Floral roundabout
I am sure at times my grandmother
visits me when I smell a wisp
of floral. Some days it's different
as if she wakes up in an alternate universe
and chooses rose over antique perfume
in that bottle with two hearts. The perfume
didn't go in there but when Clarence the cat
knocked it over she knew it was time to switch.
Her visits are brief. I may be laying fetal
against a sweat soaked pillow or burying a dead
iguana. His name was Kermit.
Maybe I just punched a brick wall and
this feeling comes over me, a floral scent
that makes my eyes go to the back of my head.
I am not here, I am inside a capsule
of flowers, I am headlining my female roots,
writing the score, channeling her Depression days,
the dust bowl, the cigarettes that killed her,
the cancer, the cancer, the hoarded cans
next to the oven. corn. peas. carrots.
Then I inhale again and it's gone. I smell sweat,
my skin and the litter box. Wherever I am I stretch
and grasp a wall or a bed, drop into a mental haven
that is 75 degrees, hidden beneath thick, lacy curtains
and it's 2 AM; sunrise is on the schedule.
I lay in a bed of floral arrangements.
In certain ways they don't go together: rose, lily,
snapdragons, zinnia. My mother offers
me a bouquet and I accept, run upstairs
and put it in a tiny blue china vase that fits in my palm.
Sometimes I fall fast asleep in that room
but sometimes I stay awake, waiting for the scent again.
11.27.2009
"One's real life is often the life that one does not lead." - Oscar Wilde
I never knew regret until I left you and that town
with my tornado leftovers. Reconciliation:
I scratch my words into the trunk of my soul.
I engage with a red hammock tied branch to branch.
I sleep. I dream of the day I wake up from this dream
and depart on another dream.
I never knew regret until I left you and that town
with my tornado leftovers. Reconciliation:
I scratch my words into the trunk of my soul.
I engage with a red hammock tied branch to branch.
I sleep. I dream of the day I wake up from this dream
and depart on another dream.
11.26.2009
11.23.2009
.
I'd rather be run over by an SUV than see them crow look at me
Crows flock over the city.
Their cackle chased me down
Broadway many times the past week
with a worry that I am next
on their search for garbage, dead birds
homeless beards and leftover
preserved hamburger in a dumpster.
The crows caw-aw-ah to their territory, over
my head, below the sun. I'm haunted
as if Edward Gorey reached down
from a time machine vortex and named them
Ida, Kate, Fanny, Basil,
Timothy Geithner, Sallie Mae, Bart Stupak.
The powers that be gather for crow
intelligence. The crows bend
their skulls down to eh-aw
me below their Nosferatu limb tree.
They boast their freedom,
their money, their ownership of my ovaries.
One day I'll pay in to another
garbage heap. Their dinner will be set.
They'll laugh all the way home
as I am gasping for air by the coffee shop
as I am running deep into SUVs and traffic
as the last of my change and books
turn over like pebbles, as my plastic
shoes reign over their short lifespan.
I'll fall to the fate of my past;
they're all dead, decomposing
under smug crows and fertile mud.
Crows flock over the city.
Their cackle chased me down
Broadway many times the past week
with a worry that I am next
on their search for garbage, dead birds
homeless beards and leftover
preserved hamburger in a dumpster.
The crows caw-aw-ah to their territory, over
my head, below the sun. I'm haunted
as if Edward Gorey reached down
from a time machine vortex and named them
Ida, Kate, Fanny, Basil,
Timothy Geithner, Sallie Mae, Bart Stupak.
The powers that be gather for crow
intelligence. The crows bend
their skulls down to eh-aw
me below their Nosferatu limb tree.
They boast their freedom,
their money, their ownership of my ovaries.
One day I'll pay in to another
garbage heap. Their dinner will be set.
They'll laugh all the way home
as I am gasping for air by the coffee shop
as I am running deep into SUVs and traffic
as the last of my change and books
turn over like pebbles, as my plastic
shoes reign over their short lifespan.
I'll fall to the fate of my past;
they're all dead, decomposing
under smug crows and fertile mud.
11.22.2009
No I don't want to suck your dick, but I'll listen to Miles Davis if you want.
The past couple weeks I have had the unfortunate experience of viewing porn stills of people that I know either currently or in the past. Suddenly this has been something leaving a filmy smell of lubrication all over my life at the moment. Last week I even got in the midst of a couple I know fighting about porn. It was the best night out I ever had.
Despite the serious implication on women that (mainstream) porn has had (yes, I can give you first hand experience if you'd so like) I can't say that the general idea of pornography bothers me all that much. It's the way that is gone about to make it not porn at all and instead something that I have no business or feeling about because I choose not to let it infiltrate my life. In fact, I have a million other things to worry about right now that it seems unfortunate to waste it using my mind space thinking about pornography and how men view my body. Chances are, I don't give a shit. Chances are, I never have. The problem goes beyond porn. The item itself is menial compared to the bigger problem. That is for a whole other entry, though.
I wonder if I am just missing out on all of the fun. You know, I'm just sitting around attempting to get a second job serving somewhere and writing poetry and drawing and finishing up a degree and working part time in a music archive. Maybe all of those times in high school I stayed in to listen to Miles Davis with my parents in the evening instead of sucking the dick of that cute boy in Archaeology club was a huge mistake. Maybe I'd feel more comfortable about myself and my own sexuality, and most importantly, not miss out on the fun, if I just took that route. Sucking dick wouldn't be that hard, right? I'd get a ton more cred than sitting at home listening to Miles Davis. I mean, what the fuck can Miles give me?
Despite the serious implication on women that (mainstream) porn has had (yes, I can give you first hand experience if you'd so like) I can't say that the general idea of pornography bothers me all that much. It's the way that is gone about to make it not porn at all and instead something that I have no business or feeling about because I choose not to let it infiltrate my life. In fact, I have a million other things to worry about right now that it seems unfortunate to waste it using my mind space thinking about pornography and how men view my body. Chances are, I don't give a shit. Chances are, I never have. The problem goes beyond porn. The item itself is menial compared to the bigger problem. That is for a whole other entry, though.
I wonder if I am just missing out on all of the fun. You know, I'm just sitting around attempting to get a second job serving somewhere and writing poetry and drawing and finishing up a degree and working part time in a music archive. Maybe all of those times in high school I stayed in to listen to Miles Davis with my parents in the evening instead of sucking the dick of that cute boy in Archaeology club was a huge mistake. Maybe I'd feel more comfortable about myself and my own sexuality, and most importantly, not miss out on the fun, if I just took that route. Sucking dick wouldn't be that hard, right? I'd get a ton more cred than sitting at home listening to Miles Davis. I mean, what the fuck can Miles give me?
11.19.2009
.
6 PM Bus
Tired day on the bus.
A woman threatened to kill
a financial aid adviser
at the University. A woman
and her husband fought
over lottery tickets and carton
Marlboros.
Someone must have dropped
their shoes down a crack
in my soul.
I am drowning
in the debt of my future.
This smells of sewer and boots.
The sky is gray and gold
but I can only see
the fatalist inside of me grasp a gun,
aim and follow legend.
There is blood everywhere. I don't
care what anybody thinks.
"It feels like the 1920s in this bus.
Time to fill a tub with gin I say."
I wish were the 1920s.
At least we'd know
how to get out of this.
Tired day on the bus.
A woman threatened to kill
a financial aid adviser
at the University. A woman
and her husband fought
over lottery tickets and carton
Marlboros.
Someone must have dropped
their shoes down a crack
in my soul.
I am drowning
in the debt of my future.
This smells of sewer and boots.
The sky is gray and gold
but I can only see
the fatalist inside of me grasp a gun,
aim and follow legend.
There is blood everywhere. I don't
care what anybody thinks.
"It feels like the 1920s in this bus.
Time to fill a tub with gin I say."
I wish were the 1920s.
At least we'd know
how to get out of this.
11.15.2009
.
Note to the elderly of the mind.
Welcome
to the right side dear simple man
and your two-toned mind and car
that smells of celery and pickle juice.
Every day I must appease somebody.
I must appease the transient.
I must appease a faceless internet
wormhole. I must appease
the mentally unstable, the hackers
and the named faces; the ones doing jumping
jacks on the inside of my left brain.
Some day I may never get away like a transient
who lost their ticket
to Nowheresville, Indiana
for the back of their late mother's truck.
Yes, turtle man dressed in polo goo
and pulled up John Wayne jeans,
I let the underground apprehend
my sanity! I asked it to question
our shapeless reality for a cheap beer
and a quick grave.
Welcome
to the right side dear simple man
and your two-toned mind and car
that smells of celery and pickle juice.
Every day I must appease somebody.
I must appease the transient.
I must appease a faceless internet
wormhole. I must appease
the mentally unstable, the hackers
and the named faces; the ones doing jumping
jacks on the inside of my left brain.
Some day I may never get away like a transient
who lost their ticket
to Nowheresville, Indiana
for the back of their late mother's truck.
Yes, turtle man dressed in polo goo
and pulled up John Wayne jeans,
I let the underground apprehend
my sanity! I asked it to question
our shapeless reality for a cheap beer
and a quick grave.
11.14.2009
sparks
Every time the phone chimes, the queen
awakes her bees in my stomach.
Bees count the days until their permanence
through ulcer eruptions.
My insides are blooming but I can't write a thing. I can't draw a thing. I can't and don't have time to sit. But tomorrow, tomorrow I will turn off my phone and pour a glass of water and sit silently in a room of my own thoughts.
"You know what I noticed? His smile doesn't reach his eyes. You, me, everyone else I know smiles and you can see it in their eyes. Their eyes smile. But him, there's nothing. His eyes say nothing at all. They're empty."
Brief observations that borderline the superstitious have been interesting me lately.
awakes her bees in my stomach.
Bees count the days until their permanence
through ulcer eruptions.
My insides are blooming but I can't write a thing. I can't draw a thing. I can't and don't have time to sit. But tomorrow, tomorrow I will turn off my phone and pour a glass of water and sit silently in a room of my own thoughts.
"You know what I noticed? His smile doesn't reach his eyes. You, me, everyone else I know smiles and you can see it in their eyes. Their eyes smile. But him, there's nothing. His eyes say nothing at all. They're empty."
Brief observations that borderline the superstitious have been interesting me lately.
11.10.2009
helen hunt
I saw a woman walking a britney spaniel who looked like Helen Hunt. I wanted to ask her, "Where the fuck's the twister?" but pet her dog instead.
11.09.2009
.
Family tree
There goes the Catholic woman
leaving plates out for her cats to store
their caught flies after summer
windows are shut for good.
Now night cargo pant militants
cannot steal her brand-spanking new
twilight guitar, or mother may i journal entries
and all of those dark, dark recollections
of eating Jesus in the past.
There she lies like a centerfold
and her soul like blood on the bathroom sink
after meth, after needles, after night's
drug twosome. "Just me and the guys."
It's 4 AM and her legs are just swaying
up and down, vodka yawns
and death leaves her in a precarious position.
Her hair is crunchy; it's all of this Catholic
she never was.
She channels old relatives and memories
aren't her own. Claw biting
came from somewhere. After drinking
the paranoia comes from someone,
the voices aren't her own.
Rosemary sent her here
and so did Mary Todd. She swipes,
swipes, swipes her gash and drinks
until all the eyes aren't looking anymore.
Her centerfold is her own and there lies
that Hope diamond with the ocean,
indigo, a sapphire lounge of hope
and all the circumstance that took hope away
one rainy day.
There goes the Catholic woman
leaving plates out for her cats to store
their caught flies after summer
windows are shut for good.
Now night cargo pant militants
cannot steal her brand-spanking new
twilight guitar, or mother may i journal entries
and all of those dark, dark recollections
of eating Jesus in the past.
There she lies like a centerfold
and her soul like blood on the bathroom sink
after meth, after needles, after night's
drug twosome. "Just me and the guys."
It's 4 AM and her legs are just swaying
up and down, vodka yawns
and death leaves her in a precarious position.
Her hair is crunchy; it's all of this Catholic
she never was.
She channels old relatives and memories
aren't her own. Claw biting
came from somewhere. After drinking
the paranoia comes from someone,
the voices aren't her own.
Rosemary sent her here
and so did Mary Todd. She swipes,
swipes, swipes her gash and drinks
until all the eyes aren't looking anymore.
Her centerfold is her own and there lies
that Hope diamond with the ocean,
indigo, a sapphire lounge of hope
and all the circumstance that took hope away
one rainy day.
11.07.2009
11.05.2009
how much on a blog?
Things like this make me so happy to be living here. cough.
---
In other news, I have been writing a lot of angry blogs lately and then I delete them so no one can read them. I have considered leaving them up. If you can't stand my heat, get out of my kitchen. I have to come back to this position quite a bit in my life. If I don't have heat, then I am dying or having some kind of emotional problem / mental blockage. I am tired of putting up with bullshit and censoring my life. The more I censor, the more I feel the need to censor other people, their lives and their mistakes. As long as you're not an intentional asshole, I can't imagine the need for censoring or suspecting others should be doing the same. Unfortunately I know how difficult it is for me to feel that way, especially when you're in a room with a different kind of energy. If only things were simple. Luckily this blog isn't anyone's room but my own, just like my own journal, poetry, drawings or my own apartment. I have to remind myself of these things every day (despite whatever knowledge I have about the impossibility of having your own identity and blahblah) it's still important that this is my life. Balance is key. In the end, I am lucky.
I listened to an interview recently with a writer. I don't remember her name. They asked her about how her and her husband (both writers) handle the lack of secrecy that is key when writing. She said it's just something they accept. "The act of writing, in some ways, is a betrayal." I have been thinking about this a lot lately because it has been plaguing me. My life is full of writing inspiration but I had become too frightened to use any of it, with fear of expelling a secret. It's important to not have any secrets in this realm, but to balance it out (at least on this blog) with absolutely no possibility of one's personal information being leaked. This blog isn't a gossip news channel, though. That would be tack.
I just think that it's a waste of a writing blog to not write about bizarre things that happen to me and my perspective on them. It's boring to not be frank enough to be able to write a sentence.
I don't know why I considered writing this entry. I guess I must have needed to.
---
In other news, I have been writing a lot of angry blogs lately and then I delete them so no one can read them. I have considered leaving them up. If you can't stand my heat, get out of my kitchen. I have to come back to this position quite a bit in my life. If I don't have heat, then I am dying or having some kind of emotional problem / mental blockage. I am tired of putting up with bullshit and censoring my life. The more I censor, the more I feel the need to censor other people, their lives and their mistakes. As long as you're not an intentional asshole, I can't imagine the need for censoring or suspecting others should be doing the same. Unfortunately I know how difficult it is for me to feel that way, especially when you're in a room with a different kind of energy. If only things were simple. Luckily this blog isn't anyone's room but my own, just like my own journal, poetry, drawings or my own apartment. I have to remind myself of these things every day (despite whatever knowledge I have about the impossibility of having your own identity and blahblah) it's still important that this is my life. Balance is key. In the end, I am lucky.
I listened to an interview recently with a writer. I don't remember her name. They asked her about how her and her husband (both writers) handle the lack of secrecy that is key when writing. She said it's just something they accept. "The act of writing, in some ways, is a betrayal." I have been thinking about this a lot lately because it has been plaguing me. My life is full of writing inspiration but I had become too frightened to use any of it, with fear of expelling a secret. It's important to not have any secrets in this realm, but to balance it out (at least on this blog) with absolutely no possibility of one's personal information being leaked. This blog isn't a gossip news channel, though. That would be tack.
I just think that it's a waste of a writing blog to not write about bizarre things that happen to me and my perspective on them. It's boring to not be frank enough to be able to write a sentence.
I don't know why I considered writing this entry. I guess I must have needed to.
11.04.2009
11.01.2009
.
i can't imagine another foot
in the door like you.
a mothership to planet
bygones be bygones,
every color of the rainbow.
one night it's blue and the other
red. a bull's shield
marks every day
you have not seen my naked
body.
---
new york
language
composes a lengthy manual
on how to write music.
---
39th street, Kansas City 2
a man with brown hair
to his ass sings a song
about fire engulfing
the entire city before dawn.
"in flames we shall rise
above the night's full moon!"
the man stands in front
of my apartment, swinging
hair back and forth.
his fist reaches the sky.
"in comes the fire! woooo
in comes the fi-rrrrre!"
an hour later the man,
nostradamus of 39th street,
remained still as hell (so hot
that the devil was a carcass)
rampaged the sidewalk
with two feet, a suit and a gun
threatening all
real left in this world.
in the door like you.
a mothership to planet
bygones be bygones,
every color of the rainbow.
one night it's blue and the other
red. a bull's shield
marks every day
you have not seen my naked
body.
---
new york
language
composes a lengthy manual
on how to write music.
---
39th street, Kansas City 2
a man with brown hair
to his ass sings a song
about fire engulfing
the entire city before dawn.
"in flames we shall rise
above the night's full moon!"
the man stands in front
of my apartment, swinging
hair back and forth.
his fist reaches the sky.
"in comes the fire! woooo
in comes the fi-rrrrre!"
an hour later the man,
nostradamus of 39th street,
remained still as hell (so hot
that the devil was a carcass)
rampaged the sidewalk
with two feet, a suit and a gun
threatening all
real left in this world.
Halloween
Halloween provided a much needed escape from daily rituals. Unfortunately, for the next two weeks I am going to be locked up. I was a silent film movie star and had all of the douche bags hitting on me during the night. I collected a monster hand. I'm going to Broadway for a coffee.
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