into, and all their belongings stolen. including the money she had saved up to send to the doctors. and i think, oh god, i am grieving for you. and please don't get discouraged. she tells me, now i'm going to die, because people want to steal my money.
and what am i to do. this compassion is overwhelming. had i money in my pocket i would say take it.
occasionally, at some point late at night, she will play a handful of songs, one of which being "american soldier." i try in vain to explain to her why i hate it. because i don't like country, i don't like people writing songs about america, and i especially don't like songs where someone talks about how great they are. then we play johnny cash, which is glorious. the line, "i shot a man in reno, just to watch him die" may be one of the best lines in a song, ever. i need a hair cut. why are eggs so delicious to me? i don't understand. is it because my dad used to make eggs for breakfast every wednesday before school. scrambled, poached, sunny side up, over medium, over easy/light, over hard/well, basted, hard boiled, soft boiled. holy-shit. there are a lot of ways to cook eggs. and now, i'm going to go to work and eat some. someone told me once that they had seem an old woman drinking red wine out of a huge glass, while eating a soft boiled egg, and thought of me. i do hope i am that lady some day.
5.08.2006
5.06.2006
my father's daughter. and the cigarettes. and the blonde hair almond eyes jaw line. today is jazz but later. lewis the pirate. tom the body builder. some girls from harvard. lauren. i had this dream the other night in which i found myself causally performing coitus with some girl, who i apparently knew in the dream. but before it all went down i asked her if she had any diseases. she said no. okay. the act itself was mildly painful and uncomfortable. needless to say i didn't really enjoy it, but went along with the whole ordeal anyway. when everything was said and done, i got up, and proceeded to play the harp. there were giant piles of meat. the dogs came from miles.
today i look exactly like river phoenix in :stand by me.: the moments i have to relax are unenjoyable. i feel restless and upset. no one calls or writes. i have to keep myself moving forward. occupied. remember the importance of both. disdain wells up inside of me. then the fear and the sadness. and i hate everyone. and i drink. and i smoke too many cigarettes. i miss my bike. it was yellow.
today i look exactly like river phoenix in :stand by me.: the moments i have to relax are unenjoyable. i feel restless and upset. no one calls or writes. i have to keep myself moving forward. occupied. remember the importance of both. disdain wells up inside of me. then the fear and the sadness. and i hate everyone. and i drink. and i smoke too many cigarettes. i miss my bike. it was yellow.
4.30.2006
how long have i been here. this wasteland. stranded in the desert. jungle plane crash. it doesn't even matter. yesterday i drank too much and desperately tried to convince myself i was a secret agent. why did they give me this job. it seemed this girl was on a permanent vacation, but no she's not, she's a secret agent. i think the idea was, that if i just go crazy now, i won't have to contend with all the ebbs and flows of grief. the senses of certainty that so quickly evaporate into infant like tendencies. when i'm standing on the pier, staring out at the sea, and i am myself finally, only to be stabbed in the throat by the presence of no one. that inkling of loneliness stirs inside me like a time bomb. and tells me, "you have no one." i try and say, "okay." to be fine with this news. take it like a real man. but it always seems to kick my feet out from under me. i topple into the briny deep. lying at the bottom of the sea, i drown slowly, all the while waiting for the creatures to come devour me, but they never do. i look around, there on the ocean floor, with a great fear in my heart, the anticipation killing me. where are the teeth, the blood, the cracking of bones. nothing. so i simply sit there waiting. for anything to happen.
4.27.2006
the pine belt.
nothing here is healthy.
the south is testing my patience.
making me braindead.
screeching sea gulls and the gnats
come around
bombarding me with asinine conversation
and constant petty squabbles.
this pick-pocket, robbing me even of sleep
with its hot days and night jobs.
i need that unconsciousness
to alleviate my illnesses
the dull aches and pains
and i suppose these social ailments are everywhere
the most unhealthy one is me
and i have a feeling
the moment i can take no more
when the gun is to the temple
one second before the pull of a trigger
i can finally leave.
nothing here is healthy.
the south is testing my patience.
making me braindead.
screeching sea gulls and the gnats
come around
bombarding me with asinine conversation
and constant petty squabbles.
this pick-pocket, robbing me even of sleep
with its hot days and night jobs.
i need that unconsciousness
to alleviate my illnesses
the dull aches and pains
and i suppose these social ailments are everywhere
the most unhealthy one is me
and i have a feeling
the moment i can take no more
when the gun is to the temple
one second before the pull of a trigger
i can finally leave.
my boss
he stuck around much later than usual. it was uncommon, but pleasant, as i enjoyed our conversations to a vast degree. the dialogue only substantial in the respect that he made me laugh a lot and laughed at what i said. it was a good recreational balance. we sat at the far end of the diner, and he took off his name tag. i've done some terrible stuff today, he said. i played a guessing game as to what could have been so terrible. work related suppositions. all my questions were denied, but he asked me to continue asking because it was fun for him. i gave up. do you promise not to tell anyone, he said. i looked at him blankly, and asked who do i have to talk to. okay. today i locked myself in the office with two girls. two. i was baffled at first. i didn't want to assume what i knew he meant. that he, a married man, a proud parent of two, would so selfishly fondle two young girls in his two by three foot office. i realized why earlier, when i had arrived at work, a joke was made about being locked in the office, and i was subsequently locked in the office with him. we talked politics in the dark. then i felt awkward and opened the door to leave. the space was too tight. and earlier he had assured me in a motherly way that i too have breasts, like a woman should, but referred to them as "boobs." such a nasty word, and what a stupid reference for such a great portion of flesh. at that moment i stared down at my modest chest and cupped my hands over the protrusions. a perfect fit.
i asked him what he planned on doing. what was to come of this incident in reference to his wife. how long had he been married, he is only thirty. seven years, seven year itch, i say. he concludes that he will ignore the situation. i reassure him that this is the obvious and wise choice in the matter, and he should be proud of himself for being so concerned for his wife's emotional state, that he would put it upon himself to refuse to tell her the painful news. wisdom, sir. pure and simple. and while he laughs i explain this is no laughing matter. why is such a grown man so daft. why are ramifications ignored. and how can inexperience tell experience what is right?
parts of me know how i should resent him. i know what betrayal is. i've seen it, and it made me unwillingly befriend what i now know as agony. so where is the disdain? i don't feel it. where is righteousness? where is integrity?
we climb onto the roof, and he boosts me up onto the ladder by palming the left side of my ass. i commend him for his ploy, and say, this isn't about going onto the roof at all. it's completely an opportunity to grope young girls. he assures me that i have a nice ass, and shouldn't be ashamed of the flattery. where do people learn to talk sometimes? we stand on the roof and stare out at our ghost town. a place of nothing but used car lots and gas stations. i smoke apathetically. where does anyone get off?
i ask him if he ever gets a specific random phrase stuck in his head for days. he affirms. i say, the phrase stuck in my head right now is "good old fashion masturbation." how well that rolls off the tongue. i turn to ask a question and he says, here, have some of this. and smashes a triple chocolate cream pie into my face. i pause with confusion, and then instinctively begin to grab the hunks of pudding off my face, and throw in his direction.
we run outside and find ourselves sitting on her car. she says she's going to leave. the idea is, she won't leave if we sit on her car. she puts the car in drive, and accelerates quickly through the parking lot. we look at eachother and simultaneously point out that this is a dangerous situation. she accelerates more. then slams on the breaks. he jumps off, and i remain, only to be thrown quickly into reverse, clinging to the hood of the car.
we sat and drew pictures.
he told me about his son who spots ants from miles away.
i listen attentively. until i'm bored, and begin casually throwing plates on the floor. just to watch them break. to hear a loud noise through all the silence.
main street
one night in all my sadness i sat, in the ancient yellow chair, wrapped in the knitted blue blanket my grandmother had made for me, drinking two bottles of the same red wine. he came into that back room with me, peaked in, and said, i imagine you look just like sylvia plath did before she offed herself. at the time, i took it as a confused compliment.
i'm trying to get past nostalgia. makes times greater. drunk.
where does all this concern come from? oh yeah, i created it.
he stuck around much later than usual. it was uncommon, but pleasant, as i enjoyed our conversations to a vast degree. the dialogue only substantial in the respect that he made me laugh a lot and laughed at what i said. it was a good recreational balance. we sat at the far end of the diner, and he took off his name tag. i've done some terrible stuff today, he said. i played a guessing game as to what could have been so terrible. work related suppositions. all my questions were denied, but he asked me to continue asking because it was fun for him. i gave up. do you promise not to tell anyone, he said. i looked at him blankly, and asked who do i have to talk to. okay. today i locked myself in the office with two girls. two. i was baffled at first. i didn't want to assume what i knew he meant. that he, a married man, a proud parent of two, would so selfishly fondle two young girls in his two by three foot office. i realized why earlier, when i had arrived at work, a joke was made about being locked in the office, and i was subsequently locked in the office with him. we talked politics in the dark. then i felt awkward and opened the door to leave. the space was too tight. and earlier he had assured me in a motherly way that i too have breasts, like a woman should, but referred to them as "boobs." such a nasty word, and what a stupid reference for such a great portion of flesh. at that moment i stared down at my modest chest and cupped my hands over the protrusions. a perfect fit.
i asked him what he planned on doing. what was to come of this incident in reference to his wife. how long had he been married, he is only thirty. seven years, seven year itch, i say. he concludes that he will ignore the situation. i reassure him that this is the obvious and wise choice in the matter, and he should be proud of himself for being so concerned for his wife's emotional state, that he would put it upon himself to refuse to tell her the painful news. wisdom, sir. pure and simple. and while he laughs i explain this is no laughing matter. why is such a grown man so daft. why are ramifications ignored. and how can inexperience tell experience what is right?
parts of me know how i should resent him. i know what betrayal is. i've seen it, and it made me unwillingly befriend what i now know as agony. so where is the disdain? i don't feel it. where is righteousness? where is integrity?
we climb onto the roof, and he boosts me up onto the ladder by palming the left side of my ass. i commend him for his ploy, and say, this isn't about going onto the roof at all. it's completely an opportunity to grope young girls. he assures me that i have a nice ass, and shouldn't be ashamed of the flattery. where do people learn to talk sometimes? we stand on the roof and stare out at our ghost town. a place of nothing but used car lots and gas stations. i smoke apathetically. where does anyone get off?
i ask him if he ever gets a specific random phrase stuck in his head for days. he affirms. i say, the phrase stuck in my head right now is "good old fashion masturbation." how well that rolls off the tongue. i turn to ask a question and he says, here, have some of this. and smashes a triple chocolate cream pie into my face. i pause with confusion, and then instinctively begin to grab the hunks of pudding off my face, and throw in his direction.
we run outside and find ourselves sitting on her car. she says she's going to leave. the idea is, she won't leave if we sit on her car. she puts the car in drive, and accelerates quickly through the parking lot. we look at eachother and simultaneously point out that this is a dangerous situation. she accelerates more. then slams on the breaks. he jumps off, and i remain, only to be thrown quickly into reverse, clinging to the hood of the car.
we sat and drew pictures.
he told me about his son who spots ants from miles away.
i listen attentively. until i'm bored, and begin casually throwing plates on the floor. just to watch them break. to hear a loud noise through all the silence.
main street
one night in all my sadness i sat, in the ancient yellow chair, wrapped in the knitted blue blanket my grandmother had made for me, drinking two bottles of the same red wine. he came into that back room with me, peaked in, and said, i imagine you look just like sylvia plath did before she offed herself. at the time, i took it as a confused compliment.
i'm trying to get past nostalgia. makes times greater. drunk.
where does all this concern come from? oh yeah, i created it.
get out of your boxes
dropping brides at the alter
i shot a man in reno, just to watch him die.
get out of your boxes.
the happiness of others so wonderful and simultaneously heartbreaking. companionship. i want to be alone with this loneliness, so that it's only mine. i want my anonymity.
to say hello how do you do to only strangers, and only once.
knowing no one. i've given up on taking care. nobody gets anything. i am filthy. i know that. there is dirt in my hair and my clothes aren't clean. you don't have to tell me. that part of me cares, only because of how i imagine you would look at me. disgusted. but for the most part, there is no concern for self-preservation. this is hibernation. thoughts come to me while i am working, i don't know where to place them, or don't have time. they eventually evaporate. then i sleep and sleep. and half way through my dreams, i wake to my own overwhelming metal restlessness. it finds me even in sleep! i despair for five minutes, before sleep takes me back again. but that five minutes is a nasty time. this era makes me like the living dead. i've completed a portion of this education, i'm waiting for the rest. it's coming, and i'm waiting. and i'm dead mostly. i can see my own death in dirty fingernails. the fact that i don't shower unless i want to feel water on my body. in my tattered clothing. in my broken shoes. in the mirror when i put on my makeup. the question is, why am i still putting on eyeshadow? the answer is in the bad air. the decided cause of everything sickening.
Adirondacks !
4.23.2006
on this day i smell of oranges, ginger and oregano oil. the giant, ancient oak trees loom overhead like kind older brothers. and the hot southern sun shines behind them, sometimes slivering through and onto my shoulder. i am trying to be patient here. to be peaceful. but the future is too exciting. and i am writhing. sitting still has never seemed like such a difficult task. i am so afraid of waiting too long. will i be too withered, eventually too despondent and discouraged to move. or will i end up let down again. i want to blow all of this out of my brains. there is so much to be done. for this grand novel. that only resonates within myself. how do i do.
4.18.2006
4.16.2006
[the future.]
so the soup is on again. and it smells really good to her. all we did today was talk words. and i know you're thinking that is what we do everyday. but this is different. she made some serious broth today. we conspired. and for the most part everything is a succulent secret. but there is lots of tedious work to be done. and it is anticipated. there are times to suck life up. not so much like a sponge. more like bacteria. see we're talking words today. and the water isn't boiling as of yet, but will be soon. it's just a matter of waiting. and not watching. because we all know that when one waits for water to boil, it seems to take considerably longer. but she hopes there's something better up there. we're putting my faith in it. and the yeast. and potatoes. in the batter. we'll have to practice patience. and lord knows if this will taste as good as it smells. but he does know it will be nutritious. yes?
we've said the past until it meant nothing.
we're saying future until it means everything.
so the soup is on again. and it smells really good to her. all we did today was talk words. and i know you're thinking that is what we do everyday. but this is different. she made some serious broth today. we conspired. and for the most part everything is a succulent secret. but there is lots of tedious work to be done. and it is anticipated. there are times to suck life up. not so much like a sponge. more like bacteria. see we're talking words today. and the water isn't boiling as of yet, but will be soon. it's just a matter of waiting. and not watching. because we all know that when one waits for water to boil, it seems to take considerably longer. but she hopes there's something better up there. we're putting my faith in it. and the yeast. and potatoes. in the batter. we'll have to practice patience. and lord knows if this will taste as good as it smells. but he does know it will be nutritious. yes?
we've said the past until it meant nothing.
we're saying future until it means everything.
4.14.2006
4.13.2006
the taste is in my mouth again
visions putting me to sleep
i'd like to be a better man
but we don't have a lot of time
it's possible that i am dying
the lumps in my neck growing
so my lover has abandoned me
and my friends destroy my name
i force my skin to shift along the bone
recognizing i have a body
very full of smoke
i want to practice silence
be grateful for my sight
understand that i've been lied to
many times over it seems
i'm only realizing now
who the foolish people are
and how i've let them in
stupid silly sinners
similar to me
but less kind
funny ha-ha
it's funny how my heart was on the line
and you didn't seem to care
so now i'm all thumbs
and gravity is a joke
visions putting me to sleep
i'd like to be a better man
but we don't have a lot of time
it's possible that i am dying
the lumps in my neck growing
so my lover has abandoned me
and my friends destroy my name
i force my skin to shift along the bone
recognizing i have a body
very full of smoke
i want to practice silence
be grateful for my sight
understand that i've been lied to
many times over it seems
i'm only realizing now
who the foolish people are
and how i've let them in
stupid silly sinners
similar to me
but less kind
funny ha-ha
it's funny how my heart was on the line
and you didn't seem to care
so now i'm all thumbs
and gravity is a joke
4.11.2006
4.10.2006
there are blood-sucking gnats. i'm smoking them out. they rise. eat steak for breakfast. adults form the habits of children. chocolate milk and pudding cups. does love wait in haunted attics? deep within myself the pointlessness of everything seems quite apparent. i can't do this anymore, and one minute i'm dressing like the future. saying future, speaking future into the camera. fifteen minutes later i'm under the covers. these fits of self-sufficiency. i wish they would last like relentless disease. but it's back and forth. i've always felt small. when i'm lonely it is truth. i am at my smallest. and i am not great. very fragile. don't tell me i am strong you liars. you have no idea what is going on. we need each other. i can't handle the absence of other hands on my head. and the world seems so good. and the fruit all smells so sweet. my bed a better place. and this is where i go to sleep alone. i can make myself be something beautiful for them to look at so they love me. but sometimes when i dream of being loved again it seems so empty. and no one will ever be inside of me. can i open myself wide enough? can i tell you all my thoughts? weep at your feet? and will you hear me. no one will ever know. there's no way out of me. there's no way to let a drop in. despite initial desire. after a time my words won't seem as lovely. my face won't seem sincere. and as i've come to know i will be boring in the eyes of what once held me dear. i will be casual. shall i try harder again? shall i bring them soup again. wash their sheets. try to make a life easier, because i chose to love? did i already write these words. why can't they escape me. like a used breath. but every used breath comes out the same. sometimes more passionate. but amidst the many times we breath, the sighs are far and few between. is that how the phrase goes. okay. okay. okay. i am very tired. my belly tells me i haven't eaten in a long while. let us wash our faces in each other's hands. let us kiss each other's eyelids.
4.08.2006
what do they think about inside those heads of theirs?
it is the daughter's birthday. she wears a violet velvet dress and transparent plastic shoes. the mother takes us to one of the local wal-marts, to get the daughter's nails done, pictures taken. i sat outside watching the parade of sweatpants, smoking cigarettes and painting my nails fire engine red for free. wondering if a portion of my life was ending, a new one beginning. if this were the case, i'd still be thinking about it now, but i'm not, so it must not have been too important. something about being more presentable. put together. but then it was off to the giant buffet restaurant, to stuff our faces. this fat family and i, sitting amongst table after table of the toothless, confederate flag t-shirt wearing people. i watched in disgust, but still ate my portion. plate after plate, mounded high with fried goods. this dining experience of sorts seems never ending. the daughter starts to cry because she can't have more ice cream, more cake, more pie, more chicken. she pouts until she gets her way. there is something about the way she eats that makes my skin crawl. i hate it. the little mouth moving and chewing so viciously. the expression on her face is completely mundane. she stares off, as she furiously shoves the food in her mouth. and it seems she is always eating. every hour of everyday, unless she is sleeping, she's eating. i want to scream. and don't understand this feeling welling up inside me at the sight of a small child, simply eating. but it bothers me to a monumental degree. after dinner, we drive back to the small apartment in the ghetto, to watch some cheap hollywood flick about something trite. heartbreak, overcoming the odds, getting the girl. where am i, the thought often crosses my mind as i try to be appreciative. or at least glean something productive.
my conversation with a middle-aged man covered in skull tattoos, looking inbred, at the diner:
i continued to fiddle with the little cup of cream on the table, eventually smoking a cigarette, while he stood staring at me. clearly, this man had no idea who chris clark was. why would he say he did? why did he do that? i don't understand at all. but the instance was humorous, and made me vastly uncomfortable. he stuck around to talk with me, attracting more crazies. two other fellows who asked me lots of questions about my computer, but never really gave me time to answer. so there i was, surrounded by older men in dirty clothes with large bellies and no teeth, asking me questions. in the diner.
it is the daughter's birthday. she wears a violet velvet dress and transparent plastic shoes. the mother takes us to one of the local wal-marts, to get the daughter's nails done, pictures taken. i sat outside watching the parade of sweatpants, smoking cigarettes and painting my nails fire engine red for free. wondering if a portion of my life was ending, a new one beginning. if this were the case, i'd still be thinking about it now, but i'm not, so it must not have been too important. something about being more presentable. put together. but then it was off to the giant buffet restaurant, to stuff our faces. this fat family and i, sitting amongst table after table of the toothless, confederate flag t-shirt wearing people. i watched in disgust, but still ate my portion. plate after plate, mounded high with fried goods. this dining experience of sorts seems never ending. the daughter starts to cry because she can't have more ice cream, more cake, more pie, more chicken. she pouts until she gets her way. there is something about the way she eats that makes my skin crawl. i hate it. the little mouth moving and chewing so viciously. the expression on her face is completely mundane. she stares off, as she furiously shoves the food in her mouth. and it seems she is always eating. every hour of everyday, unless she is sleeping, she's eating. i want to scream. and don't understand this feeling welling up inside me at the sight of a small child, simply eating. but it bothers me to a monumental degree. after dinner, we drive back to the small apartment in the ghetto, to watch some cheap hollywood flick about something trite. heartbreak, overcoming the odds, getting the girl. where am i, the thought often crosses my mind as i try to be appreciative. or at least glean something productive.
my conversation with a middle-aged man covered in skull tattoos, looking inbred, at the diner:
:whatcha listenin to?:
:oh, um, chris clark..:
:oh really, that's perdy cool.:
:..d-do you know, who that is..?:
:w'll yeah! i may be ol, but i's still hip.:
:oh.. i just didn't know.. that a lot of people had heard of him. that's surprising.:
:yup, been listenin to im fer years.:
:he's an electronic artist..:
:i know that!:
: ... :
i continued to fiddle with the little cup of cream on the table, eventually smoking a cigarette, while he stood staring at me. clearly, this man had no idea who chris clark was. why would he say he did? why did he do that? i don't understand at all. but the instance was humorous, and made me vastly uncomfortable. he stuck around to talk with me, attracting more crazies. two other fellows who asked me lots of questions about my computer, but never really gave me time to answer. so there i was, surrounded by older men in dirty clothes with large bellies and no teeth, asking me questions. in the diner.
4.07.2006
softer shoulders
something to tell you. there is a large goldfish scanning the bottom of the tank for food. day in and day out he does this. eating up the brightly coloured rocks and spitting them out again. my left breast holds a better shape than the right. i am very sick. but my shoulders are exceptionally soft. i am freshly showered. and i have a great appreciation for soft shoulders against my cheek. the day is overcast. the curtains are red. the fan is off. and i will sleep now. at one point in life, my favourite time of the day was lying in bed, waiting for sleep to take me. for a long while this became a despised and lonely time, when it should not have been. and now again, this is the best part of day. having so much to think about. so much to create within myself. so much love to feel that doesn't exist. but it does, because i want it to.
4.02.2006
i feel shame. the kind that comes from just existing.
a disembodied fat arm rotates the greeting card rack. i've created distant cousins in the south. and more and more i feel less distant from these people. while they constantly remind me i am different. i have a high school diploma. i've been to college. i don't have children. i am not married. or divorced. the only one who is one. strangely solitary and intellectually isolated. saying strange things and talking to myself constantly. disappearing acts. still trying. still looking for something. not giving up. i'm lending myself too much credit. i have no idea what's going on. but feel the desire to be sleeping in a car again. to be passing through city after town after city. knowing no one. living no real life. i feel a tiredness that sleep alone could not quench. and death now seems so humorous. not existing. just vanishing with the day. there are better people. far far better.
+
i was attempting solitary sleep. as the friends we were, there was crying, and it was winter. we wrapped ourselves in blankets and sat on the stoop outside the front door, without pants. the other front door, and smoked cigarettes, feeling vulnerable. just sitting. and as the friends we were, often times we would sit in the basement, the both of us together, while i cried and asked rhetorical questions about my self-worth. i suppose i should just appreciate the tight skin around my face, while it still holds to the bone. one day it won't so much. and on another day it won't be present at all. just bone. the thrill of leaving has left me. alone to take care of only myself. and often times, i think of my hurt feelings, how silly of a human condition, to contain such grief for something so intangible. but it was tangible. there were hands. and sometimes, but very rarely, i inadvertently find myself imagining the act which affected me so. and inadvertently the knots form inside of me, my stomach and throat spasm with the onset of tears. my body prepares for the outpouring of an emotional state. because something tangible did take place, and i know there was blood pumping inside the veins and organs. deep breaths and wanton signs. mouths sucking salty skin, leaving the marks to witnessed later. all while i slept far away. and i try very hard to keep these thoughts just as far, but occasionally they come to me suddenly, without initiation, like repressed memories that aren't mine. they belong to other people. they must belong to better people, because i'm the one who wasn't there. who was there, but quickly forgotten somehow through substance and darker hair. deeper eyes and intellectual conversation. i didn't know that these things made a constant life disappear into thin air like some fleeting thought about how you have to mail this letter before the post office closes. if i'd known this, maybe i would have been more careful. and i am told of all i have. life is so simple. here is my gratitude, i'm telling you that i have no one now. there will be no received comfort. and when they say i have them, i see the half-hearted feelings behind words i know are true. so now, when they say they love me, i don't care as much. my life is a series of moot points i can do nothing about. there is no pursuit, except within myself, and i'm getting tired already. and knowing that alone will last for a long time makes the spirit predisposed to weariness. it makes for envy, anger and sadness. i don't want to be so cynical! so no, i don't care much for love these days. because it has given me so much, only to leave me for other people. and such is life they say and i believe them. it is truth, but why waste the time. and why should i dance. i'm only sad and dancing. trying to force something inside of myself to feel good again. for just a little while let me rest, please i say this with such desire. for just a little while let me remember what it was like to feel contentment, and resist the disappointment when i recall that these are not good times now, and i can no longer have that which was so good. or at least let me relive what was self-sufficiency. an honest concern for simply myself. these days i find too much pleasure in taking care of others, and living without it is now detrimental. why is my grief so trite. heartbreak is so overdone, you would think that people would stop doing it to each other. you would think that through my thought process i would be capable of releasing it. but i haven't been able to yet. try as i might, somedays it doesn't seem possible to me anything more than just human. thank you for this. i am thanking you for this. thank you. thank you. thank you.
a disembodied fat arm rotates the greeting card rack. i've created distant cousins in the south. and more and more i feel less distant from these people. while they constantly remind me i am different. i have a high school diploma. i've been to college. i don't have children. i am not married. or divorced. the only one who is one. strangely solitary and intellectually isolated. saying strange things and talking to myself constantly. disappearing acts. still trying. still looking for something. not giving up. i'm lending myself too much credit. i have no idea what's going on. but feel the desire to be sleeping in a car again. to be passing through city after town after city. knowing no one. living no real life. i feel a tiredness that sleep alone could not quench. and death now seems so humorous. not existing. just vanishing with the day. there are better people. far far better.
+
i was attempting solitary sleep. as the friends we were, there was crying, and it was winter. we wrapped ourselves in blankets and sat on the stoop outside the front door, without pants. the other front door, and smoked cigarettes, feeling vulnerable. just sitting. and as the friends we were, often times we would sit in the basement, the both of us together, while i cried and asked rhetorical questions about my self-worth. i suppose i should just appreciate the tight skin around my face, while it still holds to the bone. one day it won't so much. and on another day it won't be present at all. just bone. the thrill of leaving has left me. alone to take care of only myself. and often times, i think of my hurt feelings, how silly of a human condition, to contain such grief for something so intangible. but it was tangible. there were hands. and sometimes, but very rarely, i inadvertently find myself imagining the act which affected me so. and inadvertently the knots form inside of me, my stomach and throat spasm with the onset of tears. my body prepares for the outpouring of an emotional state. because something tangible did take place, and i know there was blood pumping inside the veins and organs. deep breaths and wanton signs. mouths sucking salty skin, leaving the marks to witnessed later. all while i slept far away. and i try very hard to keep these thoughts just as far, but occasionally they come to me suddenly, without initiation, like repressed memories that aren't mine. they belong to other people. they must belong to better people, because i'm the one who wasn't there. who was there, but quickly forgotten somehow through substance and darker hair. deeper eyes and intellectual conversation. i didn't know that these things made a constant life disappear into thin air like some fleeting thought about how you have to mail this letter before the post office closes. if i'd known this, maybe i would have been more careful. and i am told of all i have. life is so simple. here is my gratitude, i'm telling you that i have no one now. there will be no received comfort. and when they say i have them, i see the half-hearted feelings behind words i know are true. so now, when they say they love me, i don't care as much. my life is a series of moot points i can do nothing about. there is no pursuit, except within myself, and i'm getting tired already. and knowing that alone will last for a long time makes the spirit predisposed to weariness. it makes for envy, anger and sadness. i don't want to be so cynical! so no, i don't care much for love these days. because it has given me so much, only to leave me for other people. and such is life they say and i believe them. it is truth, but why waste the time. and why should i dance. i'm only sad and dancing. trying to force something inside of myself to feel good again. for just a little while let me rest, please i say this with such desire. for just a little while let me remember what it was like to feel contentment, and resist the disappointment when i recall that these are not good times now, and i can no longer have that which was so good. or at least let me relive what was self-sufficiency. an honest concern for simply myself. these days i find too much pleasure in taking care of others, and living without it is now detrimental. why is my grief so trite. heartbreak is so overdone, you would think that people would stop doing it to each other. you would think that through my thought process i would be capable of releasing it. but i haven't been able to yet. try as i might, somedays it doesn't seem possible to me anything more than just human. thank you for this. i am thanking you for this. thank you. thank you. thank you.
3.28.2006
i lie there, on the foreign couch, thinking of everything i long for. and all i wish i had. through all the silence, save the air conditioner. useless. i wonder if i could have them or not. but after all the thoughts have cycled, when they have reverted back to the first, after i have teared up slightly, over everything i've lost, i still know. i cannot go back. i cannot go back. i think of happier times. and know, i cannot go back. there must be blindness.
i woke late because it was my day off. slept until ten am. we were supposed to drive to jackson. visit a friend in the hospital. sixteen with a brain tumor. her parents are crackheads. she works days on end to pay her own medical bills. drinks a fifth a day. she is giving up now. but we didn't drive to jackson, she was already back. she drove herself to the hospital last night. a three hour drive to fix the feeling she had lost in the right side of her body. so we stayed home. talked about molestation. homosexuality. abortion. tarot cards. she asked me to go to her mom's house. she can't stand her mom. where is your dad. oh, she's not my maternal mom, or my stepmom. they both live somewhere else. this lady is just someone i know, and since i don't talk to my real family anymore, i call her mom. i can't stand her. but she has no one else. oh. i was confused. we drive to the trailer, which sports two large "beware of dog" signs. she tells me i will smell of dog by the time we leave. i had seven dogs once. i was bitten by a dog. it ripped my face off. look. see the scars? they're all around my left eye. entering the yard, and to my left is a tiny grave, surrounded by miniature plastic fencing, shoved into the ground. that was the chiwahwah. it was poisoned by the neighbor. upon opening the door, two giant dogs jump to greet us, barking and clawing. i like dogs, but not these dogs. they draw blood from my right arm. and keep jumping on me. no one does anything. we sit and talk. the mother apparently loves dolphins and santa. both are scattered all around the house. i picture her, in the store. out of the corner of her eye she sees it, a gaudy knick-knack incorporating a dolphin or santa. something she doesn't own. something so tacky and tasteless, she can't live without it. on her forearm is a tattoo. the most glorious tattoo i have ever laid eyes on. a dolphin, trailing a rainbow, holding a football. this woman is the most racist person i have ever met in my life. and the first to admit just how racist she truly is. we speak of a mutual friend who is white, dating a black man. the retort from mother, she oughta have er throat cut. you gotta sleep with yer own kind. ain't that right, megan. oh, but you already know that, cuz yer a yankee, and they don't do that up north. i sit, too baffled to even think of how to respond. my mind fills with a million reasons why that is false. she continues, i hate niggers first. no, wait, i hate mexicans first, then the niggers. i didn't used to be this way. they made me this way. thinking they's all high and mighty. better 'n me. but they's the laziest mother fuckers i ever seen. they don't do shit. at this point, i'm just taking it all in. what more can i do. the dogs jump on me, teeth baring tennis balls. the mother grabs a dogs nubby tail. hand touching its anus. the dogs begin humping. i am a sponge. somehow homosexuality comes up again. ain't none a my business what ya'll do in yer bedroom. i don't give a shit. i got queer friends. (now she looks at me) you can do whatever yah want in yer own bedroom. i ain't gonna judge. i realize she's talking to me, not at me. oh, she assumes i'm a lesbian.. maybe because i have such short hair, and am wearing a sports bra. i hate bras. her "daughter" chimes in, she's not gay mom. the mother stutters a bit, and says, i weren't sayin her was. because the grammar is just that great. i'm an ass. we sit for a while and watch old movies with judy garland. talk about katherine hepburn, how she's way better than audrey. sophia lauren. betty davis. ingrid bergman is my favourite. we leave. the mother gives me candy and a pack of cigarettes. i eat a waffle. and we sit in the diner for a few hours, while i give relationship advice to someone seven years my senior. deciding i want whiskey, i leave and travel to the coffee shop to secretly drink, while i write and smoke my free cigarettes. call my grandmother. call my aunt. call my brother. it's dark, so i drive back to her house. do my laundry for the first time in a month. watch tv. i hate tv. realize i am haggard. drink more whiskey. take some darvocet. downed with a swig of tough whiskey. just now kicking in. i feel detached from everything, mostly lonely, but content nonetheless. which may be the darvocets. the time is now 11:26, and i think to myself, that's my birthday. smoke the last cigarette of the day. and go to bed. with my warm body.
3.27.2006
sweethearts and scallywags. you bastards. this is where the fine line lives. and i am in the middle-place. bathing foreign babies for working mothers. taking care. wasting time. and my throat is sore. i may be dying. i maybe dying. so why stop now. i make love to my thoughts. feel tremendous guilt when i get home from work, dog tired. and she is lying in my bed wearing silk sheets. eyeballing me, asking silently if i desire her enough. and i say, sorry baby. hitting the proverbial sack. sorry, baby. covering up, shutting my eyes and thinking about times when i won't have to pay my thoughts so much attention. when there's someone else to hold me so tightly that i stagnate, melting out of myself. become a puddle, allow air to gradually take me. that's the love they told me about. but what can i say. these are just the dreams that put me to sleep at night. and i know that forever it's just the two of us. i'm a terrible lover, and yeah, i've handed out some bruises. ruffed her up around the edges. but she still loves me. i say, sorry baby, it just goes to show you how great your life is, that you might have all this turmoil. making you stronger. she knows she's valiant. and says i'm right. we will always work things out.
3.25.2006
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