1.17.2010
1.10.2010
I may sleep
Oftentimes I get a calm sensation on the top of my head when I talk to someone special. Sometimes I feel like my soul is exiting my body and realigning with it. I will recover quickly or like today, stay dizzy for a minute. I'm assuming it just loathes being stuck inside of a bag of skin all of the time. Sometimes, I can see you sitting next to me but you're not there. I don't know where you could be.
Then again, that's just typical me when I am alone. Dipping in and out of my own mumbles to try and make my dreams so alive that I may as well give up functioning materially. This has become something more than a dream, though, and maybe a desire that is all too known as unhealthy and depreciating. I can't decide what's right or wrong anymore and my soul realignment tells me that it doesn't matter much anyway. This could be the sign of my early death. One day I'll say "fuck it" and run towards that coastline or other culture I have been sheltered from in the great Midwest.
Then again, that's just typical me when I am alone. Dipping in and out of my own mumbles to try and make my dreams so alive that I may as well give up functioning materially. This has become something more than a dream, though, and maybe a desire that is all too known as unhealthy and depreciating. I can't decide what's right or wrong anymore and my soul realignment tells me that it doesn't matter much anyway. This could be the sign of my early death. One day I'll say "fuck it" and run towards that coastline or other culture I have been sheltered from in the great Midwest.
1.02.2010
12.31.2009
Don't tell me I'm alive
The whole "You should be happy because at least you're alive" deal never worked well on me. Frankly, I can't imagine this reality to be the best situation in the entire universe and in all of the dimensions there must be. I could try and change my perspective into something that is more "half full" but then I would have to believe that being on Earth at this very moment, typing into this computer, is the best of all possible worlds. Maybe this world is the best of them all, sitting here in this good karma depleted country staring at my faint cellulite? LOL! That would be a lie, wouldn't it? Sure it's better than starving but it's surely not better than being dead. I don't say that because I am suicidal, I say that because there is no way for anyone to know what happens after death. And really, if you want to look at it the way I do sometimes, I am optimistic in the most backwards of ways. I know that there is better than this. It keeps me alive! It keeps me searching! Death, though, well... telling me that I am alive doesn't make me feel any better. It doesn't fill me with vitality. It doesn't get me through the day without thoughts of revolution, or not scowling as I look at my morning hair or tasting that grilled cheese any differently. I know I am alive, folks, and it doesn't make a difference to me. So you don't need to remind me. Just play some Miles Davis and serve me a martini, please.
12.25.2009
Christmas
The one thing I can count on for Christmas is the fact that no one in my family will buy me anything with Andy Warhol print on it.
Merry Christmas, now lets go jump the pope.
Merry Christmas, now lets go jump the pope.
12.17.2009
12.16.2009
12.09.2009
Oh person you thought you'd never be
In the midst of paper writing I decided to look through old journals.
I'm never sure if it's ever the right idea. But sometimes it's a requirement for me to look and see how weird and dumb I was at one point in time to remind myself that I may be doing the same thing six years later unconsciously. I guess it's easier to handle my battles that way, though, these days. I am swamped with life and it seems an utter waste of space in my brain to spare anymore of my sanity on some bad habits I should have left in a high school building, or in Columbia, or in one of those flaxen fields I visited after smoking joint after joint, staring at the river, dreaming up everything in my life.
Come to think of it, I have been missing that lately. I have been missing running out of my house, tying back my hair, lighting up my cigarette and stretching my legs out in the back of my old friend's car before we head off to go smoke a joint by the river. There is nothing more Missouri than that, my friends. It's the part I'd never attempt to run away from. And when autumn came around it was over and I had trouble keeping my hat on my head when the chill winds came. Soon enough all of my innocence was lost in all of those things I swore I'd never grasp. Now I am living in a completely different world. I wake up in the middle of crime on 39th street Kansas City at 3 AM in the morning and watch a homeless man drag his foot down the blizzard sidewalk. I wake up in the morning and embark on the challenge of just getting to a normal destination, like work, or class. I live in this city that isn't a city. It doesn't feel like my city, at least. This city is big enough for people not to be real and it's still small enough to get a taste of real. For me, though, this real is nothing like the real I remember.
If someone asked me three years ago if I would want to turn into this person I would say, "fuck no". Everything was so simple then. I'm not sure if I could go back if I tried. My life was thrown into a garbage disposal. I can't say I blame myself for becoming this person. I can't say I blame myself for becoming the kind of person I hate. Sometimes a person just needs to survive. I knew it would happen sometime. That's what always happens. I saw what they saw and that day it made sense. Now I have the real power to not stay that way. I have the choice. I know the best of both worlds now. I just need the time to sit down for a second and breathe. I just need the time to turn it all around.
I'm never sure if it's ever the right idea. But sometimes it's a requirement for me to look and see how weird and dumb I was at one point in time to remind myself that I may be doing the same thing six years later unconsciously. I guess it's easier to handle my battles that way, though, these days. I am swamped with life and it seems an utter waste of space in my brain to spare anymore of my sanity on some bad habits I should have left in a high school building, or in Columbia, or in one of those flaxen fields I visited after smoking joint after joint, staring at the river, dreaming up everything in my life.
Come to think of it, I have been missing that lately. I have been missing running out of my house, tying back my hair, lighting up my cigarette and stretching my legs out in the back of my old friend's car before we head off to go smoke a joint by the river. There is nothing more Missouri than that, my friends. It's the part I'd never attempt to run away from. And when autumn came around it was over and I had trouble keeping my hat on my head when the chill winds came. Soon enough all of my innocence was lost in all of those things I swore I'd never grasp. Now I am living in a completely different world. I wake up in the middle of crime on 39th street Kansas City at 3 AM in the morning and watch a homeless man drag his foot down the blizzard sidewalk. I wake up in the morning and embark on the challenge of just getting to a normal destination, like work, or class. I live in this city that isn't a city. It doesn't feel like my city, at least. This city is big enough for people not to be real and it's still small enough to get a taste of real. For me, though, this real is nothing like the real I remember.
If someone asked me three years ago if I would want to turn into this person I would say, "fuck no". Everything was so simple then. I'm not sure if I could go back if I tried. My life was thrown into a garbage disposal. I can't say I blame myself for becoming this person. I can't say I blame myself for becoming the kind of person I hate. Sometimes a person just needs to survive. I knew it would happen sometime. That's what always happens. I saw what they saw and that day it made sense. Now I have the real power to not stay that way. I have the choice. I know the best of both worlds now. I just need the time to sit down for a second and breathe. I just need the time to turn it all around.
12.02.2009
11.27.2009
--
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.
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.
"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.
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