the California suit

Yes, you can wear it too. It's the same suit
and the same secret. I'm the same secret.
It's the shirt you put on that smells like me
but only other Suits would recognize. It's the
smile you put on that
remembers me but doesn't ever speak.
It's the secret I keep: you're all dressed alike,

---

On the grand timescale, you haven't
even managed to interrupt one grain in the
cosmic sands.
and on our little dustmote
dustboat
must-dote
you planted a grenade and
grinned at the results.

I keep searching for the physical evidence.
The bruises that survive the dream--
that survive your beating eyes
proof that all these worlds, coexisting,
can know each other.

And every time I turn my neck i feel the
stain that tells me where your lips go
to drink. But I can only feel it.

Tell me you're real, and
make sure I can't see the evidence.
Tell me you're real, because
God do I love it when I can't tell the
difference.
Fuck me and tuck me in with all your realness
and then, you sly thing,
leave.

I know

that love is made of oxygen.

Just watch how well it
burns.

Love is a tricky thing

(I love finding inspiration in the work of others and playing off each other. A friend who sympathizes with me wrote a poem; she is responsible for this.)

This is what happens when you

find all the drops that you couldn't pour into

your boyfriends and lovers.

All those drops, the last ones that

kept you upright, rippled

one by one in blue waters.

While you give them away,

you don't notice the strength

leaving your body. You don't 

realize that the outcome is complete

vulnerability. 

And when you used to be a stone,

impenetrable by the knives and

winds of novelty or of change

or by whatever actually intangible things

about which we write poetry,

you are now water, too. 

Infused with love--

sweet, saccharine love.

You are just as much of a father as you are a mother.

My eyelashes are the crushed butterfly

wings that used to kiss her

blue children good night.

I am the old stitches coming out of

ragged blue jeans. 

But they have been resewn before,

they will do it again.

And sometimes they break a bottle

over the ship and it feels like

it was your head.

And I will be proving somebody right,

you say, and I can hear the lies

and bullshit drip through your teeth.

My sons and daughters deserve every

bit of joy and applause they encounter.

But only them.

Ever.

Don't ever pour this much of your heart into anything. Just trust me.

Samson by Regina Spektor--Cover

Pulled over.

I was pulled over this morning. I was pretty late to my destination already because of some car trouble, and then while speeding my way to rehearsal I was pulled over by one of those bullshit don't-look-like-cop cars. Go figure. They never pull you over when you're speeding anywhere else in life, just the important things.

Officer: Do you know why I pulled you over today, ma'am?
Me: I'm guessing it's not because you want my number.
O: Do you know the speed limit here?
Me: Slower than I was going.
O: It's 45. Do you know how fast you were going?
Me: Nope, but probably faster than 45.
O: 62. You were practically racing me.
Me: Well, you shouldn't have been driving in my blind spot.
O: Where are you trying to get to so fast?
Me: I have a rehearsal with the Blue Knights.
O: Where is that at?
Me: Don't end sentences with a preposition. It's at Arvada High School, like 20 seconds down the road.
O: Well today I'ma let you off with a warning.
Me: Thanks, asshole. Have fun ruining peoples' days.

Mom and dad are fighting on a major holiday?!    Quick, everybody act surprised.

Los Angeles.

Wake up and rub your eyes

   look outside. Another morning

where the toxins from millions of

cars driven by pissed off drivers

creates a brown cloud that hides the mountains

until about 4PM.

There are kids on the basketball court 

maybe 10 years old yelling

fuck like they have any idea.

They tell me palm trees aren't even native.

Paradise can be tricky.

People aren't native here, either.

They move here.

I watched you move here.

Right after I broke up with someone who lived here.

People move away because they think

someone they love is living somewhere else.
No wonder the drivers are so angry;

this city doesn't know shit about love.

It just screams a collective fuck and has

no

idea

what it means.

English major.

Yes, I'm an English major.

No, I do not planning on being an English teacher, so stop asking me which grade I want to teach.

No, I do not plan on writing novels for a living, because I am not a novelist.

I also do not plan on publishing poetry for a living either.

In fact, I do not have any life plan whatsoever. And to be frank, I'm not that interested in having a life plan right now.

Happy?

So, I mean, yeah. Okay... love. (2)

(Same exercise as before. Just another go at it.)


I mean. It's just a social drug.
Nothing serious.
I mean, I've done all the reading, bro.
No recorded cases of death.
Well, not when you're on the shit, anyway.
I guess some people die from withdrawal.

Broken hearts or some shit.
But I mean,
dude. It's totally cool.
Just try it.
Just this once.

So, I mean, yeah. Okay... love.

(Writing Exercise: Use this title, from the poem of the same name by William Bronk, to create your own poem.)


You just know, you know?
No, I don't fucking know. And
quite frankly I don't think you
know, either.
I imagine that in order to
fall in love
you have to make a lot of it
first.

They say that you can drown with
little more than a teaspoon of water
in your lungs.
And I'll tell you, I've made a lot of love.
Maybe not enough to swim in, but
far more than a teaspoon.
But I just can't seem to fall in it.

I've been reading a lot of ancient literature lately...

"According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate parts, condemning them to spend their lives in search of their other halves."  -Plato, The Symposium

Identifying Strange Car Noises

(This is another writing exercise. Take something you don't know anything about, and something you know a lot about, and incorporate them both into a poem. It also must contain found language.)


Somewhere between idle, first, and second gear
there are pots and pans that sneak under the
hood of my car and tango.
I do not venture there for fear that the blind dance,
once seen, would reveal itself a mad bar fight.
The pots never liked the pans. And the pans just
wanted to drink.


Now I am pretty good at sounds but
this manual is asking me to know the difference between
pop click whir hiss rattle squeal clunk.

Cars, like people, communicate when something is not right.


Escort could sing me Berlioz' Fantastique and I would know
why she were crying. She could pop me a beat, she could 
click side by side to the back-and-forth restlessness of
a 1940s metronome and I could answer her in 
two languages. English 
and harmony.
She could squeal a trumpet double G and rattle
the marimba's intestines. 


But until she learns how to
complain to me in a language I can speak,
I crank the volume and flood my
one-ton death trap with 
noises I can comprehend.

Impersonal Universe Deck 3

Constraint: Use one of the two words on each card consecutively starting at card ten and ending at card twenty; with the ten words you've selected fill in as necessary to make the words fit together coherently.


Coke is a social drug.
Lesson learned from the infinite
droll of the supposed space we name
Universe. 
Hell says to Iceland 
"It's a scandal."

Writing Exercise: Impersonal Universe Deck 2

Here is the constraint: take every third card from the deck, and use one word from every card to begin every other line of the poem.

Sometimes, he is silent. The way a

cobra eye-to-eye with one mongoose would

shut his damn mouth once he saw the army behind him.

Abolish the wits that lead to plans. the voice in his

snakey skull reminds him there are no

Gods in foxholes. Sometimes he is silent because

he picked up a penny on the ground under a 

tent at a carnival at the age of 7 and forgets if it was heads up. 

This would explain the lifetime of pain though none will accept

money as a valid excuse for him. He is silent because

on the first Wednesday of every month he sends a check 

children he did not mean to have. Because the sky, too,

is silent and grey and the stars are mostly

nameless. Because far enough into deep waters there is a 

moment where he must either learn to swim or form

goodbyes and say them to the no ones he's 

never spoken to and the men in bars whose

fists he has seen all too close. The worst part is the morning

when he lifts his head, bloodied from the

asphalt beneath him and realizes that he has always

been surrounded by mongeese.

Writing Exercise: Impersonal Universe Deck 1

Constraint: Two stanzas, haiku format. You may only use words from your deck, but you may repeat them.


Eyelids yammer, wet.

Silent doorbells. Lesson: used

Asphalt--dark goodbye.

Plague and age burning

Squeeze, breathe, kissless skin cushion

Eyelids lie, repent.

Writing exercise 10/14

She folds her fingers the way she
presses his laundry. The collar is
first.--always, he tells her but
can't do it himself. Can barely change himself.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments.

Sometimes the starch sizzles.
She sits on her hands to keep from shaking
ironing them flat beneath her.
He paces in a kitchen where the two used
to cook dinner but now she just bakes resentment. 350 degrees.
It goes well with dinner. The seeds

came from the garden, after all.
Sometimes she reads there but mostly
she sneezes where the pollen settles and
remembers she is allergic to this house.
Earth! You seem to look for something in my hands.

And at a glance she took the knife and earth's advice,
back to the kitchen where blood boils and dishes break.

To the person who stole my wallet:

You are a fucking asshole.



That's all.

-Melody

I switched to soymilk

because the milk that comes from cows
and comes in gallons
spills everywhere the first time you remove
the plastic safety seal.
After so many years you learn not to cry,
desensitized. It happens every week.

It was strange tonight. You said you weren't happy
and I, forever away, folding laundry,
knocked a bowl of what had formerly contained
raisin bran and only then contained milk.
I jumped at the cold splash and my newly soiled tshirts
prepared for their second trip to the washer today.

It has nothing to do with clothes.
Nothing to do with clean. Perhaps
something to do with thirst.
Just... don't cry.

The barista

made a heart of foam in my latte this morning.

I am not sentimental, but I avoided drinking so as to keep it

for awhile.

I sat at a marvelously square table while old friends whispered nearby and I

scribbled something meaningless while the white heart

dissolved—bubbles around it beating—into

the eyes of an owl.

Sometimes these dumb (speechless) things

make our days.

Sometimes I don't even like coffee.

Just thinking, that's all.

 The incredible human ability to reason is what separates us from other forms of life. Faith is by definition the lack of reason, and without reason we are denying the very thing that makes us remarkable as a species.

I often remind myself that animals, though overwhelmingly non-sentient and almost completely instinctual, don't believe in a God, either. They don't know what is "wrong" or "right," they do not operate out of fear for being cast into Hell, they do not ask forgiveness for their "sins," they do not thank anyone or anything for putting food on their proverbial tables. But they also could not ponder origins of the universe, the speed of light, or how to keep a wound from getting infected.

Animals lack faith not because of their smaller brain capacities, but because faith is not necessary to survival, or even (I daresay) to happiness. 

They are simply wandering life forms. The difference is that our brains grew so exponentially quickly that we had to invent a system to explain the universe. Fortunately, after all those beliefs and histories were invented, our brains continued to develop. We are at a point in our existence where there is no necessity for those absurdities in order to have a moral or reasonable concept of the world we occupy.

Evidence is all we ask.

he lives in a glass house
      suspended on a crucifix that
      hangs around his neck,
      tattooed on his forearm.
throwing stones, swallowing
sermons shaped like pills.
They go down so easy, don't they?
Just like thebooksthehistories; the flames tasted them and refused to cough them up...

partake in petrified, pallid
flesh—fresh-squeezed wineblood.
O Lord, the road to salvation is paved with absurdities
and worse, we know they're deadly (serious).

Mid-sentence. (writing exercise)

decided to
run some
tests on
the kiss.
The goal--
scientifically
conclusive
evidence
that he and
I are
definitely
unequivocally

boiled in the
pot--touch
of salt for
time's sake
He opened
his mouth
"is
dinner..."

caught the
dog gazing
upward.
Wolves never
ask, though--
instead they
told you
NOT
to cross the
street yet!
The crows, they'll
 miss their chance;
they have
been
hungry for days
and waiting for
stained with
coffee, his teeth
tasted like tobacco.
This couldn't
be the man I
crept out into the
kitchen, nose
wrinkling in search
of nourishment.
His tail remembers
the cold snap of
syringes filled to
the brink. I never
liked needles to
begin win, but
the FDA
recommends
water bottle, empty,
onto the glass
table, asking for
the name
of the
man she spoke to.
"A friend I
haven't seen in...

the drive shaft lay
dismantled
underneath. That's
why you never trust
a
that, Mommy? that's
what daddy looked
like the other day
when he came home
from
bare-backed ocean,
screaming in
agony.
I remembered
saying this wasn't
a good
left the oven on,"
said the firefighter.
It's completely burned
down, but we can
still

just treading
waters. This is why
we need those
test results back.
I'm just not
convinced we're

Roses

wilt. They poke.
Roses drink and
litter petals. They smell
like rainwater and the color
ain't so bad. But they
refuse to entertain for long.

Potatoes
do not wilt. Boil them
and not only do they survive,
they are tender. Mash them
and they are delicious. Let them
fester for days, and they will
not die. They will grow ever more.

There are much harder symbols
than those we are accustomed.

The way of the brontosaurus.

or slightly less melodramatic, the way of my
glasses on any given evening.
Lost. in some obvious place, no doubt but
it's hard to find lost things when
every thing is so goddamned blurry.
So as a temporary replacement for
the muse that ran away,
I have recuited you,
extinct quadroped.
Gee thanks.

come november my mom is opening a shop that will sell--among other things--fossils.
You know, trylobytes and some old shark's chompers and amber caskets for tiny insects.

When I die, if you could please find a
way to bury me in amber and have me
reappear in some several
million years I'd really
appreciate it.

Maybe my inspiration is in a
bucket full of shark teeth somewhere.

Fun with decals.

We had a bit of fun while taking the decals off of the buses on the drive home from world championships....

my eyelids are doing that thing
where every blink takes longer
and      longer    and
i know your blood cooks when
i murmur it's time for bed
in some sleepy stupor (you know it's
cute) but you just can't get past the
frustration that we cannot
stay up the whole night and chatter.

And so I know I'm sitting here
writing for the sake of writing
and running on sentences because
my eyelids are still doing that thing but
you are in the shower now,
so i'll try to keep them open until you
come back
so that I can purr that i'm sleepy
as if you hadn't already been dreading it.

the Rockies that stand between us:

if they had the ears to hear my sighs

if they had the fingers to touch my spine

and feel the pulse roar; the skin

tingle, they would not just lie down,
those jagged dogs--they would
liquify, dissolve.

And the bones in my

knees--barely more than sediment--

combat the threat, the shaking

so that when those mountains

crumble fearing the 

cadence in my veins,

I can stretch just a bit taller

and feel that kiss again.

the truth is

there are nights that feel

colder than the ninety-

nine percent pure water ice that

circles, massed around Saturn.

that this is harder than
all the rocks and all
the hard places
smashed into one then
crumbled to the floor with
bare hands.

time-stained hands

i read an article that said
if I could spend more quality time
with myself, these
long pre-finals Saturday nights
would not have me
floundering in useless gloom.
It said to take up a hobby, to
get back into something I've missed.
An example?
writing poetry.
And so I said, okay,
I'll write some poetry
but I write so god damn fast
so that the words are down before
i forget them.

Well, this didn't help at all.

it has something to do with symmetry, they say

i have looked at myself before
in the mirror
and wondered what I could
change about myself--what would
make me look like them.
Would it be
highercheekbones-biggernose-widereyes-smallerforehead?
and it doesn't take long before i
remind myself that i am
beautiful and
so are you along with
every other woman and
there is no reason we should
    ever
bring it up
again.

something about music, I guess.

somewhere
(everywhere) there are people
/institutions
that are stacked like books
(like albums)
against me. Some wall,
some intricate puzzle
placed together by the hands of
Adversity

But they don't know me.
they haven't been listening.

they can take those papers
those scores
and burn them the way
I've burned thousands
and thousands
of dollars to get a piece of paper that,
given the opportunity,
would also coil up in flames.

There is nothing fireproof
except for the music that comes
from my lips
my fingertips.

So, no. I am not
stopping.

Sentences.

if you took
all
these words and
took out the
space and
strung them together
it would make
one     complete     sentence.

I like to believe that if we
could take out the space
(the miles) we would
have at least one whole person
but more likely
   two people
complete.

User of tools.

I was raised by
wolves; they taught me every
thing I know:

how to shiver
and how to sing,
how to bark and
make it sting.

They didn't
believe in gods
either.

People

die innocently every
day. People are
killed mercilessly
every day.

And while you send out
your useless prayers, people are
      still
         being
             killed       often at the hands of
your beliefs. These same beliefs
condemn the presence and prominence
of another, more green 'holiday'
which promotes, among other things
peacelovecooperationtogetherness.
Qualities we could all use a taste of. Things
that when our opinions get in the way, we
usually, unintentionally
forget.

Things that, in light of the
terror who dictated that one day,
   (along with every.other.day)
do not deserve or ask for
your misinformation,
  your disapproval,
or your petulance.

Horrors govern us every day,
and so every day they should
be recognized.remembered.
with the goal of eventual
solution.

Today marks the anniversary of
a morning I can hardly recall.

Therefore I choose to spread peace.

it happened

while driving on unfamiliar roads--
sunroof open, reeking havoc
on an early morning just-out-of-bed
hairdo.
Something in the rush over my head sent
a
wave to my chilling fingertips,
colder than the full AC and
slapped onto my face, something i
was not ready for. My teeth gaped through
my dumbfounded lips and my eyes
curled up, happy.

I am okay again.
I am ready for this.
All it took was a road I've
never driven on. Let's explore more of them,
shall we?

Time passes, independent of the omniscience of history's failed invention.

I would clasp my hands and 

whisper into them--
kneel down on my knees, if only I
even       slightly believed.
Since I don't, I will sit, wait
wait and see, just like those
praying beings.

As you whisper to yourself
your mind is your finest shrink. You
know every answer, yet request
instead of think.

"Please grant me the strength," you say
every day of every week, and
when your brain has riddled it through
you'll say you heard Him speak.

claiming baggage

I could have watered those flowers
behind my eyes; if only I were there
to smell them, they would not thirst--presenting
 the same problem as always; peaking
out and contriving (yet) more distance,
stretching time and my patience to limits
that even a God, man-made and hand-baked
to perfection,
could not fathom.

My plane is preparing for landing.
I'm not on it. E v e r y  d a y
     thousands of (my) planes take off
and land.   Without me.
Planes that could stop me
forgetting.  Planes that would tremble and
re-stable and in doing so
remind me how to love and understand.
Planes that, more importantly, mean
proximity on this stubborn,
immobile earth (though she
shakes often for you).

Every roar in every jet engine

is made up of the 

heartbeats of lions and

lovers that I can never listen to.

the mechanized wings that once

carried me instead poke and bully the 

numbing parts of my brain responsible for

rash thoughts and words that sting
and results that burn cold.

I don't have a way to change this. They don't
make erasers for time.

Humans can't fly, and maybe for

good reason; if I knew it
I would take advantage every
single
day.

it turns out

you just can't plan
   these things.
take your hand, cover your eyes.
if you have aim like mine you could
(try to) skip a rock and
     never        ever
                find it.
That's a little bit like this.

uneasy

which is strangely not
the same as hard. Because
difficult is the situaton,
and the title is what lingers.

It's been too long.
I know the cure.

My ears thirst and they are,
thanks to distance,
not easily satisfied. They
do not believe the bush-beating
to which we've grown--
berry-less--accustomed.

folding laundry in the dark;

collecting and
hanging bits of tiny underwear because
you shouldn't can't put elastic things in the dryer
      says mum
or rather she said maybe 12 years ago and
I haven't dried a bra since.
cold-darks warm-whites
never buy hotdogs that aren't
     all beef.
scratch diamonds on glass and
pearls on your teeth.
wash your hands after
raw meat and thrift shopping.
The most practical thing is
the one you're best at.
Never been wrong before;
this can't be any different.

Ode to Bill gates, Ron Howard, and Stephen Hawking.

I realize I just tweeted this, but holy shit. I ran into the guy (man? Boy? I'm torn as to which noun is appropriate for his grotesque sector of humanity) from the gym yesterday.  The most shallow, stupid human being I have ever encountered. Hands down.

Assertions:
1)  If a person is ugly, he or she will never be hired, because everything in the universe is determined absolutely and exclusively by physical appearance. And if you do not fit the ever-evolving, regionally inconsistent standard, then you are fucked.
           
If that is the case, let this be known: I, Melody Monroe, on this 30th day of March, have the solution to our current economic crisis and the knowledge that will open doors to untold millions of jobs. 

Just stop being ugly, America. It is that fucking simple.


[Additional assertions made by this moron will be continued in a later blog. If I feel like it.]

The weight room

... is NOT the place to pick up chicks. I understand that you're probably feeling extremely macho with all that testosterone doing whatever it is testosterone does. And I realize that the number of women in the room is highly disproportionate to the number of macho-feeling men. That does not give you leave to interrupt my workout. Thanks.

Food Network while angry.

I may not be so old
(certainly not so seasoned)
but if there is one thing I can do,
it is sizzle.
So if you say simmer down
one more time,
the little zest I do yet possess
will gleam with the meaning
of spicy.

young ≠ stupid (nor Smarts) and
years do not equal wisdom;
And since neither of us has
the gift of foresight, the
obligation lies
on both! sides to
(in the very least) listen.

Death has a sweet tooth (and still no mercy)

a cookie is as a
   cookie does and I say
          he does it well.
All he's done is make me smile--
that's more than many males.

He didn't ask for mercy, no
he didn't even flinch. He only asked
"if there's anything, anything I can do--
please, please tell me, Miss."

And so I pondered for, say, half a second
but we both knew it was over so I
snatched him up and heard the cry
"please, maybe a bit slower."

"I've always been a good Cookie;
I'm not ready to meet my maker!"
I'm afraid all efforts are futile--
for I am a hungry baker.

Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to sit down and read this book for more than 4 minutes at a time.

God makes Adam and Eve. Eve has Cain and Abel. Cain kills Abel.  Cain knocks up his wife. All thinking Bible-readers raise one eyebrow, turn back a few pages to see where Cain's wife came from, don't find an answer, and either giggle to themselves or go to Blogger to write about ridiculous scripture.

K-kinda busy.

I really want to write something.  I really, really do.  But I just can't get anything done with Lady Gaga's "Telephone" stuck in my head.

Read it and weep.

Sorry, I don't have anything for you tonight.  But this is bound to make you think a little bit:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/13/education/13texas.html

1030

Every day I feel far
outside this typing box
and yet I'm bound to it;
to express within it
(inquire within to do me
justice)
Required--without proximity--
are the words that only finger tips
[not keys]
can accurately depict.

Every day I hate
      Derrida
(at least, on those days
I feel he's right)
But even I know the solace
in the languid fawns of love's beginning
(not to diminish this
sordid space, for there is
nothing to ease the burn of
longing).

Bumper Sticker.

I saw this on the back of a truck today.  First of all, setting the stupid pun aside, saying "I'll take my money, you keep the change" doesn't actually make any sense. At all.

Second, the fact that guns and religion are among this person's (and apparently these people, if enough bastards wanted this thing  to warrant its mass production) top 3 priorities is simultaneously not only incredibly ironic, but completely and utterly moronic.

Also, this was a white pick-up and the driver was wearing a trucker hat, which alone is enough to hate a guy.

Blue Knights this weekend.  Won't be posting anything new.  Though I guess since 60% of my audience is also in BK, it doesn't matter too much.  Other 40%, have a splendid weekend.

Less of a poem, more of a nostalgic cheddar toss.

I started writing this in my head on the
car drive home but my
damned computer takes so
damned long that I'm sure its all but gone.

I really do want us to go to Russia,
and I have these visions of водка and
if I knew the word for pickles you better
believe it would be here.

I'll probably never learn the language
because for some reason our System sees it fit
to begin teaching foreign tongues
the moment the brain is
too old to catch up.

Russia isn't so far from us, if we just
start the conversation.
Neither am I from you--the only difference is
the ocean.

I know how you love cheese, and
I try to never write so clearly. But
Я тебя люблю. And yes, I
also miss you dearly.

The fear is

that our world, at the grips of two people,
separates us indefinitely and in
more ways than one.

that the language we use
drew us and
in fact, wasn't fact.
We're sharing signifiers
but we tug on endless strings of
signifieds.

that I always do this
(what day is it?).
that I'll always pace
(while counting down)
that I'll always glue myself
and, neckless, feel around.

That there's always
too much more to learn;
and that two people will
strive and claim and excavate
everything. it's simply.
irrefutably.
impossible.

And that line--
that doesn't exist--
it grows longer with every blink.
every beat     beat     beat.

The fear is

 that first sight
is the biggest lie anyone ever told.
And that we believe it because things are
too good to be true.

     that
myself. my  self. this. right here.
I'm either too much or too little.
    that not only is this
body across our world,
but also, possibly,
wrong.

High school.

Back in the day, I blogged twice a week on Myspace (yes, that is how far back we're going down Shitty Memory Lane). I got, quite literally, hundreds of views per week on that baby.

Then Myspace died, and I moved on from an artform people appreciate (comedic blogging) to an artform that died decades ago (no parenthetical explanation needed).

Woe is me, I'm getting less funny and more esoteric as I age. I'm going to die like Emily Dickinson.

Your guess would be high. Mine? None.

The God to whom you've sold your life,
I hope He treats you well;
But the chances of you converting me
are the same as my chances of going to Hell.

Writer's block; here's a sonnet from high school.

overusable words.

It’s worked for so many before me:

our overused language produced

three overusable words

and this overusable way of saying them.

the note I left you took up only four lines

but I left you the full sheet of paper.

the spaces left on the page are the silences

where we both long to speak

those overusable words.

Even now as I write, they are garish and screaming.

I’ll keep leaving half-empty sheets of paper,

and welcome you to fill in the words yourself.

While I cannot convince myself to write them down,

you must realize I am thinking them.

First day of work.

I'm the youngest employee of the store by 10 or 20 years.  But I did get a marriage proposal from a customer, so it can't be that bad, right?

This is worse than

the time I spilled juice
(orange-mango, if you've read it)
all over my poor plum laptop.
She died that day. And with my magic
I revived her--sticky, yes, but
alive.

I'm not sure she'll survive this one.

STOP
melting me like this, or
at least provide fair warning.

Not that this number is significant, but...

I just need 2 more Facebook friends and I'll be at 666.

16.75 hours

is a lot.

I have to write something.

So I'm drawing

             s

all over this page.

they're shimmering all around my ears

and glittering like they have

something to say.

It could be the tip

of my tongue getting ready to break.

tickling; say it

i'll squirm to death; it'll never escape.

I swear I'm drawing a 

_____.

We have weird conversations.

--I have something that will piss you off.
--Oh, show it to me!

fucked-up couple(t).

The first time you rhyme with a word like

  dove

you can be certain that you are not (yet) 

     in

I'm attempting to read the Bible. For fun.

I'm only on page four and I'm already pissed off. How do people read this and think it's good, true, holy, or of any value whatsoever?

God didn't even tell Eve not to eat from the tree. He told Adam, then he made Eve.   For continuity's sake, God should have been more communicative (I wouldn't mind if he'd be more garrulous even now, but that's a whole different blog). Or maybe he shouldn't have lied about what happens when you eat from the Tree of Knowledge. Instead of "you'll die if you eat the damn apple," he could have said "if you eat the apple, I'ma make you push fat babies through your junk, then I'm gunna institute a glass ceiling and a cultural abhorrence for women so that you'll all be fucked for thousands of years."   I think Eve would have listened to that. Plus the book would be a shit-ton less boring to read.

On to page 5!

Passive-aggressive, Part II

That one? From two days ago?
It wasn't about you. I would
never speak so ill of you
(certainly not publicly) and it,
frankly, sucks hurts
what you're ass(you-me)ng.

Stilettos.

because i must take 

every precaution

to be sure that I won't fall. 

I have this impeccable sense of 

       balance,         you see. Not to mention

I've chained myself to

  the beam. I could hang by a thread

and never hit the ground.

Your only chance is to push me.

There's a lot of emptiness in the universe and none of it is symbolic.

And what did you think--that
you would wait here forever? That
after years and
           years and
              a couple of idle days,
that I would turn around,
flip my hair, and be

      yours.
That space. That one         right there.
It never leaves. It was always there, and
with good reason. Believing in
fates doesn't make them align.
The seat next to me, it may (not) be occupied;
you delight in taking maybes and
turning them into "signs."
Rights are not made of wrongs,
they are made of chances and

      train schedules.
That space again, you must have    missed it.
Rights are made in our heads--
polluted rivers of beliefs because someone
opened the dams and let the town be infected--

   it's such a sensitive subject.

If I write a Blog

in an empty internet
a b y s s  and
nobody
is there to read it,
do I still get
points for trying?

I'll just turn this into a poem.

10 days? my ass. it's been
22 now. I want my damn
patches, you slow
bitches.

On a separate note,
I think my brakes are failing.

Belly button.

Yeah, I decided to take out the bellybutton ring. It hasn't healed in the 13 months I've had it, and in the last month has migrated a lot. So I figured I'd beat my body to the punch and remove the piercing before my body pushed it out.

So that means it's time for another piercing or small tattoo. Open to suggestions, of course.

Class with Barry Fey

My rib cage, more like a fishbowl
filled with a cool liquid;
not Memorial-Day-at-the-pool,
like ice for that first jump. Nor desert-walking come-to-Jesus
life-saving nectar. More like jello cubes, perhaps.
they rolled
down my arms and
pooled at my fingertips.
My eyes
closed to cyan skies,
opened to walls made indigo by the
trespassing glow of a city before dusk.

This is what music tastes like.

hearts, not followers.

she's like a god damn puppy

the kind that can't keep her ass still

when her tail wags.

the kind that can't keep her focus

at the mere sound of the door opening

where you keep her leash.

the kind that, when she does

get her chance to be outside, 

forces you under her

wiggling, sniffing mercy

because it's so god damn hard

to tell her no. 

those eyes, they could kill

and she--nonsentient--

is leading me.  I

the 'wiser' being, am

mindlessly willing.

[if all were truly fair then

none of this

would matter]

How are you?

Right now?

where to start;

my toes are regretting their decision

to put up with the snow

and my lungs have never felt

bigger

and my limbs are

screaming obscenities,

the kind we keep to ourselves

until the worst of traffic. and my

heels are trying to forgive/forget

because they think I’ve

 been running for days

(though now I can’t remember

when I started--if

I ever stopped)

and my lips.  oh my lips.

there is no telling. no telling

of how they could feel right now

but the ‘could’ is making me crazy.

the sum of one weekend’s beatings

ignites whispers in my head:

 desire or

compassion?

I think I need to sleep.

Walking to the bus stop past the Center for Performing Arts.

The 'aliens,' 60 feet tall,
invisible against the sky
open lines and stringy limbs
It's much too cold for dancing.

The sky shakes her fist, but
her threat is less than dim. The snow--that
distinctive smell of white--
can't be convinced to stay.
It falls but leaves no evidence, only
wind, and a frigid walk
between stop lights.
the Walking Man imitates the dancers
but he is too persistent
(and too short, to boot). Tonight,
I see myself in him, for it is
much
too cold for dancing.

It's Wednesday, has your resentment begun to set in?

Mine has.
and 100 meters down in some small way
i may be jealous.
but mostly I fear the
wolves. The claws.
the teeth. and the missing
sort of protection that only
far greater talent than mine
can provide.

No one believed you in the first place.

Take that leaf you overturned
the passion that you lit
cradle the flame 'til it makes you
squint. Chuck it--
watch it burn.
10 points if it was a seed,
a thousand if it smokes.
If curly grey obscures our vision,
imagine stares through spinning spokes.
Courteous--a dial tone.
Banish the grape vile. Vines
don't just creep, they're climbing;
catch them before they catch you lying
(or sprint as long as words are white)
"Listen, I hope for the best."
Yes.
That doesn't stop the
burning.

Pr(a/e)y.

It is the same man
who preys on a peacock
that also prays to hold it.
Oh cobalt, oh green
a million brilliant eyes
(to mine, like blueberry toffees)
Behind that curtain sheen they
must
be hiding something. Of course,
have you ever heard one speak? They
abbreviate words and
abuse punctuation.
Oh Blue is me--pretend not to stare, for
she will always see.
I cannot insult the bold
or the berries--
Just please,
don't open your
beak.

phoenix envy.

 thank the likes of Stravinsky

and countless folklorians

for fantasies      for symphonies about

feathers blazing      red and orange.

the oldest of the Flighted

burn;

the brightest are pinned and

plucked.

for us, god’s math contorted, erased.

natural selection  tripped  up.

Is it better to be the bird who flies—though coveted—

followed?

or the blessed unsightly

who, given wings, must

waddle? 

In rain.

In rain—ironically grey—

the most inspiring of all conditions,

we fog up windows with our laughter

blow bubbles in our chocolate milk

and it makes the world spin better.

faster, no. just better.

Our function improves too

as we either run or stop completely

and let raindrops pat eyelashes; leave

blue kisses on red lips.

Umbrellas are so silly, anyway.

And you wonder if somebody danced for this--

because for all the wandering thoughts

that find guidance in the rain

I am wandering, too.

And yet I’m dancing all the same.

(Published in the 2009 Walkabout Creative Arts Journal)

The grade.

This here

this thing we're all doing

it's just a diorama. Not unlike what you built in

3rd grade with

popsicle sticks and broken crayons.

The difference is that this one--

you've been building it

for all your existence.

They're telling you it will be graded, and that

the grade matters to someOne you can't see.

They're lying.

Sorry you didn't hear sooner.

Bra shopping.

The following is an encounter with a nearly unbearably sweet little Asian woman at Ross today. Yes, this really did happen. Her English, however, was a little more broken than what I've recorded here.

Her: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?

Me: ... Sure.

Do you go to church?

...No.

Do you believe in God?

No...

So you're not Christian?

No....

Then what religion do you practice?

I don't have one, I'm an atheist.

Ahh, how old are you?

Nineteen.

So you're in high school?

No, I'm in college.

Well, I'm Christian and my church has a Bible Study group every week. I want to invite you to come sometime. We discuss the Bible and have a lot of fun.

Uhhhh... I don't think so.

Do you read the Bible?

I mean, I think it's fascinating, but bible study isn't really my thing....

It's a lot of fun, you should come. Just one time?

No, thanks, sorry.

There are a lot of things wrong with this; I won't even address them. Let us just bask in the idea that somebody cared enough to try Save me today. Savor it. It feels good.

But it feels better to be a heathen.

This is old.

I saw a store today called "Whole Pets."

I couldn't help but wonder where I would be able to find the sister store, "Partial Pets."

Upon extensive research (rather, four seconds on Google), I was unable to recover any matches to my query.

Which brings me to my original conclusion: the "whole" part ought to be assumed.

Hopefully.

Really, really hopefully. Fuckin' sickos.

Tongues, bite them.

I have been told by

two

different people this week

that they could

BLOW my mind.

One, with a tongue, and a

claim for love

(6 years in the making, i should

point out, as if that changes the story).

The other with curiosity and

a tongue as well

(but used for wit and less-adult teasing)

The first fueled by the Captain

but dared by that bitch, Time.

Desperation, a long brewed product of the

latter--then set ablaze by the former

Out it fizzles, replaced by yes,

desperation.

The second (that's you), however, activating a long-vacant

space. You're causing that part (you know,

the one that beats)

to sit in a stupor, wrestled into submission

by a brain that wants nothing more than

to sit and send signals to my fingers

to cause scribbles on a page

that--if more legible--

might mean something to someone. But the fact that it's happening

and that I'm blaming you

means more than you can imagine.

Waiting it out.

It wasn't a storm for me

but boy, they couldn't wait for it to pass.

so now, call

every night. Text

every night. I have a booty, yes,

and she doesn't answer to just anyone.

de-flower, de-wind.

I remember thinking,

when younger--

that once that flower died

my whole

world

would change.

That I would walk the halls a new--real!--

woman, not just loved, but admired.

Imagine my surprise when I learned

that wasn't love. Force and heavy hands

≠ anything (they only equal those two, sorry things).

And, (years later, different hands) I remember thinking

for hours and

hours [fearing] the day the string

that held us from ground to kite

would break. Snap.

It didn't. The wind just

died. Stopped the flight.

You can imagine my surprise

when the world didn't end.

I guess that takes a lot more than

flowers and wind.

Starting again.

I'm working on finding myself again. It's working pretty well. I spent a good deal of Thursday's anthropology class writing poetry and lyrics. I wish I could remember where I wrote them down, though :(

Slowly realizing that I need to post the things I write/record without caring who sees them or who will hate/judge me for it.

So here we go again.