Tales and Adventures From the Life of a Cynical Romantic

I don't know, maybe Palm Reader?

2009-02-05T14:42:00.000-06:00

1. Remember that day
the sun burned out?
you decided instead of sitting in darkness
that you
could just radiate?
And you
believed that
if you
concentrated hard enough, your
7 year old heart
could light up your whole block
or at the very least
your back yard bed-sheet fort?
Remember how up until
6th grade science class
you still could have sworn
you saw a fire-fly four-square game
flicker 5 centimeters below your clavicle?

Take a snap-shot of yourself
as you realized the biological impossibility
of magic.

2. Take your image of yourself;
stretch its boarders to the corners
of the imagination that
once upon a time
led you to believe
that you would be
a marine biologist
with her own dolphin refuge in Pensacola Florida--
live shows on the hour;
that reveled in the gymnast-like qualities
of rules when rounded off;
that never squinted in
the face of strangers, but opened eyes
wide as if to say,
"I've only got one, but we can share."

Introduce her to the stranger with
dandelions painted on her corneas
to charm the tourists
and keep them from realizing she's a tourist too;
who wanders underground railroad hallways
hidden behind billboard smiles asking
"are we there yet?"
who is only in water up to her elbows in
dish-filled sinks;

Show her your callused hands
that touch unfamiliar brick walls
refusing to surrender their secrets into your palms;
Show her
half-moon, fingernail-inflicted stigmatas
at the eye of white knuckle storms
that serve
less as sea-life sanctuaries and
more like late-night anecdotes for
infomercial insomniacs and craigslisted trysts.

3. Tell her it's temporary.
That tables will turn to turn tables in time
to play back that 7 year old shine
in her eyes from the glare of
holding the whole world
inside her pupils--Now apologize;
for ever possessing
a back-up plan that backed her
so far into corners her
butterfly garden belly forgot
the power of it's collective wingspan.

Superimpose your warped memory
onto grid-lines
like streets
like grid-lines guiding
4 a.m., not-enough-money-walks home,
and take comfort,
because Tonight;

I've gathered a whole playground full of fire-flys.
We've split into teams and
you're on mine.
We may not have the sun
but we have enough
light to see four contiguous squares
drawn in
side walk chalk on black top.

4. If you decide to join us you can play winner.
We will be here all night.

I don't know what this is...

2008-07-31T17:06:00.002-05:00

But it just happened so I am going to keep it around and see if it goes anywhere.

_________________

He didn't smell bad. Which isn't to say he smelled good either. Rather the olfactory messages he transmitted were distinct. Like a note passed before gym class with the unmistakable penmanship of a boy you had never really noticed.

Until now. The finger-snap "now" when everything changes. That summer we were indistinguishable-- as if we were gestating in the same womb. He fell somewhere in between the movie-ticket stubs and laser-tag, or was it roller-blading? South of swimming pools but north of tree climbing; and every where you went that summer you were sweating in a sweltering time-capsule of simultaneous "it will always be this way" and "it will never be this way again". It was the last summer any of us were still kids. And it is the story of how I came to hate the smell of pepper.

With Love, Codependant

2008-04-10T15:29:00.006-05:00

I'm sorry I cannot "help" you
Cannot affix butterfly wings to the blades in your shoulders
that vibrate at frequencies
of chartreuse, maroon and mahogany
To sail you off the edge of the earth, over outer space
so you can shoot the shit with the stars
shrink yourself to match a matchbook
grow yourself to challenge dog-woods to dodge ball
An' all before breakfast, too.

Butterfly wings that make glass stained shades of saints jealous
so that you would always feel beautiful and know that you
are Divinity's descendant.
Turbo-boost wings so that you could out soar the dragons that you
can't seem to keep slain. Big,
seductive, easy-as-you please wings
quicker and more powerful then all the other wings given to you by those whose pockets grow fat to the tune of your gradual, self-inflicted death march--
passed off as bubblegum pop
Wings that carry you beyond the high
beyond your head and the lies that live there
past the meanings of words that little boys shouldn't have to say
to safely and soundly keep the bad men at bay, the zealots from extremes
a light in every dark place and all the in-betweens-

But I can't give you these butterfly wings.
they too will transform
into one more distraction from veracity.
And I can't be
another one of those
broken-promise pushers
pedaling my wares where one finds shortcut seekers.

If you wanna swim with the birds
and fly with the fishes
Baby, I'm sorry to tell you
the only way out
is through.

So here's what you do:
Find the the most scrupulous sword.
Drape yourself in iron-willed armor,
and bless your arrows so that they always hit their mark.
I will hold your hand
When even with all of these things
you still feel defeated

Assemble an infantry to storm the castle
of The Queen of Hearts that still chases you in your sleep-
Steal back your crown
replace it on your head to stop the aching.

Find rocks for slingshot
to shoot the voices hiding in
the mountains in your mind
so that they will finally stop talking
And you can start thinking.

I will rejoice with you
When all of these things are through
and sunlight seeps past your bedroom window
and onto your waking eyelids...

By then
it will have all seem to have just been a bad dream.
So, what do you say we skip the wings?

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

2008-01-25T20:25:00.004-06:00

The Good news is:

My demands on stars, eyelashes and wishbones
Have been put to better use
Causes that actually stand a chance
Like, childhood prank wars revisited in adulthood
Or a speed boat made of ice cream

See, I awoke the other morning to find
That somehow in my sleep
I had opened the door to your cage
And you had flown out my bedroom window
Into the night
And onto
Whomever.
And I have never slept better.

Your name can now be found
Embedded in a grocery list of tasks
And call-backs
And pencil-ins
Instead of a flashing neon sign
On the tip of my tong
Or just in front of my always-shut eye-lids
Replacing rest
With restlessness
Robbing me of deep breaths…
And it can't be safe to have that much neon that close to your face for so long

Oh! And I got my truth back
I thought she had become so tired
Of living in the shadow
Of your presence
That she had evaporated into the clouds
To be carried off and dropped as rain
In Timbuktu or Kalamazoo
Or some other poetically over used place
Where she could get sunlight on her face
And earth between her toes
But I was wrong;
She was still waiting in the corner where I left her
Covered in dust but still beautiful.
And a little taller.

The Bad news is:
When we cared,
Communication was strained
We wringed dribblings of conversations
From ether-soaked rags
Shaped like lungs,
Threw curve-ball pleasantries
Around the lumps in our throats.
Words were pushed out of mouths
Like creeks from floorboards
Found in houses that sag with the weight
Of knowing better-
Each one loaded with
A technicolor epic
Of lemonade and train tracks and
Gentle. Men.
And sunsets slower than gimpy snails.

And we couldn’t share any of it.

The irreconcilable differences
In how we speak
Seeped into the groundwater
That nourished “us”.
Our roots desperately sucked every toxic particle
Until they drew their last drop.

Leaves began to turn
And fall as flies
Finding the ground
Like they were finally coming home.
Bare branches scratched the sky
As if the sun rays were escape routes
And as the sun set on this scene
It dawned on me:

You never fail to disappoint me.

The thought exploded my body into skyward bound microscopic pieces
Each one absorbed by a cloud

This time of year,
The weather
Is perfect
In Kalamazoo.

The Retaliation

2007-11-07T17:50:00.000-06:00

It is as if you could see
The bubbles of air rise up above his head
Precisely where bubbles of thought should be.
Perfectly circular entrapments of nothing more than oxygen and carbon dioxide
Where assessments and evaluations of the situation should reside
And sound travels sharp in air, but he is surrounded
By a watery world of his own willing
Where warnings of the shiny, sparkly fishing lures
Cleverly concealing a catagory 3 catastrophe
And cautionary tales of just how deep the waters beyond the shelf can be
Become distorted and fuddled and finally fall on deaf ears.

Repeated attempts to convince and remind him
That this ocean is full of dangers and he is only an itty bitty little fish
Are lost on him.
No, he fancies himself…Moby Dick
Monstrous and indestructible because he is so HARDCORE!
Nothing can effect the 2 ton beast with a dick bigger than most cars,
Because he glides into battle with half a tank of Jack
And an iron will convinced his falsehoods are factual

He drinks…well…like a fish
Only able to function with a guitar in one hand and
A bottle of whiskey in the other
Pedaling his played-out and dissonant melodies to anyone within earshot
Sleighing the ghosts of girls who just gave up
Backs broken from the weight of misplaced responsibilities
Receiving blows from hands thought to be possessed
Of a grown man
Wielded by a little boy in sheep’s clothing
No wait, sorry—fishes clothing.

Worn-out welcomes become the accepted form of currency
In exchanges that are somehow fishy and far from fair
Despite receiving more than he is owed, he can still be found flopping on the shore
Whining and begging and badgering for more
More time, more words, more of everything you never wanted to give him in the first place.
Solicitations turn to manipulations.
Marionette forms with our faces dangle from his fins
But down here, desperation smells of blood
And sharks are yet another danger of this here ocean

It's the saddest shot at playing hard to get
He’d give his first born to gain the upper hand
Swimming against the current
No matter how hard you try
Will never turn the tide.
Baby, I told you that job is for the moon alone
And I reiterate, you are only an itty bitty little fish
But never mind me
Keep on swimming in circles
You can’t hear me anyway.

You've Got Me

2007-09-26T17:22:00.002-05:00

This is the poem I swore I would never allow you to inspire.
The thoughts that slowly seep in when living out my waking dream
I’ve been too afraid to speak because then they might have even more power.
The things that had you asked me yesterday
I would have undoubtedly denied
Because you
Are the man
Of my nightmares
The cracks in the never-ending sidewalk of my love life that I am forever trying to sidestep
As I try to keep my mama’s back unbroken.
And you and your kind from swallowing me whole.
As you always do.
This is the poem that forces my hand instead of the other way around
This is all my cards on the table
This is me after you have made me lose control.

You’ve got my mind hijacked for hours on end
Forcing it into lascivious landscapes of libidinous reverie
Ignoring the fact that I should have never even let you in the car in the first place
You’ve got me knowing exactly where you are in the room at all times
As if I am some kind of self-contained one-woman tracking device .
You’ve got me choosin’ outfits and underwear based on what I think you might like
You’ve got me writin’ poetry about your sorry ass
I mean, damn, baby; you’ve got me.

You’ve got me twisted and knotted up in kama sutra ideas
Of what we could do to each other
You’ve got me taking every other member of my spank bank out of rotation
You’ve got me mentally book marking a thousand and one things
I want to tell you about on any given day but when you’re around
I’m speechless and staring at my shoes
Like they might tell me my next (bold move) (willing them to feed me my next line)
You’ve got me thinking about what it might be like to wake up next to you
You’ve got me checkin’ my phone every 2 minutes to see if you’ve called or texted or paged
You’ve got me making excuse as to why you haven’t

You’ve got me wishin’ on eyelashes that the same things are happening to you.
Even though by best mind knows they’re not.
Despite all my tryin’, baby, you’ve got me.

I want to free myself
But the dysfunction in me looks at the dysfunction in you
And sees its perfectly inverted mirror reflection
A monstrously deformed and distorted lock-and-key

And every time we barely touch as we pass and pretend not to notice
Fate’s hands start shaking like “I just need one more drink”
Because she knows I’ve been tryin to wash your taste out of my mouth
The way one trys to wash out the taste of a hot pepper when they bit off more than they can chew -
By frantically grabbing anything or one in reach to try to stop the burning
And not only is it not working
But I’m kinda havin an “I told you no wire hangers!” moment with this
So she knows that I am a bullet in the barrel of a gun held by a high-school social outcast
Ready to fire
See I might just explode at any second.

But instead we sit here
Talkin’ shit like we’re letting our words duke it out over who could care less
Because that’s how much we don’t care
All the while exhaling unspoken and half-baked promises
Into blood shot eyes.
Hoping you’ll pass when I test you:
“Yeah, she was really cute. You should give her a call.”

Procrasterbation

2007-09-11T22:20:00.000-05:00

There are four websites I visit every day of the work-week:
Nataliedee.com
Toothpastefordinner.com
Marriedtothesea.com
And Overheardinnewyork.com
Other websites I visit on a work-daily basis include but are not limited to:
Explodingdog
Austinslam
The LiveJournals of my friends
The Live Journals of my past lovers
Hisspace, herspace myspace and yourspace
I stare out the window
Pretend to organize my desk
Go across the street for some coffee
(and I fuckin hate coffee)
I text my sister
I check my email
A lot.
I write poetry
I practice poetry
All in the name of not doing the shit that I am supposed to be doing
At work.
The art of procrastination has been perfected through the ages
Thanks to countless jobs in cubical cages
For menial tasks compensating negligible wages
So there is something so rewarding about watching the numma numma yay kid
For the gazillionth time without your boss ever suspecting
Cookies stolen from the cookie jar and devoured before mom makes it from the garage
To the kitchen are always sweeter for the same reason that every thing is funnier in church;
Because you aren’t supposed to laugh in church.
Which is why procrastinating at work is so satisfying!
But not for me.
Because my boss procrastinates at work too
I mean he calls us into his office at least 3 times a month to show us some
Crazy-awesome beatboxer or a logic-defying skateboarding dog
So there is no need for me to sneak around about looking at the same stuff on my own.
Thus, for me, it loses all sense of fulfillment I might gain from simply wasting time at work
I have to do it in my personal life as well.
Laundry, dishes, going to the grocery store, and any other chore I might encounter are all subject to my favorite form of distraction:
Procrasterbatiuon
You know
The art of procrastination through self love.
I mean, as long as we’re wastin’ time, might as well enjoy it, right?
Although it may look like distraction on the surface,
Procrasterbation is actually quite productive indeed!
It jolts the heart-rate much like sprinting
It relives stress and lowers cortical levels which can lead to weight problems
It helps boost the immune system
It raises dopamine levels in the brain causing feelings of happiness and contentment
And if a person can’t rely on him or herself for feelings of happiness and contentment
Who else can they rely on?
One could argue, even, that everything else is actually tearing us away from what is really important!
And if everyone could be healthy happy and content, then there would be no need for
Fighting, or aggressive driving, or war or late--night infomercials or televangelists
The world would be a much more safe and enjoyable place to live!
So go on, I beseech you to procrasterbate as much as possible.
In fact, you should move it to the top of your to-do list.

11:47 PM or Mosh-Pit Queen

2007-07-09T20:34:00.003-05:00

Just call me Lenny
And your heart is the softest mouse I ever felt.
I just want to hold it and pet it
And leave it at that
I am a mosh-pit queen
A boxing fiend
In a ring around your emotions
Throwing elbows and my weight around
Absorbed by the music of myself
I handle hearts
In oil-slick hands, fingers sutured together with sorry "I'm sorry"'s
To try and keep you from falling between the cracks
Of my sidewalk memory unsuccessfully.

And I try to be gentle,
But no one should trust me as much as they do
You hardly know me
And yet you hold me responsible.
Trust me with your most sacred possessions.
Put me up high and sing praises to your false, flipper-handed god
Knowing full well that I am a thief in the night
A dog on the run
Chasing after the latest thief I encountered
In a dark alley way who stole a basket holding all of my eggs—
Maybe that’s why you’re offering me yours;
I try to be gentle
But it seems like every time I handle with care
You take it to mean that I care deeply.
And just because I cherish you as a person
Doesn’t mean I cherish you as a lover.
I’m so sorry
We don’t get each other
I’m so sorry you think you get me
And I’m so sorry my heart doesn’t see you for the wondrous being you are
It doesn’t have eyes
Only feelings
And every decision it makes
Is made on the basis of how deeply you move it.
And quite frankly, honey, you ain’t been doin’ no heavy liftin' lately.
And I don’t wanna say I told you so
But I told you so.
When I said, I’m not whole right now
I can only offer you pieces
What I meant was
I’m not whole right now
I can only offer you pieces.
One pieces for you
One piece for her
One piece for him
And Three for myself
Because mama doesn’t want to sleep alone tonight
Or feel so empty.
See, back when boys were still wrapped in cellophane, untouched
By innocent and curious hands
And feelings just went as far as crushes
I used to imagine curling up next to someone just like you
One who would look at me just like you do
And wrap me in the warmth of a heartbeat with steady hands, just the like try to
But nowadays I’d rather go home with a little more of me and little less of you.
And curl up next to cold sheets that get colder with each echoed
I love you and colder still with each one that went unsaid
But truth be told,
Baby, I like the cold
So my advice to you
Is don’t go around trustin’ strangers
With your most precious pieces
Do some research before you go layin’ claim
And from now on, sweetheart, I will do the same

Real Life Annie Hall v.2.5

2007-07-03T17:27:00.000-05:00

Real Life Annie Hall V 2.5

This back and forth
Tug of war
One heart at each end of a rope
Is getting old

With us it’s always one step foreword
Two steps back
And I’m not saying I need more from you
I’m not saying I need more space.
All I’m saying is
There is beauty in stillness.

How can we even feel the rhythm of ourselves
To see if we can groove together
If we are constantly pacing
Too scared that if we stop running in circles
Our shortcomings will nail our feet to the floor

See, sometimes I feel like I am stuck in
A real life version of Annie Hall
And you?
You don’t want to be a part of any club
That would have you as a member

And last time I checked, the actress gets no say in the directors’ cut
But she does get say in signin on for the sequel
And that’s a doted line you can follow all the way back to never-gonna-happen land
In fact, you best not even pitch me the idea
Cause, see, I have to protect me
If I don’t give myself top priority
No one will give me priority at all
So when I follow suit
When I leave
Let me go
Don’t call me when you can’t sleep
Don’t hold me when you feel lonely
Don’t kiss my neck when you feel affectionate
Let me go.

Because those gestures are hollow
Overflowing with fuck-all
And I have no more room or need for empty space
They are not given freely and from a place
Of love
They are given from a black hole
That starts in your chest
And continues on through my past and your past and our past and your present
And ends here
It ends
Here.

Because I am though trading my concrete kisses
For poured-out promises
Spread so thin they dissipate
Before they even leave your tongue

No matter how much of me pour into that black hole
No matter how of any person you pour into that black hole
You’ll never stop the void from swallowing you whole.
A cup without a bottom can never be filled
So do one last thing for me baby-
Start digging around in your closet
Sort out all your secrets
Into what hurts and what’s harmless
And find the bottom of that cup
For me, won’t you baby?

And once you’ve fixed the bottom
Fill it up with your self.
And once your self is spilling over the brim
Only then you offer it to others.

11:05 P.M. or Ode to Houston

2007-06-19T23:05:00.000-05:00

Dear Houston and surrounding areas,

Its not you, it's me.
The years we spent together were…nice.
But I have reached a point in my life
Where you no longer satisfy me
Not that you ever really did.
Ok, actually it is you.

But it wasn't until now
That I’ve had the strength to truly
Sever all ties and bid you and your citizenry
Good Riddance!

As if your souring summer temperatures weren't enough
To label you as the breeze-deprived tyrant you are
You insist on bathing your inhabitants
In a cloak of a disgusting, sticky
Cocktail of sweat and atmospheric moisture
And I have oily skin.
Thus, any attempts of mine to enhance
My level of attractiveness to the opposite sex
Are thwarted by your wet and wily ways
Leaving my face shiny and my hair flat.

(No one wants to date an oily-faced girl with bad hair.)

I just don't like who I am when I'm in you, Houston.
I am cranky
And bloated
And usually pissed off
Due in no small part to the fact that
One must drive
At least half an hour to get anywhere within the
Sprawling metropolis of concrete and run-down buildings
That you call a city
And I do mean drive
Because lets be honest,
Your public transportation system is about as effective
As the Bush administrations foreign policy
And don’t you try to being the metro lite rail in to this
Because we all know that it’s bullshit.

And because your idea of public transportation
Leaves so much to be desired
Every other inhabitant must also drive at least half an hour to get anywhere as well!
Leaving your highways crowded and constantly bumper to bumper
With people who should have NEVER been issued a license

Cause, you see, last time I took defensive driving
A red light
Was not a suggestion.

And driving slower
Does not mean you are driving safer,
Lady who has slowed down to under 10 to make a right hand turn into a walmart
In the middle of a highway with a speed limit of 60.
A turning lane has been provided
For a reason.

And look, Houston,
I know you have your weight problems
But, seriously, must you all drive around in
Yukons and Expeditions and Escalades and
… H3s?
I know most of you guys are involved
In the highway-robbery that is the oil business anyway
But do you have to be such a jack asses about it?
Its bad enough that you are a town filled with people
Who think Ann Coulter shouldn't have her own bullshit
Forcibly inserted back up her hypocritical and not at all virginal ass,
But could you at least respect the fact that some of us
Would like to preserve a little piece of the only rock known
That can sustain human life?

Ok, look, all I am saying, is don't be surprised if I don't come around
Very often anymore, ok?
I think I've made our differences clear.
Namely, you're a soul-sucking jerk and I want out.
So please, don't try to contact me.
I'll be back for my stuff later.

I (aparently) BROUGHT it!

2007-06-07T20:55:00.000-05:00

So, I slammed for my first time ever last night at the Austin Ego's Wed night slam. First round, The Fuck Poem-26.5. Second round, The Cage Poem-25.5 (I think). Third and final round, Words-29.2 for the win! (with a 30 being a perfect score). It was awesome. There were some amazing slammers there including one Austin Egos National Team member and two Neo Soul National Team members. In short, some people who I have mad respect for. I had some really great friends there to support me...overall, it was amazing. I am still high from it. Thank you to anyone who listened to my ramblings last night! I really appreciated all the love!

3:46 PM or Words

2007-06-03T00:27:00.000-05:00

You don't care
About words
And yet you call yourself a poet
But I call you a punk

Words are beautiful, yes
But just like a woman
If you focus merely on her beauty
And not on her meat
Not on what lies beneath her breath
Then you're missing the point

Your "poems" are all glitter
They lack weight and substance
All it takes is one (sigh)
And your pretty little poems
Disappear in to thick air
Leaving nothing
Which is all you really had to say in the first place

You choose your words
Based on what sounds best to you at that time
Which is fine
But don't tell me you mean it, mother fucker.
Because I choose my words based on their truth.
I choose words that live in the pit of my stomach
And stop my heart as they glide up through my body and out of my mouth
I choose words with jagged edges
And crooked corners
With letters that are far from faultlessly formed
And often in the wrong order
That have traveled a long way
And have a damn good story to tell

I choose words that confuse my tongue
And leave it twisted and stuttering
Over ideas that are too big for my body to contain
For a moment longer
I choose words that trip and fall
Out of my mouth in their haste to obtain some leg room.

Even though they may not fit perfect and pristine
Within the framework of the pretty little picture
You imagine you create,
My words dance and sing and float away only when they
Feel like it

See I followed you around
Collecting your all of your words in a shoebox
That I kept under my bed
So that every night I could study them
And learn them
Until I could repeat them all in my sleep backwards.
I made them my sustenance
My home
And my security
But Girl cannot live by lies alone
So I'm giving them all back

You can have your weightless words.
You can have each and every one back.
Because I know words.
I know tone. and intonation. and emphasis. and body language
And I know that what you are saying
Is what you wish you meant.

So I figure its your turn now
See, I have spent way too much time with your words
Far more than you ever did
So now that you have them back
I will leave you two alone
So you can get more acquainted

8:42 PM or Pedestals

2007-05-28T18:56:00.001-05:00

I’m starting to think that my expertise is putting people
On pedestals
I think I do it because I am under the impression
That it will be easier to see you up there
But what I fail to realize
Is that it’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes
I can’t make out the details so I just fill them in as I see fit
Add a few qualities here ascribe some traits there
And presto!
I have a brand new idol to worship

Ever since the day that I realized
That I have a type
Not only in theory
But to my utter dismay
Also in practice
That can be summed up in 10 very little but very descriptive words
It has been all down hill and fill in the blank from there

Your dark hair and dark eyes are matched perfectly
By your darker still sense of humor
Making you not only rather amusing, but also very skilled at
Spinning awkward social situations into cloaks of protective humor
i.e. my 15 year old cousins baby shower
Or the shotgun wedding immediately after

Your politically minded nature makes you very knowledgeable
About domestic as well as world affairs
Causing you to not only be a good source of information
But also a good source for making my panties wet
(Jesus, she is such a slut)

You’re terribly witty and clever which, no doubt,
Gives you impeccable taste in music
Yet you somehow remain un-pretentious about it
And open minded- willing to try bands that other people recommend
Which I was beginning to think was a combination
Of qualities incompatible with one another

Your are certainly charming
Which makes you a great conversationalist
And a delightful party guest
Easily and eloquently commenting on everything
From Camus to Kerouac to Craigslist
With a mere flick of the tongue
(Which also, by the way is very, very skilled)

And because you know all of this
You’re cocky
Which means
I cannot resist you
You beautiful bastard

1.56 AM or Sing you out of my soul

2007-05-24T22:57:00.000-05:00

Your skin proves once again to be a familiar home
My tongue feels better in your mouth
My lungs breathe easier when it is your breath they breathe
And god DAMN, am I tired of writing love poetry (about you).

But my mind is eased when you are on it
So I’ll take another hit of your memory, baby.
That’s all you seem good for these days anyhow.

I wanna fuck.
No, I don’t wanna fuck
I wanna fuck like us

Like wet between our legs,
Between the sheets
Bent over your dresser
In the chair you stole
And wherever else our skin touches

It’s all zuses fault anyway.
If back on that fateful day millions of years ago
He had just left all us lovers alone
We wouldn’t spend so much damned time
Trying to shove ourselves back together again.
Trying to graph each onto the other, just like it was intended.

Some days I try to sing you out of my soul.
Like if I can just get the arrangement right
Or if I can hit the high-note like some kind of red-headed Miriah Carrey wanna-be
I could banish you from what seems to have become your permanent residence
But every time,
Just when I am about to shatter glass
My voice cracks
Plummeting you back down into the depths of me

Because I know that only the way to truly remove
Someone so scarred onto that organ that causes poets the world over to blow their load
Is to let the second hand, the minute hand, the hour hand
The turning pages of a calendar
Wash over and over the culprit holding on to your heart like a tick
Until they are finally eroded away
And all that remains is a trace of who you both used to be
Lest ye forget what they were brought into your life to teach ya in the first place.

4:32 PM or I'm Sorry

2007-05-08T00:35:00.000-05:00

In a state of apple pie grace
Where pleases are pretty and come covered in sprinkles with a cherry on top
For some reason sorry was broken
No matter how strongly you felt it,
‘I’m sorry’ was never good enough.
Cause, see, sorry is never good enough when the guilt is misplaced.
When you removed it from yourself and etched it on to my chest
In big Scarlet letters with your eyes
A little girl doesn’t understand that you are the sorry one.
All she understands is “something is wrong with me.”
She learns to be shameful.
This blessed creature that wears existence like sunbeams that radiate through her skin
Like how we wore bathing suits when we were 5- all day long and often all night too, just in case the chance to go swimming arises unexpectedly-
Like unabashed joy pulsing through her with each ba-bom of her tiny little heart which is ironically about the size of her tiny little clenched fist
Like she was of something divine and her presence here was reason enough to wear her existence like the crown of jewels it was.
This creature dims a little.
She begins to question her crown.
She questions her divine nature.

She decides that she doesn’t deserve the divine.
She decides she is unworthy of her provenance. So she denies it.
And once that concession is made, she has got a whole new slew of dragons to slay in her kingdom.

See now she has to earn her worth.
And once her value is outsourced, it will never be enough.

Thinking it’s normal to reassign responsibility
She learns how to etch things on to other people’s skin
Things that they don’t deserve.
Things like “How you feel about me dictates how I feel about me”
Like “all of your opinions are right”
Like “my value is determined by you”

She grows up-
Her body finally matures to match the adult mind she has had for years
Jumping from relationship to relationship
With a perverted idea of how love acts
Recreating the only circumstances she knows how to operate in
She can’t figure out why she is always sad.
But here is where the story gets good.

__________________________________________________

Which is to say that is where I can't get past. I have no idea how to end this guy. Actually, after the outsourcing, I am not really comfortable with it. I can't figure it out. I have grown out of my past experiences and in light of that I have a particular direction I want to take it. But I have been holding on to this for a few weeks continually trying to get the end right to no avail. Which makes me think that I am missing a piece. There must be some experience or some...thing some piece I am missing before I can finish telling this story. So until then, this is all you get.

5:38 PM or The Fuck Poem

2007-05-02T02:13:00.000-05:00

I am not a prude.
Rest assured, I fuck.
**Gasp**
Thats right, I fuck.
And not only do I fuck,
But I also have sex, sleep with and make love.

So if I am not fucking, having sex, sleeping with or making love to you
It isn’t because I’m waiting
I’m not
It isn’t because I don’t know you that well
I do
And it certainly isn’t because I’m a tease.
If I’m not sleeping with you,
it is because I don’t want to.

Do not delude yourself into thinking that I am some kind of goddess
That can’t find 20 minutes to come down off her pedestal and fuck you

And while we’re on the subject
The same goes for my time.
You’re right
I can’t be that busy
Although I am one fuckin busy girl
If I liked you, I would make time for you
As much as women needed to hear the sage advice
I think you need to hear it to.

So please, stop to consider the possibility
That I’m just not that into you

Now stop whining
Stop telling me I’m not paying enough attention to you
And for your self respect’s sake,
Stop accepting less than everything you want.

If I am not laying out the sexual buffet of your dreams followed by molten lava chocolate cake
Covered in sprinkles of romance and emotional attachment that you desire so deeply
Move on!
This kitchen, is fresh out of sprinkles
And I am not the only fish in the sea!

Why am I the one who has to tell you this?

You are a catch, for sure
But you were not what I cast my lure for
And thus, I release you back into the deep
to be caught by someone who can appreciate what they have
better than I

You see I, sir, am not hunting
I am gathering.
I am gathering stories and scars
Bar tabs too big and nights too small
I am gathering training-wheel mistakes mixed with tight-rope-walk successes
And personalities perfectly poised on the verge of self-destruction just for the fun of it.

I am collecting pictures and tokens to fill the scrap book of my skin
So that when all the other gals in the nursing home
Complain about how their white picket fence was always dirty
And how their good for nothing 2.5 never visit anymore
I can lift my moo-moo to my knees and show them the starting point
Of a map that leads to a road less traveled

So I’m not going to say I’m sorry
Cause I’m not
Here there is nothing to be sorry for
And I’m not going to pretend that it breaks my heart
Because I respect you more than that
Instead I will kiss you scales
Remove the hook from your mouth
And release you

1:00 AM or 10:09 AM or The Cage Poem

2007-05-01T17:08:00.000-05:00

I sleep with my hand- a cage over my heart
Like the cage in that game Mousetrap we played as kids
Made out of plastic and weak
but somehow strong enough to keep the mouse inside
unable to move
I win you lose

And if you were to ask me why
I would chalk it up to chance
That’s where my hand just happened to land
Or claim that it is to keep my cat from stepping on my piercing while I sleep
She has been known to do such things

But really it’s because I saw you again last night
Another one of our infamous hear-to-hearts
And just as the plastic cage keeps the mouse
My blood and bones in the form of five fleshy iron-wanna-be bars keep my heart from climbing out of my chest
And making its gelatinous way into your broken-glass hands.

They look fine from a distance, sure
So how do I know they are made of broken glass?
Because experience is the best teacher, my friend.
But luckily you didn’t hold it for long
Thinking you were in the middle of a game of hot-potato
You-as if your hand was on fire- quickly and gracelessly
Discarded that with which you were so carelessly trusted
Leaving my precious, mischief-loving heart on your bedroom floor
Where it collected dust
And the footprints of your other lovers for months

It was my fault for not calling her back home sooner.
I think she was confused and thought she was home
Being so used to existing in a stat of catatonic chaos and all
But even if she had realized she was in the line of stiletto fire
She probably still wouldn’t have listened
See, my heart is one persistent mother fucker
And as long is there is a silver moon sliver on a foggy nights shred of hope
She will not let go

I wonder if I could train her
As to who used kid gloves and who collected hearts in the form of one more notch
Teach her to lock herself away in a stony tower
That would rival Rapunzel's
To protect her from all of the slings and arrows
Of unworthy suitors
So that she could remained unscathed and clean
And spend her days waiting

But we all know that love is better when it's dirty
Covered in mud, with scraped knees and smiling
Love should be child-like in its discovery and awe and act accordingly
Love should abound, not be trained or restrained
Love should make its own choices, and hopefully
Next time hers will be better.

never mind

2007-04-29T23:59:00.001-05:00

I changed my mind. fuck my rules, I'm just going to post what I feel like postin when I feel like posting it. no more catch up. enjoy.

5:31 PM or Bottle Caps

2007-04-27T20:06:00.000-05:00

I am really reluctant to post this because it is so raw and still just a bud of an idea. and I am kind of tired of all my postings being so similar. basically I jotted some thoughts down one day with the intention of coming back and working on it and I have yet to want to come back to it. but also, I was wanting to post stuff in the order it was written, so I can see if I am making progress. you are still getting caught up and aren't getting the stuff I am writing now and still won't be untill I get all the old stuff out here. apologies are given and suggestions, comments, ect are welcomed and dare I say solicited- as wlth all my posts.

I think it was somewhere between the secret looks and bottle caps
Or maybe it was between the private jokes and cigarette butts
But somewhere along the road that people travel to turn you and me into us
You lost respect for half of the equation and the process itself.
And if respect is the minimum of love, we were far from it.
Or at least you were.
I couldn’t see where it was because I was so bogged down in it.
So we limped along for weeks and weeks
I mean that is how you were measuring it, right?
By a collection of 7 short days at a time?
Our legs proving lame and our muscle control lacking to say the least
Me, confidant that these snags we kept hitting were minor because, after all, we were in this boat for a good while.
You picking at every snag making an anchor out of your doubts.

And it wasn’t until I stood naked in front of you and broke my own heart
By diving into the abyss
Choosing the unknown over the unwanted
That you finally and without reserve gave me back the respect that is my birth rite.

3:30 AM or Love Lightly

2007-04-26T10:17:00.000-05:00

I don’t take the word love
Lightly
So please, stop treating it like feathers and recognize its weight.
See, love isn’t just some fluff meant for pop songs, primetime and poetry.
No, Love means I am up at 3:24 in the morning at the intersection of I’m-falling-for-you-too-fast and God-you-were-the-best-lay-I’ve-had-in-a-long-time counting blades of grass only to pause and look up every time I get to three to see if you are coming too.
(You’re not)
Love means my head is so filled to the brim with thoughts of you that suddenly and unexpectedly they far too frequently spill over the top and out of my mouth in to a world where love is no longer a sacred word.
And I can’t have my words put in that kind of danger.
Love means fuck, if I am going to regret it in the morning I have you now, I have you in this moment and seeing as that is all you are able to give, give it all and give it to me with all you’ve got, I mean damn, we’ve gotta make this one worth it because the price is to pick a scab that took too long to form in the firs place off an already poorly healed wound. And I
Am willing
To fucking
Pay.

1:09 AM

2007-04-24T20:48:00.001-05:00

You’re eyes widen and flutter, head shaking
Trying to find that island of awake that lives on the back of that giant sea turtle in the never-ending sea of sleep that is your life.
This is how I will remember you.

Talking in circles—no, that was me
Talking in tangents that dart back and forth and never come back around and meet up again, zig-zaging across and around the imaginary canvas of our conversation, sometimes crossing but never touching
This is how I will remember you.

Half awake but more asleep in the darkness of early morning's cacoon when in the joy at the sight of each other we couldn’t decide to celebrate by sleeping in or having sex, inevitably choosing the later to the dismay of our sleep-cycles
This is how I will remember you.

Trying way too hard to catch all the words from your lips and keep them all trapped inside my head at once so that I could re-align them perfectly again in my ever feeble attempts to comprehend what you are trying to express instead of just letting the feelings wash over me like waves in music -usurping my body with its rhythmic and elated relentlessness
This is how I will remember you.

Breaking away from my Gondry-esque dreams in the middle of the night realizing something has gone awry only to be comforted by the sensation of you coiling your arm around my waist and pulling me into you- our bodies fallowing the same winding curve of eachother, bringing my body back home and the universe back into its glorious ordered chaos
This is how I will remember you

The warning flashing in your eyes as I fell deeper and deeper into a world of fantastical love that you would not follow me into
This is how I will remember you.

50 years from now toasting to all those who I have loved before and still have a reserved seat for in a tiny, rarely seen corner of my heart with a beautiful view bearing your name
This is how I will remember you.

1:29AM

2007-04-23T10:24:00.000-05:00

My laugh becomes hollow
And I turn pale
Blindsided by what I saw coming
In slow motion it spirals towards me
And I stand my ground
Thinking steel and stone of mere flesh and bones

As the moment replays in that grandiose movie house in my head
(Always at in opportune times, of course)
My mind is robbed of any other thought
And wearily
Settles;
Staring at
This bleak

Reality

12:00 AM

2007-04-21T20:20:00.001-05:00

So many things thought and yet so few written.
Where does a sphere start?
The center?
Starting there one loses all context.
Any sense of magnitude is fucked.
The only other starting point would be any randomly chosen area.
So that’s where we’ll start.

Something similar to shock--but without the element of surprise. No, shock would be more like finding you father staring in a burlesque bearing his stage name (Pussycat Surprise); this is more like finding foundation damage in an old house. You didn’t know for sure but you knew there was a good chance. It is still altogether upsetting. You hope the foundation is as intact as the day it was built. But you know such is not the way of the world. The earth shifts and changes and to expect it to be constant is to allow oneself to be delusional.

Next area.
The unity of head and heart is essential here. One must open up all lines of communication so that messages may be sent to and fro freely without any judgment or censoring. To act in unity they must have access to whatever is happening in each. Then they may act as one whole rather than pieces.

Next.
What. The Fuck. Happened?! Were you asleep? Were you so nieve that you thought it would all go away? Oh no, let me guess, you thought that is would just work itself out, right? Because that has always been so successful in the past. Jesus. Where was you head? Either all that “unity of head and heart” crap was bullshit or your head got fuckin’ hijacked, sweetie.

And Then.
You know you were really pushy. I mean not Jewish mother pushy, but all the same. You pushed. There should always be balance, and you, my friend, did not maintain the balance. I mean you could try to maintain it now, but you know that isn’t what you REALLY want. What you really want is to feel the push back when you push. You do know that instead of testing out to see if there is a push back you are just pushing over the edge, right? Seriously, you don’t want to be a pushy person, why you be all actin like one? That’s not the you you really are. Heh. You you…

Oh, and
You know that there is no such thing as an unhappy ending. Worst case scenario; it hurts for awhile, and you move on. It happens all the time. You move on and spend some time single, I mean… it’s about time, right? You have been in relationships for just over two years now. And single life can be really fun; the excitement of what could be is a really beautiful thing. Who doesn’t like a random drunken make-out now and again, right?

But what if it just makes the two of you stronger? What if it is just a test that the relationship passes?!
Shut up.

And here.
Don’t jump too far ahead. Honestly, the present moment for humans is rarely longer than 2 minutes. And the longest “now” in the sense of “I am so into leggings right now” is only about two to three weeks. So try not to think about it too much right…now…and take solace in the fact that in two weeks, your situation will have changed and just about every emotion you are feeling now will change along with it.

Oh yeah, and
Breathe.

2007-04-21T14:03:00.000-05:00

On April 21, 2007

At 1 o'clock in the afternoon

Weighing 0 lbs 0 oz

Measuring as long as your browser window

A brand new bouncing blog was born.