God that was strange to see you again
Introduced by a friend of a friend
Smiled and said 'yes I think we've met before'
In that instant it started to pour,
Captured a taxi despite all the rain
We drove in silence across Pont Champlain
And all of the time you thought I was sad
I was trying to remember your name...
This scar is a fleck on my porcelain skin
Tried to reach deep but you couldn't get in
Now you're outside me
You see all the beauty
Repent all your sin
It's nothing but time and a face that you lose
I chose to feel it and you couldn't choose
I'll write you a postcard
I'll send you the news
From a house down the road from real love...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
Live through this, and you won't look back...
There's one thing I want to say, so I'll be brave
You were what I wanted
I gave what I gave
I'm not sorry I met you
I'm not sorry it's over
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save
I'm not sorry there's nothing to save...
15 December 2009
01 December 2009
...
need to say this and don't have anywhere to post it
i get angry at him when he implies i'll get over you, like you're some sort of childish toy that i'll forget within minutes of losing you from sight. i get really angry. my feelings are legitimate, deep, strong, and steady. he dismisses them out of hand to make himself feel better. i love him like a dog loves his fucking master's best friend, for christ's sake, and he's too dumb to realize that or even know what that means. fuckit.
i get angry at him when he implies i'll get over you, like you're some sort of childish toy that i'll forget within minutes of losing you from sight. i get really angry. my feelings are legitimate, deep, strong, and steady. he dismisses them out of hand to make himself feel better. i love him like a dog loves his fucking master's best friend, for christ's sake, and he's too dumb to realize that or even know what that means. fuckit.
20 November 2009
To You, Who I Have Missed
when i miss you i like to listen to records
the records you gave me, the records that remind me of you
and I pour two glasses of wine -
one for me, and one for the absent friend.
as the evening darkens past midnight,
my living room fills up with smoke and music and sighs,
and I wonder why as I miss you.
Sometimes I will turn up the cars
and dance under the canopy of miniature suns,
remembering how I have done so before,
waiting for you.
and sometimes a simple lyric will cut my heart,
as I sit and ponder the universe
and me
and you
and if you were here to watch you would see
the tears like stars glistening,
noiseless under the music.
I will wait,
knowing you are not coming,
imagining that you will anyway,
until my glass is empty,
my cigarettes are gone,
my records have each taken their turn,
and my heart is full and sore
from lyrical pinpricks.
Then and only then I will stand,
and wipe my face,
and go to sleep under the covers
in my cold and empty bed.
the records you gave me, the records that remind me of you
and I pour two glasses of wine -
one for me, and one for the absent friend.
as the evening darkens past midnight,
my living room fills up with smoke and music and sighs,
and I wonder why as I miss you.
Sometimes I will turn up the cars
and dance under the canopy of miniature suns,
remembering how I have done so before,
waiting for you.
and sometimes a simple lyric will cut my heart,
as I sit and ponder the universe
and me
and you
and if you were here to watch you would see
the tears like stars glistening,
noiseless under the music.
I will wait,
knowing you are not coming,
imagining that you will anyway,
until my glass is empty,
my cigarettes are gone,
my records have each taken their turn,
and my heart is full and sore
from lyrical pinpricks.
Then and only then I will stand,
and wipe my face,
and go to sleep under the covers
in my cold and empty bed.
11 November 2009
So Much, We Give
We give so much of ourselves.
We give to those we love,
and we beg for them to give us back.
We lose parts of ourselves along the way,
so caught up in our giving and taking
we never notice the trades that occur,
and then we give what we have taken
to the third or fourth or fifth
down the line. For we are selfish,
in what we give and what we get -
sometimes it's more we give,
and sometimes it's more we take,
but we never give more than we choose to.
Of course, the utter gift,
the oblivion and loss of self,
is when we give our all, but even
then it is our choice, not curse,
and when eventually we have none left to give
it is ourselves to blame.
We give so much, to friends and foes,
to loves and fairy tales,
but what we give we can earn back,
with interest, if we choose.
We give to those we love,
and we beg for them to give us back.
We lose parts of ourselves along the way,
so caught up in our giving and taking
we never notice the trades that occur,
and then we give what we have taken
to the third or fourth or fifth
down the line. For we are selfish,
in what we give and what we get -
sometimes it's more we give,
and sometimes it's more we take,
but we never give more than we choose to.
Of course, the utter gift,
the oblivion and loss of self,
is when we give our all, but even
then it is our choice, not curse,
and when eventually we have none left to give
it is ourselves to blame.
We give so much, to friends and foes,
to loves and fairy tales,
but what we give we can earn back,
with interest, if we choose.
28 October 2009
villanelle
I got my tattoo without you, but it
did notchange me - the needle buzzed the same.
It hurt my breast, but pain just seemed to fit.
I missed you there. The thought of you just bit
into my pulse and made me blush with shame.
I got my tattoo without you, know it.
You don't have time for me, you say, and bit
by bit I know. Alone, my heart went lame
and hurt my breast, but pain just seemed to fit.
The chair held me the way your arms had quit
around my waist, your heart had quit its flame.
I got my tattoo without you, damn it.
You'd promised me so long ago you'd sit
by me today, but dreams of you inflame
me, hurt my breast. The pain just seems to fit.
I took the loss of you at once, a hit
upon my chest, and no, you never came.
I got my tattoo without you, and it
hurt my breast too. The pain just fit.
did notchange me - the needle buzzed the same.
It hurt my breast, but pain just seemed to fit.
I missed you there. The thought of you just bit
into my pulse and made me blush with shame.
I got my tattoo without you, know it.
You don't have time for me, you say, and bit
by bit I know. Alone, my heart went lame
and hurt my breast, but pain just seemed to fit.
The chair held me the way your arms had quit
around my waist, your heart had quit its flame.
I got my tattoo without you, damn it.
You'd promised me so long ago you'd sit
by me today, but dreams of you inflame
me, hurt my breast. The pain just seems to fit.
I took the loss of you at once, a hit
upon my chest, and no, you never came.
I got my tattoo without you, and it
hurt my breast too. The pain just fit.
06 October 2009
Masturbation
Please touch yourself so I don't have to.
Guide your twitching fingers down to those familiar depths
to stroke and rub your own way home.
My hands are virgin; you are not.
Don't touch me, smeared and sticky;
don't touch me beneath my clothes;
don't touch my hand or try to kiss my brow.
Stop touching me and please us both instead.
Guide your twitching fingers down to those familiar depths
to stroke and rub your own way home.
My hands are virgin; you are not.
Don't touch me, smeared and sticky;
don't touch me beneath my clothes;
don't touch my hand or try to kiss my brow.
Stop touching me and please us both instead.
Return to Eden
Adam turned to me today.
He said, "I want my rib back."
He punched me deep with those words,
touched upon the very insignificance of my being.
I told him to take it back.
Subsume me into his being.
He could have his rib.
I wanted poetry back,
the poetry that made up the trees and streams and creatures of Eden.
I wanted purity back,
the purity that made me sleep sweet within our heady garden.
I wanted perfection back,
the peace and perfection that made me love him because he was all I had.
I wanted my blindfold back.
He can have his fucking rib.
He said, "I want my rib back."
He punched me deep with those words,
touched upon the very insignificance of my being.
I told him to take it back.
Subsume me into his being.
He could have his rib.
I wanted poetry back,
the poetry that made up the trees and streams and creatures of Eden.
I wanted purity back,
the purity that made me sleep sweet within our heady garden.
I wanted perfection back,
the peace and perfection that made me love him because he was all I had.
I wanted my blindfold back.
He can have his fucking rib.
23 September 2009
304- f09
Abortion
I saw them, the couple.
They came down the backstairs in the star-dark middle of the night,
beneath the neon exit right by where I stand, and they held each other
as if they were falling apart and the only glue they had was each other.
They were fragile like broken china plates that life had pushed off the table.
And in their arms together they held a little bundle,
a warm swaddling mass -
I could see the steam rising up off it.
She turned to him and choked on her question:
“Are you sure?”
He looked at her and nodded, grimly,
pain etched on his face.
They walked up to me and slid open my heavy green door
and dropped their bundle in.
They dropped that baby in me and I was its second womb,
protecting it against the elements,
holding it deep within my belly.
I felt it kick and move, but it was young, and feeble.
The couple turned and left, not a single backwards glance,
and I felt the bane of life deep within me.
I was not fit to bear this burden.
I had not conceived it,
I had not asked for it,
I had no part in its making or birthing or living.
But they gave me the curse of being a part of its death.
I felt the baby in me.
I felt it kick, and struggle, and once -
but only once -
did she cry out.
She mewled pathetically, a sad little creature
thrust into the cruel cold trashy world only to perish.
And if my cold mechanical sides could have collapsed to hold her,
could have warmed to save her,
believe me when I said I would have done so,
and borne that baby into a world that was better than this sad rubbish.
But all I could do was offer feeble protection,
a slightly less awful passing and a hope
that she would live again and better.
I have no heart, only four metal walls, a lid, a door.
Still I mourned when they pulled her out from me,
her body long since blue in the night.
Their dark coats and sorrowful faces merged in one image,
their badges tarnished symbols of rescue come too late,
and my boxy metal construction was unmoved.
I have been a birthplace before,
for sewer rats and alley cats,
for fleas and ticks and maggots.
But I had never lost a baby before this night.
I saw them, the couple.
They came down the backstairs in the star-dark middle of the night,
beneath the neon exit right by where I stand, and they held each other
as if they were falling apart and the only glue they had was each other.
They were fragile like broken china plates that life had pushed off the table.
And in their arms together they held a little bundle,
a warm swaddling mass -
I could see the steam rising up off it.
She turned to him and choked on her question:
“Are you sure?”
He looked at her and nodded, grimly,
pain etched on his face.
They walked up to me and slid open my heavy green door
and dropped their bundle in.
They dropped that baby in me and I was its second womb,
protecting it against the elements,
holding it deep within my belly.
I felt it kick and move, but it was young, and feeble.
The couple turned and left, not a single backwards glance,
and I felt the bane of life deep within me.
I was not fit to bear this burden.
I had not conceived it,
I had not asked for it,
I had no part in its making or birthing or living.
But they gave me the curse of being a part of its death.
I felt the baby in me.
I felt it kick, and struggle, and once -
but only once -
did she cry out.
She mewled pathetically, a sad little creature
thrust into the cruel cold trashy world only to perish.
And if my cold mechanical sides could have collapsed to hold her,
could have warmed to save her,
believe me when I said I would have done so,
and borne that baby into a world that was better than this sad rubbish.
But all I could do was offer feeble protection,
a slightly less awful passing and a hope
that she would live again and better.
I have no heart, only four metal walls, a lid, a door.
Still I mourned when they pulled her out from me,
her body long since blue in the night.
Their dark coats and sorrowful faces merged in one image,
their badges tarnished symbols of rescue come too late,
and my boxy metal construction was unmoved.
I have been a birthplace before,
for sewer rats and alley cats,
for fleas and ticks and maggots.
But I had never lost a baby before this night.
21 May 2009
lyrics
You can make a plan
Carve it into stone
Like a feather falling
That is still unknown
Until the clock speaks up
Says it’s time to go
You can choose the high
Or the lower road
You might clench your fist
You might fork your tongue
As you curse or praise
All the things you’ve done
And the faders move
And the music dies
As we pass over
On the arc of time
So you’ll nurse your love
like a wounded dove
in the covered cage of night
Every star is crossed
by phrenetic thoughts
they separate and then collide
and they twist like sheets
‘til you fall asleep
and they finally unwind
it’s a black balloon,
it’s a dream you’ll soon
deny
I hear if you make friends
With Jesus Christ
You’ll get right up
From that chalk outline
And then you'll get dolled up
And you'll dress in white
All to take your place
In his chorus line
And then in you’ll come
With those marching drums
In a saintly compromise
No more whiskey slurs
No more blonde hair girls
For your whole eternal life
And you’ll do the dance
That was choreographed
At the very dawn of time
Singing “I told you son,
The day would come,
You would die, you die, you die, you die…”
To the deepest part
Of the human heart
The fear of death expands
‘til we crack the code,
we’ve always known
But could never understand
On a circuit board
We’ll soon be born
Again, again, again, again…
These lyrics are proving important to me. I'm big on the idea that, as Death Cab has said, "every plan is a tiny prayer to father time."
Lately my plans haven't been coming out exactly like I've expected.
Carve it into stone
Like a feather falling
That is still unknown
Until the clock speaks up
Says it’s time to go
You can choose the high
Or the lower road
You might clench your fist
You might fork your tongue
As you curse or praise
All the things you’ve done
And the faders move
And the music dies
As we pass over
On the arc of time
So you’ll nurse your love
like a wounded dove
in the covered cage of night
Every star is crossed
by phrenetic thoughts
they separate and then collide
and they twist like sheets
‘til you fall asleep
and they finally unwind
it’s a black balloon,
it’s a dream you’ll soon
deny
I hear if you make friends
With Jesus Christ
You’ll get right up
From that chalk outline
And then you'll get dolled up
And you'll dress in white
All to take your place
In his chorus line
And then in you’ll come
With those marching drums
In a saintly compromise
No more whiskey slurs
No more blonde hair girls
For your whole eternal life
And you’ll do the dance
That was choreographed
At the very dawn of time
Singing “I told you son,
The day would come,
You would die, you die, you die, you die…”
To the deepest part
Of the human heart
The fear of death expands
‘til we crack the code,
we’ve always known
But could never understand
On a circuit board
We’ll soon be born
Again, again, again, again…
These lyrics are proving important to me. I'm big on the idea that, as Death Cab has said, "every plan is a tiny prayer to father time."
Lately my plans haven't been coming out exactly like I've expected.
18 May 2009
I'm posting this here because this is one of the few things that remains visible on my facebook.
Yes, I shut down the majority of my facebook today. You (whoever you are, reading this) are unable to view pictures, videos, boxes, and any other similar information. You are also unable to post information on my wall. You will still be able to message, if you so choose. I believe notes are still viewable, and so I'm posting this here too.
I shut it down because on and off I've been playing with the idea of deleting my facebook. I haven't gone to that step because I think some people might worry about me and some people might believe I had defriended them, which is obviously not the case - after all, with 170 friends on facebook, if you're my friend, it's pretty much for a reason. I actually know you.
I also shut it down because it's unnecessary. Facebook takes up far too much of my time and moreover it allows me to stalk people unhealthily. Facebook holds a lot of memories, both mine and others, that neither I nor you need to be able to access. I understand that I could choose to delete my facebook or simply not navigate to it as much; I'm going to attempt that as well. Its accessibility and easy distraction, especially when I am procrastinating, are the problem there.
Finally, there's some shit going on in my life that I'm tired of dealing with right now. Opening up to people is tiresome and has proven to be disappointing as of late. Therefore, I've closed off one more part of myself. It's an outward manifestation of an inner action and attempt.
On to other things.
My schedule, over the next week and a half:
Tuesday: busy until five
Wednesday: busy until 6ish
Thursday: free til 11, free after six
Friday: free til 10, free after six
Saturday: free before noon and after four
Sunday: theoretically free all day, will probably be going home
Monday: free before noon and after five
Tuesday: free after six
Wednesday: free after six
Thursday: free all day
Friday: free before one, after four
Saturday: free before ten and after five
From then on out, my summer starts and I will be free most of the time.
I am posting this here because if I have any friends that are interested in getting together, hanging out, etc, I'd prefer to schedule them in, especially ahead of time. Currently I have no other engagements on my schedule. Feel free to start vying for time. There are a few people I would especially like to see; they are tagged. (Shayla: Brewed? I get paid this Friday.)
I am looking forward to this summer; there are several things that I will be able to clear up in my life after graduation and moreover it looks like a lazy, enjoyable time for me. There will be LARP - hoorah! - and beach trips, possibly a class (but only one, a miracle!) and when I return to school, my batteries will be refreshed and it will be my final year here.
I hope to see you all around. Pax.
Yes, I shut down the majority of my facebook today. You (whoever you are, reading this) are unable to view pictures, videos, boxes, and any other similar information. You are also unable to post information on my wall. You will still be able to message, if you so choose. I believe notes are still viewable, and so I'm posting this here too.
I shut it down because on and off I've been playing with the idea of deleting my facebook. I haven't gone to that step because I think some people might worry about me and some people might believe I had defriended them, which is obviously not the case - after all, with 170 friends on facebook, if you're my friend, it's pretty much for a reason. I actually know you.
I also shut it down because it's unnecessary. Facebook takes up far too much of my time and moreover it allows me to stalk people unhealthily. Facebook holds a lot of memories, both mine and others, that neither I nor you need to be able to access. I understand that I could choose to delete my facebook or simply not navigate to it as much; I'm going to attempt that as well. Its accessibility and easy distraction, especially when I am procrastinating, are the problem there.
Finally, there's some shit going on in my life that I'm tired of dealing with right now. Opening up to people is tiresome and has proven to be disappointing as of late. Therefore, I've closed off one more part of myself. It's an outward manifestation of an inner action and attempt.
On to other things.
My schedule, over the next week and a half:
Tuesday: busy until five
Wednesday: busy until 6ish
Thursday: free til 11, free after six
Friday: free til 10, free after six
Saturday: free before noon and after four
Sunday: theoretically free all day, will probably be going home
Monday: free before noon and after five
Tuesday: free after six
Wednesday: free after six
Thursday: free all day
Friday: free before one, after four
Saturday: free before ten and after five
From then on out, my summer starts and I will be free most of the time.
I am posting this here because if I have any friends that are interested in getting together, hanging out, etc, I'd prefer to schedule them in, especially ahead of time. Currently I have no other engagements on my schedule. Feel free to start vying for time. There are a few people I would especially like to see; they are tagged. (Shayla: Brewed? I get paid this Friday.)
I am looking forward to this summer; there are several things that I will be able to clear up in my life after graduation and moreover it looks like a lazy, enjoyable time for me. There will be LARP - hoorah! - and beach trips, possibly a class (but only one, a miracle!) and when I return to school, my batteries will be refreshed and it will be my final year here.
I hope to see you all around. Pax.
17 May 2009
27
you
are ignoring me right now but that's
okay
because after all i have been getting the feeling
that i did not turn out to be all you wanted
and maybe i am a little bit of a
disappointment
except that can't hardly be true because
after all we hardly knew know will know
each other
but i do get this feeling
that i am not everything you wished for
perhaps i am about half
or maybe even three quarters percent
but i am not everything
and i must struggle and push and wonder
if i should let you go
if i should turn around some day soon with a heartbreaking smile on
and say
come back to me when you're serious
or don't come back to me at all
or please please just love me.
i don't need you to love me.
i could walk away from this now with only
a modicum
of hurt because i have managed to keep you away enough
or you have managed to stay away enough
that my life will resume with only ripples
and a feeling of emptiness and or possibly loss
without a total self destruct
and yes i would miss you
and yes i would cry
and yes i would accuse myself
of pushing away or pulling away
but i don't want to lie up nights waiting
to see if i'll hear from you
or not.
are ignoring me right now but that's
okay
because after all i have been getting the feeling
that i did not turn out to be all you wanted
and maybe i am a little bit of a
disappointment
except that can't hardly be true because
after all we hardly knew know will know
each other
but i do get this feeling
that i am not everything you wished for
perhaps i am about half
or maybe even three quarters percent
but i am not everything
and i must struggle and push and wonder
if i should let you go
if i should turn around some day soon with a heartbreaking smile on
and say
come back to me when you're serious
or don't come back to me at all
or please please just love me.
i don't need you to love me.
i could walk away from this now with only
a modicum
of hurt because i have managed to keep you away enough
or you have managed to stay away enough
that my life will resume with only ripples
and a feeling of emptiness and or possibly loss
without a total self destruct
and yes i would miss you
and yes i would cry
and yes i would accuse myself
of pushing away or pulling away
but i don't want to lie up nights waiting
to see if i'll hear from you
or not.
11 May 2009
26
response to philip larkin
You fuck them up, your mom and dad
You may not mean to, but you do.
You blame them for the faults you have
Between the sheets - your lovers few.
And you fuck them up in every turn
away from them you take,
while you pretend you want to learn
to not be them, make their mistakes.
You hand your misery to them
by blaming genes, not love and hate.
It helps you shield yourself again
when you say you fail because of fate.
You fuck them up, your mom and dad
You may not mean to, but you do.
You blame them for the faults you have
Between the sheets - your lovers few.
And you fuck them up in every turn
away from them you take,
while you pretend you want to learn
to not be them, make their mistakes.
You hand your misery to them
by blaming genes, not love and hate.
It helps you shield yourself again
when you say you fail because of fate.
09 May 2009
25
list poem (six months ago)
Six months ago there were lots of things I had.
I had three grandparents,
over a thousand dollars in savings,
and a boyfriend who would play with his computer instead of me.
I had a 3.516 gpa,
a grad school all ready to go,
and no fun in college.
I had taken nine English courses,
memorized Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven,"
and never read Kurt Vonnegut.
I had clean clothes all the time,
a sense of duty, responsibility, and appreciation,
and a disdain for my jail-bound brother.
six months ago I had a plan for the future,
a wedding on my mind,
and a future in domesticity.
I had old, fading scars,
my wisdom teeth,
and an alarming propensity to cry during The Office.
You should have seen me in the theaters when we watched Wall-E.
Six months ago my parents knew nothing and felt no need to cry.
my boyfriend's mom encouraged me to call her mom,
and I liked to listen to the Killers and Death Cab for Cutie.
Six months ago I had something that I called stability,
as well as something I called direction,
and something else I called motivation.
I had something else I never paused to identify,
a niggling feeling that ate at the back of my brain
when I was falling asleep. I wanted to fit into
the stereotype but the stereotype was suffocating me
whenever I stopped to draw a breath -
which was not often.
Six months ago i thought I had everything that I needed for my life to be complete.
I thought I had no worries.
It turns out that I had plenty of those,
and just not much experience to go with.
Some of these things I still have.
Most of these I do not.
But I'll tell you what.
I no longer watch The Office,
and the last time I did,
my eyes were dry.
Six months ago there were lots of things I had.
I had three grandparents,
over a thousand dollars in savings,
and a boyfriend who would play with his computer instead of me.
I had a 3.516 gpa,
a grad school all ready to go,
and no fun in college.
I had taken nine English courses,
memorized Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven,"
and never read Kurt Vonnegut.
I had clean clothes all the time,
a sense of duty, responsibility, and appreciation,
and a disdain for my jail-bound brother.
six months ago I had a plan for the future,
a wedding on my mind,
and a future in domesticity.
I had old, fading scars,
my wisdom teeth,
and an alarming propensity to cry during The Office.
You should have seen me in the theaters when we watched Wall-E.
Six months ago my parents knew nothing and felt no need to cry.
my boyfriend's mom encouraged me to call her mom,
and I liked to listen to the Killers and Death Cab for Cutie.
Six months ago I had something that I called stability,
as well as something I called direction,
and something else I called motivation.
I had something else I never paused to identify,
a niggling feeling that ate at the back of my brain
when I was falling asleep. I wanted to fit into
the stereotype but the stereotype was suffocating me
whenever I stopped to draw a breath -
which was not often.
Six months ago i thought I had everything that I needed for my life to be complete.
I thought I had no worries.
It turns out that I had plenty of those,
and just not much experience to go with.
Some of these things I still have.
Most of these I do not.
But I'll tell you what.
I no longer watch The Office,
and the last time I did,
my eyes were dry.
05 May 2009
24
List poem
I Want
I want to be with you, cute you
and I want us to be in facebook pictures together
that show us in our perfect summer
and I want to be young again
although I am not old,
I want to be young again the way I used to be.
I want to be less tired and I want to sleep less,
I want to spend my nights raging, loving, drinking, smoking, partying,
and I want to spend my days brilliantly.
I want every day to be golden,
and I want every horse to have a spirally white horn.
I want you to drive a white mustang,
and I want everyone to be happy,
including and especially me.
I want to go back in time and steal me-who-I-was
and make her change places with me-who-I-am
so that I can pretend these ideals will happen.
I want to believe that we will have that golden perfect summer
and I want to pretend, no, believe, no, experience me
being unbroken.
I want to cherish the idealism I once had
and I want to hold on to the fearlessness
that has faded because of pain.
I want to rewind time and meet you three years ago,
both of us three years ago,
and that's when I want us to fall in love.
Not here, and not now.
I want that to happen, because I think things could have been perfect then.
I want for things to have been perfect then.
I Want
I want to be with you, cute you
and I want us to be in facebook pictures together
that show us in our perfect summer
and I want to be young again
although I am not old,
I want to be young again the way I used to be.
I want to be less tired and I want to sleep less,
I want to spend my nights raging, loving, drinking, smoking, partying,
and I want to spend my days brilliantly.
I want every day to be golden,
and I want every horse to have a spirally white horn.
I want you to drive a white mustang,
and I want everyone to be happy,
including and especially me.
I want to go back in time and steal me-who-I-was
and make her change places with me-who-I-am
so that I can pretend these ideals will happen.
I want to believe that we will have that golden perfect summer
and I want to pretend, no, believe, no, experience me
being unbroken.
I want to cherish the idealism I once had
and I want to hold on to the fearlessness
that has faded because of pain.
I want to rewind time and meet you three years ago,
both of us three years ago,
and that's when I want us to fall in love.
Not here, and not now.
I want that to happen, because I think things could have been perfect then.
I want for things to have been perfect then.
04 May 2009
Lyrics
People you love will turn their backs on you
You'll lose your hair, your teeth
Your knife will fall out of its sheath
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie
People you hate will get their hooks into you
They'll get you down, you'll frown
They'll tar you and drag you through town
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie
No, you still don't like to leave before the end of the show
So true.
You'll lose your hair, your teeth
Your knife will fall out of its sheath
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie
People you hate will get their hooks into you
They'll get you down, you'll frown
They'll tar you and drag you through town
But you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie
No, you still don't like to leave before the end of the show
So true.
03 May 2009
23
How To
How To Descend
you start by breaking up with your boyfriend, your best friend
who might have been the only person keeping you sane
(but you didn't know it then)
and you fuck around.
You burn that bridge with idle sarcastic lies
that your boyfriend, your best friend, believes
(which just shows that he didn't know you too well after all, not after four years anyway)
and you find yourself alone.
You fuck around with people you shouldn't fuck around
but they're there, and they'll take you
(and at this point you're desperate to be taken)
and your self-image slips.
Then you tell your remaining friends that you have priorities,
that they're not number one, that this stranger is
(this stranger they don't approve of and who treats you like shit but mmmm, the sex is good, isn't it?)
and you wake up one morning alone.
You get very drunk a lot, vodka becomes your boyfriend, your best friend,
and on one of those nights
(those very drunk, half-remembered nights)
you let more strangers into you.
That's how you lose the guy who treats you like shit,
whose only redeeming quality was that he treated you like shit on a regular basis
(and mmm the sex was good, wasn't it?)
and you start taking walks.
These are not regular walks, the ones you take, they are ones
that start at midnight or one or two in the morning, and as you walk
(in the coldest nights, if you can arrange that)
you smoke cigarettes and fight back hysterical sobs.
And then you remember you have pills left over
from a long-ago surgery, that didn't hurt as much as it should have
(that surgery was another life ago, a happy and held-together life ago)
and they start to look deliciously good.
You realize you have a problem or two problems or at the very least some problems
which you think is a sign that you're getting better
(it always was a sign before)
and so you don't ask for help.
In fact you refuse to ask for help, which is when you start to really fall down
because you start to expect the health and happiness to come back
(because you've kidded yourself for so long about this one, haven't you?)
and you insist - you thrust your fists against the posts and still insist you see the light.
You start to "date" people and your eighth-grade mentality comes back
the mentality that never understood love
(and especially never understood anyone who said they liked you)
and you find yourself fucking for things.
You find yourself becoming a low-grade, college-level, materialistic whore
and you convince yourself it's all right.
(Doesn't everyone have a price?)
Finally you assert some ethics and quit it.
Then you just find yourself alone again,
because even if it was the worst sex of your life, someone was there
(and the nights weren't so cold and the walks weren't so long)
and they knew how to hold you, even if it was badly.
While you're alone you drink some more and you cry a lot,
and you cut yourself at home and at work
(no one is ever very observant, no one is ever observant enough)
and you relish the blood while sucking it away so that there are no obvious scabs.
Of a sudden you wake up and find you're dating three people at once,
which is every man's dream until he or she realizes it
(because when you have any sort of soul or humanity polygamy only tears it down)
and you hate yourself even more, ever more.
You wean away. You wake up to life a little. You break it off,
one by one, and finally you're only seeing one person
(one person who might be good for you)
and because you have fallen so far you think about breaking it off again.
If you break it off, you will be an island again, and no one will be able to hurt you.
You will be able to fix the people who you have hurt, because you have become familiar with the sound of settling.
(If you break it off you will be a hollow shell again, and no one will notice, and no one will care)
and you start to weigh the dangers of being hurt against the pain that goes with hurting.
Here is your decision.
Will you settle, and make your other lover happy?
No one will hear your soft sobs at night and no one will see your midnight walks recommence.
No one will be watching for you, and no one will catch you this time.
(Do you want to be caught?)
But if you open up,
and you let the possibility of pain grow
(if you let him try to fix you, and if you let you love him)
you may be fixed.
You also may be broken again,
at the end of this ordeal,
like a china plate which can be broken over and over again
into ever-smaller pieces
(into dust, and dust comes from dust, and dust unto dust forever and ever)
until you cannot move any more.
Here is your choice.
Do you break yourself,
or do you let someone else take you,
to be broken at some future point?
How To Descend
you start by breaking up with your boyfriend, your best friend
who might have been the only person keeping you sane
(but you didn't know it then)
and you fuck around.
You burn that bridge with idle sarcastic lies
that your boyfriend, your best friend, believes
(which just shows that he didn't know you too well after all, not after four years anyway)
and you find yourself alone.
You fuck around with people you shouldn't fuck around
but they're there, and they'll take you
(and at this point you're desperate to be taken)
and your self-image slips.
Then you tell your remaining friends that you have priorities,
that they're not number one, that this stranger is
(this stranger they don't approve of and who treats you like shit but mmmm, the sex is good, isn't it?)
and you wake up one morning alone.
You get very drunk a lot, vodka becomes your boyfriend, your best friend,
and on one of those nights
(those very drunk, half-remembered nights)
you let more strangers into you.
That's how you lose the guy who treats you like shit,
whose only redeeming quality was that he treated you like shit on a regular basis
(and mmm the sex was good, wasn't it?)
and you start taking walks.
These are not regular walks, the ones you take, they are ones
that start at midnight or one or two in the morning, and as you walk
(in the coldest nights, if you can arrange that)
you smoke cigarettes and fight back hysterical sobs.
And then you remember you have pills left over
from a long-ago surgery, that didn't hurt as much as it should have
(that surgery was another life ago, a happy and held-together life ago)
and they start to look deliciously good.
You realize you have a problem or two problems or at the very least some problems
which you think is a sign that you're getting better
(it always was a sign before)
and so you don't ask for help.
In fact you refuse to ask for help, which is when you start to really fall down
because you start to expect the health and happiness to come back
(because you've kidded yourself for so long about this one, haven't you?)
and you insist - you thrust your fists against the posts and still insist you see the light.
You start to "date" people and your eighth-grade mentality comes back
the mentality that never understood love
(and especially never understood anyone who said they liked you)
and you find yourself fucking for things.
You find yourself becoming a low-grade, college-level, materialistic whore
and you convince yourself it's all right.
(Doesn't everyone have a price?)
Finally you assert some ethics and quit it.
Then you just find yourself alone again,
because even if it was the worst sex of your life, someone was there
(and the nights weren't so cold and the walks weren't so long)
and they knew how to hold you, even if it was badly.
While you're alone you drink some more and you cry a lot,
and you cut yourself at home and at work
(no one is ever very observant, no one is ever observant enough)
and you relish the blood while sucking it away so that there are no obvious scabs.
Of a sudden you wake up and find you're dating three people at once,
which is every man's dream until he or she realizes it
(because when you have any sort of soul or humanity polygamy only tears it down)
and you hate yourself even more, ever more.
You wean away. You wake up to life a little. You break it off,
one by one, and finally you're only seeing one person
(one person who might be good for you)
and because you have fallen so far you think about breaking it off again.
If you break it off, you will be an island again, and no one will be able to hurt you.
You will be able to fix the people who you have hurt, because you have become familiar with the sound of settling.
(If you break it off you will be a hollow shell again, and no one will notice, and no one will care)
and you start to weigh the dangers of being hurt against the pain that goes with hurting.
Here is your decision.
Will you settle, and make your other lover happy?
No one will hear your soft sobs at night and no one will see your midnight walks recommence.
No one will be watching for you, and no one will catch you this time.
(Do you want to be caught?)
But if you open up,
and you let the possibility of pain grow
(if you let him try to fix you, and if you let you love him)
you may be fixed.
You also may be broken again,
at the end of this ordeal,
like a china plate which can be broken over and over again
into ever-smaller pieces
(into dust, and dust comes from dust, and dust unto dust forever and ever)
until you cannot move any more.
Here is your choice.
Do you break yourself,
or do you let someone else take you,
to be broken at some future point?
30 April 2009
Life
1) Computer is fixed
2) I am very angry at someone right now, someone who none of you know. I have no compunctions posting this here, because she has already broken any and every bond of trust I would expect of any fellow human being. However, I am posting this here first because I'm not sure how much I want to post it on facebook. I think I would like to hit her without a warning, first.
Here's where you went wrong. Lack of sympathy? Understandable. Sense of vindication? A little heartless, but okay. But let me tell you your mistake.
You drank with her. You may not have sipped an alcoholic beverage, you may not have consumed anything at all. But you sat there, and not only were you there – in a place you no longer belong – but you kissed her. I don't care who initiated it and fuck I wouldn't care that you kissed her at all, except for what you did afterwards.
And what you did afterwards was inexcusable.
Because what it comes down to is that you shared something. You were there for her, maybe not consciously, maybe not with any real intent. But you were there, at her dorm, and there was obviously something wrong. It would have been apparent to anyone with any sense at all that something was wrong, even a nineteen year old who's about as mature as my fourteen year old sister. So you were there. You knew something was wrong, and in some way and on some level you were there for her. You kissed her back, after all. I know.
Then, after that, you committed an act of ultimate betrayal.
You talked about this act of comradery in a negative fashion – a crime that's not too bad, after all. Low level. I would have excused it if I'd heard of it. The really horrible part is that you not only did it in public, but you did it on your ever-loving, mother-fucking facebook. On your facebook, where all five hundred and twenty four friends could see. And of those, it was pretty readily apparent to at least fifty who you were talking about. Hell, I didn't even know you'd fucking seen her yesterday, but I read your status and I knew who you were talking about.
Do you understand how utterly inexcusable that is? How horrible? How very, awfully, thoughtlessly low? I'm talking about six feet below the belt. To cut to the chase:
you shared something with her, something personal and raw, and then you exposed those feelings and that sharing with the entire fucking world.
You showed no regard for how she would feel about you airing, and if you know anything about her you know that she doesn't share willingly or readily.
You showed no respect for her situation, a situation in which you have been in yourself, not too long ago.
You verily broadcast something that every person goes through, and that no person needs to know about unless personally invited.
You betrayed something precious, and you betrayed someone who needs no more hurt and no more hard knocks from this world.
Do you know what this makes you? This makes you a fucking traitor. This makes you a failure as a human being, a failure of someone who should have the common sense and moreover the decency to realize when something is private. When something is personal. When something is closed.
You went somewhere you no longer belonged. You entered her home. You drank with her. You shared breaths with her. You pretended to play the sympathizer, and then you went home. You went home and you fouled up any aspect of that relationship that might have been salvaged. You committed an act that I will never forget and I will never forgive. I have been there for you, Fobazi. And I have never asked anything of you for it; and I have never shared your grief with the world; and you would never have dreamed that I would. I had little respect for you before this, for your shirking ways and your immaturity, but now I have none. I have no respect for you as a human being, let alone as a separate and distinguished person. I am absolutely and thoroughly enraged at you and your filth, and you have never seen me angry. I warn you. Steer clear, my precious traitor. Steer far, far clear, or you will regret more than just this.
2) I am very angry at someone right now, someone who none of you know. I have no compunctions posting this here, because she has already broken any and every bond of trust I would expect of any fellow human being. However, I am posting this here first because I'm not sure how much I want to post it on facebook. I think I would like to hit her without a warning, first.
Here's where you went wrong. Lack of sympathy? Understandable. Sense of vindication? A little heartless, but okay. But let me tell you your mistake.
You drank with her. You may not have sipped an alcoholic beverage, you may not have consumed anything at all. But you sat there, and not only were you there – in a place you no longer belong – but you kissed her. I don't care who initiated it and fuck I wouldn't care that you kissed her at all, except for what you did afterwards.
And what you did afterwards was inexcusable.
Because what it comes down to is that you shared something. You were there for her, maybe not consciously, maybe not with any real intent. But you were there, at her dorm, and there was obviously something wrong. It would have been apparent to anyone with any sense at all that something was wrong, even a nineteen year old who's about as mature as my fourteen year old sister. So you were there. You knew something was wrong, and in some way and on some level you were there for her. You kissed her back, after all. I know.
Then, after that, you committed an act of ultimate betrayal.
You talked about this act of comradery in a negative fashion – a crime that's not too bad, after all. Low level. I would have excused it if I'd heard of it. The really horrible part is that you not only did it in public, but you did it on your ever-loving, mother-fucking facebook. On your facebook, where all five hundred and twenty four friends could see. And of those, it was pretty readily apparent to at least fifty who you were talking about. Hell, I didn't even know you'd fucking seen her yesterday, but I read your status and I knew who you were talking about.
Do you understand how utterly inexcusable that is? How horrible? How very, awfully, thoughtlessly low? I'm talking about six feet below the belt. To cut to the chase:
you shared something with her, something personal and raw, and then you exposed those feelings and that sharing with the entire fucking world.
You showed no regard for how she would feel about you airing, and if you know anything about her you know that she doesn't share willingly or readily.
You showed no respect for her situation, a situation in which you have been in yourself, not too long ago.
You verily broadcast something that every person goes through, and that no person needs to know about unless personally invited.
You betrayed something precious, and you betrayed someone who needs no more hurt and no more hard knocks from this world.
Do you know what this makes you? This makes you a fucking traitor. This makes you a failure as a human being, a failure of someone who should have the common sense and moreover the decency to realize when something is private. When something is personal. When something is closed.
You went somewhere you no longer belonged. You entered her home. You drank with her. You shared breaths with her. You pretended to play the sympathizer, and then you went home. You went home and you fouled up any aspect of that relationship that might have been salvaged. You committed an act that I will never forget and I will never forgive. I have been there for you, Fobazi. And I have never asked anything of you for it; and I have never shared your grief with the world; and you would never have dreamed that I would. I had little respect for you before this, for your shirking ways and your immaturity, but now I have none. I have no respect for you as a human being, let alone as a separate and distinguished person. I am absolutely and thoroughly enraged at you and your filth, and you have never seen me angry. I warn you. Steer clear, my precious traitor. Steer far, far clear, or you will regret more than just this.
19 March 2009
Philip Larkin
"They fuck you up, your mom and dad"
They fuck you up, your mom and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-stylen hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.
I like this poem. It's funny, it's serious, it's to the point, and it uses the word "fuck." Helps show kids that poetry isn't all "thee" and "thine" and "love" and "dove." w00t
They fuck you up, your mom and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-stylen hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can
And don't have any kids yourself.
I like this poem. It's funny, it's serious, it's to the point, and it uses the word "fuck." Helps show kids that poetry isn't all "thee" and "thine" and "love" and "dove." w00t
15 March 2009
22
villanelle
VOW OF SILENCE VOW OF SILENCE
My cat, she likes to chase her tail and eat
small mice and twisty snakes she finds hunting.
She drops them, eats them at my shrinking feet.
His new wife likes to rack men up, each cheat
she marks with daggered smiles. And then laughing
alone, she chases some more tail - then eats.
My daughter watches me from under sheets
as shouts ring from my mouth. She lies; swearing,
she drops fables before my shrinking feet.
Model, guide, icon of forgotten heat,
my old mother watches herself withering.
She plays parent too thin and will not eat.
I lost my job today. Clever and neat
I was, but not enough for her thinking.
My boss drops me and scorns my shrinking feats.
I lost my job. I lost my girl. My sweet
love faded into sour roses wilting.
They all can thrive on chase and food - they eat
their success right before my losing feet.
VOW OF SILENCE VOW OF SILENCE
My cat, she likes to chase her tail and eat
small mice and twisty snakes she finds hunting.
She drops them, eats them at my shrinking feet.
His new wife likes to rack men up, each cheat
she marks with daggered smiles. And then laughing
alone, she chases some more tail - then eats.
My daughter watches me from under sheets
as shouts ring from my mouth. She lies; swearing,
she drops fables before my shrinking feet.
Model, guide, icon of forgotten heat,
my old mother watches herself withering.
She plays parent too thin and will not eat.
I lost my job today. Clever and neat
I was, but not enough for her thinking.
My boss drops me and scorns my shrinking feats.
I lost my job. I lost my girl. My sweet
love faded into sour roses wilting.
They all can thrive on chase and food - they eat
their success right before my losing feet.
ack1
computer is down, in the shitter, broken, whatever thou wilt.
translates into: expect updates to be even more sporadic than they are.
hopefully it will be fixed shortly, because otherwise i may kill myself.
i ask you, what kind of computer company doesn't put the number for tech support on the back of the computer? that's what you're supposed to do, esp. if said computer won't even start the fuck up.
pax
hope
translates into: expect updates to be even more sporadic than they are.
hopefully it will be fixed shortly, because otherwise i may kill myself.
i ask you, what kind of computer company doesn't put the number for tech support on the back of the computer? that's what you're supposed to do, esp. if said computer won't even start the fuck up.
pax
hope
02 March 2009
23 February 2009
20
Our elevators are these scary things
that shake and shiver, wanting only rest
grudgingly pulling us down - they bring
our selves back and forth on our endless quests.
We quest for love, we quest for life, for peace
they mumble, groan, complain about our feet
that scurry too fast. we never decrease
our frenzied pace, they carry us all, our heat.
Heartbeat. Heartbreak. True love's first kiss - they see
it all, still unimpressed by comings, fights,
our goings, tears. But also they leave us be,
a haven from our lives, they leave us be.
No silent protest offer they, but still
our hearts they see, our secrets keep in full.
that shake and shiver, wanting only rest
grudgingly pulling us down - they bring
our selves back and forth on our endless quests.
We quest for love, we quest for life, for peace
they mumble, groan, complain about our feet
that scurry too fast. we never decrease
our frenzied pace, they carry us all, our heat.
Heartbeat. Heartbreak. True love's first kiss - they see
it all, still unimpressed by comings, fights,
our goings, tears. But also they leave us be,
a haven from our lives, they leave us be.
No silent protest offer they, but still
our hearts they see, our secrets keep in full.
19
Our first, first kiss, first hug, heartbeat, quick breath
intake of air propelling us beyond
the now. We cling to warmth, to us, out of our depth
afraid of letting our hearts grow much too fond.
Some say - they say - these moments, the first are best
the ones where there's faith, no fear, a chance
of butterflies and dreams. We stay here lest
our feeble dreams stumble and spoil our dance.
To truly love, we must push on, heartbreak
is not assured. To take a leap, we must -
we gulp but move beyond the fear and throw
it up for truth. The truth is that we fake
our confidence. We must instead give up
and throw it all away in hope for better luck.
intake of air propelling us beyond
the now. We cling to warmth, to us, out of our depth
afraid of letting our hearts grow much too fond.
Some say - they say - these moments, the first are best
the ones where there's faith, no fear, a chance
of butterflies and dreams. We stay here lest
our feeble dreams stumble and spoil our dance.
To truly love, we must push on, heartbreak
is not assured. To take a leap, we must -
we gulp but move beyond the fear and throw
it up for truth. The truth is that we fake
our confidence. We must instead give up
and throw it all away in hope for better luck.
20 February 2009
18
Fear
like worry.
like shivers.
like fingernails tracing unknown letters on your back.
like every tiny hair standing, soldier-straight, in goosebumps.
like thinking you're being watched.
like being watched.
like insomnia.
like scrunching shut frightened eyes.
like holding tight onto someone just to feel solid - forget safe.
like crying, but worse.
like a child in the night.
like losing.
like sickness,
like nausea,
like the gag reflex.
like the stench of burnt chocolate.
and stale cigarettes.
like the full moon, the dark moon, the crescent moon.
like watching impotently as the black wave of insects devours everything.
like hearing one scream
or like hearing a wicked, too-pleased laugh.
but mostly, like constant, bone-grinding worry.
like worry.
like shivers.
like fingernails tracing unknown letters on your back.
like every tiny hair standing, soldier-straight, in goosebumps.
like thinking you're being watched.
like being watched.
like insomnia.
like scrunching shut frightened eyes.
like holding tight onto someone just to feel solid - forget safe.
like crying, but worse.
like a child in the night.
like losing.
like sickness,
like nausea,
like the gag reflex.
like the stench of burnt chocolate.
and stale cigarettes.
like the full moon, the dark moon, the crescent moon.
like watching impotently as the black wave of insects devours everything.
like hearing one scream
or like hearing a wicked, too-pleased laugh.
but mostly, like constant, bone-grinding worry.
18 February 2009
17
V
like a lie
like a bluff that's been called
like a bewildered, bothered mother
wondering where her child went.
like a surprise, but a bad one.
like a young girl expelled not from home
but from country.
like choosing to go to sleep.
like closing your eyes to the bright sun
and opening them into an empty, deserted life.
like a revolt, a revolution.
like a change - but not quite, not yet.
like good music that sours because of bad memories.
like prohibition.
like fear.
like complete and utter shutdown.
like an idea that couldn't be contained.
like a wildfire.
like a young girl who would be shot for love.
like a vendetta.p
like a lie
like a bluff that's been called
like a bewildered, bothered mother
wondering where her child went.
like a surprise, but a bad one.
like a young girl expelled not from home
but from country.
like choosing to go to sleep.
like closing your eyes to the bright sun
and opening them into an empty, deserted life.
like a revolt, a revolution.
like a change - but not quite, not yet.
like good music that sours because of bad memories.
like prohibition.
like fear.
like complete and utter shutdown.
like an idea that couldn't be contained.
like a wildfire.
like a young girl who would be shot for love.
like a vendetta.p
#16 (have been writing up a storm, due to cw classes. yay)
L.
like snow falling at night
when you're all at home
and everyone's safe.
like a new kitten
not old enough to scratch
purring and kneading your belly.
like holding hands
for the very first time
too happy to anticipate a kiss.
like a handful of balloons
rising, almost bringing your
sixyearoldself along.
like wine, dinner dessert
with good friends, good jokes,
constant fondness.
like breaking your own heart
to let them go,
because they need happiness, too.p
like snow falling at night
when you're all at home
and everyone's safe.
like a new kitten
not old enough to scratch
purring and kneading your belly.
like holding hands
for the very first time
too happy to anticipate a kiss.
like a handful of balloons
rising, almost bringing your
sixyearoldself along.
like wine, dinner dessert
with good friends, good jokes,
constant fondness.
like breaking your own heart
to let them go,
because they need happiness, too.p
17 February 2009
short story
Stoneage Philosophy
Once upon a time, a girl leaned against the gray stones of a college hall and smoked. It was early morning and everything was gray, but beautiful – the wall, the light through the clouds, the ash of her cigarette. She was quiet, and so was the day. It was too early for many students, and so she busied herself in enjoying the feeble colors, the hopeful day.
The door next to her swung open. A dark-haired stranger, a boy, stepped out, looked around. He thrust his hands in his pockets (it was a little cold, after all) and seemed to notice her for the first time.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he wanted to know.
She was feeling generous, and pulled out her battered new pack. “Got a lighter?” as she handed him a fag.
“Oh, sure. I'm not that far gone.” He chuckled, lit his cigarette like a professional, and leaned against the wall comfortably far away from her. She was just about to appreciate the silence when he interrupted it.
“Some day, huh?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. Some day, indeed. Some nice, quiet, private day, she had hoped.
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well, thanks for the smoke. I mean, Camels aren't really my type, but whatever. I'm Adam.” He stuck out his hand. His grimy, dirty, chewed-fingernails hand.
She was smoking with her left hand, so she couldn't even pretend she had an excuse. She shook. “Avina.”
“Nice name. What is it, like Middle Eastern or something?”
“Uh, dunno. My parents chose it, not me.” The words were barely out of her mouth and already she regretted them. Not only would they inevitably encourage conversation but they were so damned imprecise. “I mean, I didn't choose – you know, my name. Of course, my parents chose me, I just...” She cursed her profuse idiocy.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded. Despite it all the day was still beautiful – the smoke curling out from his mouth, the forgotten sun behind its thick shield of clouds, everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was not spoiled yet.
“So, some class in there, huh?” He asked, or maybe it was a statement. She wasn't sure.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I saw you in there. We're in the same class. You left after like the first five minutes. What, too crazy in there for you or something?”
“You left early, too.”
He shrugged. “She let us go after she handed out the syllabus. Same deal as pretty much every other class. You didn't even grab one.”
“So?” She took a long drag, held it in.
“Well, here, I grabbed you one. Just in case you need it, in case you weren't planning on dropping it or anything.” She nodded. There was no thank you. He waited, like he was expecting one. She'd given him a cigarette, was did he expect? When she didn't say anything, still, he sighed. Exasperated. “Look, what's your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you leave class early, you're sitting out here by yourself like some emo kid, smoking your lonely cigarette, you won't even thank some random stranger for being nice enough to grab you a syllabus.”
She looked at him, rolled her eyes. Walked away.
They had class together again on Wednesday. She was ten minutes late. By the time she swirled in, black top, black skirt, black everything, he'd given up on her. Then in she walked, and he smelled her cigarettes. She sat next to him. Or rather, behind him and over to his left. But he was as aware of her as if she had sat next to him, and he kind of hoped she had, so he counted it like she was next to him.
The professor glared at her through his lecturing. She ignored him, ruffled through some papers for an interminable few minutes. Then -
“Professor?”
“Excuse me?” She'd totally thrown off his train of thought. It was obvious, the way he stared at her, fishmouthed.
“Yes. Avina Tomlinson. Anyway, what's this you're saying about Pope? I mean, his Essay on Man really isn't terrible, but there are much better examples of his work out there. Like, could we at least start with the Rape of the Lock? At the very least it's entertaining.”
“Excuse me, Miss Tomlinson. But I'm the teacher here, and since you can't even bestir yourself to come to class on time, I'd prefer you discuss complaints with me outside of class. Now, the Essay.” The professor was preparing himself for another long-winded gust of knowledge...and Avina's hand was up, before he could start.
“But don't you agree, sir, that it's better to interest a class than to bore it to death? After all, we are all here – some a bit late, admittedly, but nonetheless we are all here. Hoping to procure some pearls, some gems of knowledge that may last us beyond the final of this class. And if you're a respectable scholar, which I would presume you are, then -”
He interrupted her, savagely. “Miss Tomlinson. This is unacceptable. If you plan on continuing such behavior within this classroom I strongly suggest you rearrange your schedule. I will not tolerate such disturbances.”
“But look, Professor. Look at your class. They're really thinking, aren't they? I mean, they're really paying attention to you for the first time this morning. Wouldn't you agree? Look at these faces.” It was true; he had a rapt audience. And for a minute he felt flattered. But then, then he was angered.
“We're talking about Pope. And the Essay on Man, followed by the Essay on Criticism. Then, and only then, will we proceed to the Rape of the Lock. There will be order in this classroom and I will not have a student interrupting as constantly and vociferously as you. We have now wasted nearly fifteen minutes of class, and to prevent any more such distractions I ask that you leave, Miss Tomlinson. You're welcome to come back on Friday, but if you do I would appreciate a more subdued attitude. And if that is impossible for you, there are many other sections of early British Literature for you to attend. That is a matter for your own decision. Good day, Miss Tomlinson.”
Adam turned to look at her, expecting a pale, shocked face. To his surprise she was grinning carelessly and as she passed he was sure he heard her whisper, “Well, there's today's participation grade.”
He spent the next twenty minutes glancing out the window to see if she was outside smoking – she was – jiggling his leg, completely ignoring the poor professor. Once she had left, the whole class had gone into sleep again. Their class was like a hazy spring day, and they were all the lazy bumblebees, droning softly, only able to loop slowly and meanderingly towards responses, when before it had been an electric storm, thunderbolts and lightning making them pay fast attention. Eventually in exasperation the teacher let them go early, and Adam was the first to burst breathless out the double doors.
“Well?”
He turned around, his exhale a ghost, and there she was again. Smoking, of course. Total contentment etched across her face. She was the one who had asked the question.
“What the hell was that?”
“Come on. You don't like a little public disturbance?”
“I'll agree that the professor was boring, but that's no reason to barge in and try to take control. This isn't a ship and you can't arrange a mutiny. There's a reason he runs the class the way he does.”
Avina looked at him consideringly, almost disappointed. “Really? Do you really think that?”
“Yes. It just doesn't make sense otherwise – he has to have a reason for what he's doing. He's sat down, planned out this whole course before the semester even started. And even if he hasn't planned out the whole thing, he has some idea in his mind of where he's going with it. You can't just barge in, interrupt, and demand attention.”
“Do you think that maybe he's just doing what was taught to him? And it was taught to him that way one day, on a spring morning, when every single person in the class wanted to get out as soon as possible too? And the person who taught that class, they probably learned it the exact same way. And so on, so forth, whatever. At the top of that chart there's a teacher who knew why he was teaching the class, why he was teaching x poem before y and it all made logical sense. But in the time that's passed, no one bothered to learn. No one bothered to think for themselves. So instead we're stuck in this boring, interminable rut, and if he wants to interest his students, then maybe he should figure out what he's doing instead of following a lesson plan that's a hundred years old. Did you ever think about that, Adam?” She threw her cigarette angrily onto the ground. “Did you ever think about class at all before today, or where you just there? You can't just be there, Adam. You have to participate.”
He looked at her, puzzled and aghast. “What are you talking about? Avina? Of course I thought about class, I mean, I had homework and stuff...” He trailed off. She might be right. He hated to admit it, and wouldn't, at least not right now, but she might be right.
She rolled her eyes and walked away again. She was lighting another cigarette and he watched her, feeling just a little sick inside.
On Friday she was on time, her fingernails were painted pink, and she was wearing platform shoes and flares that looked about as old as the style. This time, Adam was late, but just barely, so he managed to slip past the professor's nose with only a mildly disapproving glance.
He ignored the teacher all class, who had – of course – clung to his syllabus like a life preserver. Avina payed attention, or pretended to, and Adam payed attention to her. Mostly her face, but any other detail he could find. She jiggled her right leg spastically. He assumed it was because she was bored. And she took minute, subversive notes in loopy handwriting that he could read without straining from his own desk (absolutely, unequivocally next to hers). But she asked no questions, told no lies, and it was one of the most completely boring classes he had ever experienced. The teacher finally released them and he stood, waiting for her to gather her things.
She looked up and him and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He shrugged. Then she hauled her backpack up and he followed her outside, silently took a cigarette – Marlboro this time – and she lit both of theirs.
“So. You've had three days of class now. What did you think?” She finally asked.
He pursed his mouth. Finally: “I think I'm going to have to drop this one.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, immediately, of course.
“Well, for all the reasons you said. I mean, there's no real point to it, is there? The professor doesn't really know what he's doing, he's just providing us with watered down pieces of learning that no longer mean much. It's like, all we're getting is fragments. There's so much more. So why should I waste my time here?”
“That's the wrong answer again,” she said, smiling. “You can't just give up. So, maybe, like you said, this class is all fragments. But those fragments are something, right? After all, the tiniest crumb of knowledge is still better than total starvation. And you know what you can do with those fragments, those crumbs? You can put them together for yourself. You can tie them together. And if you can't, maybe you can discard them. But you can't give up on something just because it doesn't make sense. What you should do instead is try to make sense out of it. That's this guy's problem. He doesn't care. He's just doing whatever he wants, no reason, no purpose, it's just the way it's always been done, it's the way his superiors tell him to do it. But you can't trust your superiors. You have to do things for yourself. You have to challenge yourself because Adam, there's no one else out there who wants to bother challenging you. We're all just these mindless drones doing what we think, what we've been told, we're supposed to do.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She smiled at him, totally disarming, and then dropped her cigarette, slung her arm around his shoulders and snagged her lips on his cheek. “I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll see you in class next week.”
And then – and then, she walked away.
Once upon a time, a girl leaned against the gray stones of a college hall and smoked. It was early morning and everything was gray, but beautiful – the wall, the light through the clouds, the ash of her cigarette. She was quiet, and so was the day. It was too early for many students, and so she busied herself in enjoying the feeble colors, the hopeful day.
The door next to her swung open. A dark-haired stranger, a boy, stepped out, looked around. He thrust his hands in his pockets (it was a little cold, after all) and seemed to notice her for the first time.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he wanted to know.
She was feeling generous, and pulled out her battered new pack. “Got a lighter?” as she handed him a fag.
“Oh, sure. I'm not that far gone.” He chuckled, lit his cigarette like a professional, and leaned against the wall comfortably far away from her. She was just about to appreciate the silence when he interrupted it.
“Some day, huh?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. Some day, indeed. Some nice, quiet, private day, she had hoped.
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well, thanks for the smoke. I mean, Camels aren't really my type, but whatever. I'm Adam.” He stuck out his hand. His grimy, dirty, chewed-fingernails hand.
She was smoking with her left hand, so she couldn't even pretend she had an excuse. She shook. “Avina.”
“Nice name. What is it, like Middle Eastern or something?”
“Uh, dunno. My parents chose it, not me.” The words were barely out of her mouth and already she regretted them. Not only would they inevitably encourage conversation but they were so damned imprecise. “I mean, I didn't choose – you know, my name. Of course, my parents chose me, I just...” She cursed her profuse idiocy.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded. Despite it all the day was still beautiful – the smoke curling out from his mouth, the forgotten sun behind its thick shield of clouds, everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was not spoiled yet.
“So, some class in there, huh?” He asked, or maybe it was a statement. She wasn't sure.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I saw you in there. We're in the same class. You left after like the first five minutes. What, too crazy in there for you or something?”
“You left early, too.”
He shrugged. “She let us go after she handed out the syllabus. Same deal as pretty much every other class. You didn't even grab one.”
“So?” She took a long drag, held it in.
“Well, here, I grabbed you one. Just in case you need it, in case you weren't planning on dropping it or anything.” She nodded. There was no thank you. He waited, like he was expecting one. She'd given him a cigarette, was did he expect? When she didn't say anything, still, he sighed. Exasperated. “Look, what's your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you leave class early, you're sitting out here by yourself like some emo kid, smoking your lonely cigarette, you won't even thank some random stranger for being nice enough to grab you a syllabus.”
She looked at him, rolled her eyes. Walked away.
They had class together again on Wednesday. She was ten minutes late. By the time she swirled in, black top, black skirt, black everything, he'd given up on her. Then in she walked, and he smelled her cigarettes. She sat next to him. Or rather, behind him and over to his left. But he was as aware of her as if she had sat next to him, and he kind of hoped she had, so he counted it like she was next to him.
The professor glared at her through his lecturing. She ignored him, ruffled through some papers for an interminable few minutes. Then -
“Professor?”
“Excuse me?” She'd totally thrown off his train of thought. It was obvious, the way he stared at her, fishmouthed.
“Yes. Avina Tomlinson. Anyway, what's this you're saying about Pope? I mean, his Essay on Man really isn't terrible, but there are much better examples of his work out there. Like, could we at least start with the Rape of the Lock? At the very least it's entertaining.”
“Excuse me, Miss Tomlinson. But I'm the teacher here, and since you can't even bestir yourself to come to class on time, I'd prefer you discuss complaints with me outside of class. Now, the Essay.” The professor was preparing himself for another long-winded gust of knowledge...and Avina's hand was up, before he could start.
“But don't you agree, sir, that it's better to interest a class than to bore it to death? After all, we are all here – some a bit late, admittedly, but nonetheless we are all here. Hoping to procure some pearls, some gems of knowledge that may last us beyond the final of this class. And if you're a respectable scholar, which I would presume you are, then -”
He interrupted her, savagely. “Miss Tomlinson. This is unacceptable. If you plan on continuing such behavior within this classroom I strongly suggest you rearrange your schedule. I will not tolerate such disturbances.”
“But look, Professor. Look at your class. They're really thinking, aren't they? I mean, they're really paying attention to you for the first time this morning. Wouldn't you agree? Look at these faces.” It was true; he had a rapt audience. And for a minute he felt flattered. But then, then he was angered.
“We're talking about Pope. And the Essay on Man, followed by the Essay on Criticism. Then, and only then, will we proceed to the Rape of the Lock. There will be order in this classroom and I will not have a student interrupting as constantly and vociferously as you. We have now wasted nearly fifteen minutes of class, and to prevent any more such distractions I ask that you leave, Miss Tomlinson. You're welcome to come back on Friday, but if you do I would appreciate a more subdued attitude. And if that is impossible for you, there are many other sections of early British Literature for you to attend. That is a matter for your own decision. Good day, Miss Tomlinson.”
Adam turned to look at her, expecting a pale, shocked face. To his surprise she was grinning carelessly and as she passed he was sure he heard her whisper, “Well, there's today's participation grade.”
He spent the next twenty minutes glancing out the window to see if she was outside smoking – she was – jiggling his leg, completely ignoring the poor professor. Once she had left, the whole class had gone into sleep again. Their class was like a hazy spring day, and they were all the lazy bumblebees, droning softly, only able to loop slowly and meanderingly towards responses, when before it had been an electric storm, thunderbolts and lightning making them pay fast attention. Eventually in exasperation the teacher let them go early, and Adam was the first to burst breathless out the double doors.
“Well?”
He turned around, his exhale a ghost, and there she was again. Smoking, of course. Total contentment etched across her face. She was the one who had asked the question.
“What the hell was that?”
“Come on. You don't like a little public disturbance?”
“I'll agree that the professor was boring, but that's no reason to barge in and try to take control. This isn't a ship and you can't arrange a mutiny. There's a reason he runs the class the way he does.”
Avina looked at him consideringly, almost disappointed. “Really? Do you really think that?”
“Yes. It just doesn't make sense otherwise – he has to have a reason for what he's doing. He's sat down, planned out this whole course before the semester even started. And even if he hasn't planned out the whole thing, he has some idea in his mind of where he's going with it. You can't just barge in, interrupt, and demand attention.”
“Do you think that maybe he's just doing what was taught to him? And it was taught to him that way one day, on a spring morning, when every single person in the class wanted to get out as soon as possible too? And the person who taught that class, they probably learned it the exact same way. And so on, so forth, whatever. At the top of that chart there's a teacher who knew why he was teaching the class, why he was teaching x poem before y and it all made logical sense. But in the time that's passed, no one bothered to learn. No one bothered to think for themselves. So instead we're stuck in this boring, interminable rut, and if he wants to interest his students, then maybe he should figure out what he's doing instead of following a lesson plan that's a hundred years old. Did you ever think about that, Adam?” She threw her cigarette angrily onto the ground. “Did you ever think about class at all before today, or where you just there? You can't just be there, Adam. You have to participate.”
He looked at her, puzzled and aghast. “What are you talking about? Avina? Of course I thought about class, I mean, I had homework and stuff...” He trailed off. She might be right. He hated to admit it, and wouldn't, at least not right now, but she might be right.
She rolled her eyes and walked away again. She was lighting another cigarette and he watched her, feeling just a little sick inside.
On Friday she was on time, her fingernails were painted pink, and she was wearing platform shoes and flares that looked about as old as the style. This time, Adam was late, but just barely, so he managed to slip past the professor's nose with only a mildly disapproving glance.
He ignored the teacher all class, who had – of course – clung to his syllabus like a life preserver. Avina payed attention, or pretended to, and Adam payed attention to her. Mostly her face, but any other detail he could find. She jiggled her right leg spastically. He assumed it was because she was bored. And she took minute, subversive notes in loopy handwriting that he could read without straining from his own desk (absolutely, unequivocally next to hers). But she asked no questions, told no lies, and it was one of the most completely boring classes he had ever experienced. The teacher finally released them and he stood, waiting for her to gather her things.
She looked up and him and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He shrugged. Then she hauled her backpack up and he followed her outside, silently took a cigarette – Marlboro this time – and she lit both of theirs.
“So. You've had three days of class now. What did you think?” She finally asked.
He pursed his mouth. Finally: “I think I'm going to have to drop this one.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, immediately, of course.
“Well, for all the reasons you said. I mean, there's no real point to it, is there? The professor doesn't really know what he's doing, he's just providing us with watered down pieces of learning that no longer mean much. It's like, all we're getting is fragments. There's so much more. So why should I waste my time here?”
“That's the wrong answer again,” she said, smiling. “You can't just give up. So, maybe, like you said, this class is all fragments. But those fragments are something, right? After all, the tiniest crumb of knowledge is still better than total starvation. And you know what you can do with those fragments, those crumbs? You can put them together for yourself. You can tie them together. And if you can't, maybe you can discard them. But you can't give up on something just because it doesn't make sense. What you should do instead is try to make sense out of it. That's this guy's problem. He doesn't care. He's just doing whatever he wants, no reason, no purpose, it's just the way it's always been done, it's the way his superiors tell him to do it. But you can't trust your superiors. You have to do things for yourself. You have to challenge yourself because Adam, there's no one else out there who wants to bother challenging you. We're all just these mindless drones doing what we think, what we've been told, we're supposed to do.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She smiled at him, totally disarming, and then dropped her cigarette, slung her arm around his shoulders and snagged her lips on his cheek. “I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll see you in class next week.”
And then – and then, she walked away.
15 February 2009
#16
Why count down hours if I still can dream?
Why waste my time impatiently inside,
when more is found and lost in life's hard themes?
My wasting only makes slow hearts that bleed
with thoughts inviting consciences that hide
and count down hours in their still sad dreams.
It's time to push and fight, not sit and scheme,
the time to act on truths instead of lies,
for more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
We cannot hope to learn by shunning beams
of bright sunlight. Remember how I cried?
But never count down hours instead of dreams.
Though purity is held in high esteem,
the life well lived is one that's truly tried,
one that is found and lost through life's hard themes.
I used to turn from anguish, from my screams,
but never grew or got away - besides,
why count down hours if I still can dream?
Much more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
Why waste my time impatiently inside,
when more is found and lost in life's hard themes?
My wasting only makes slow hearts that bleed
with thoughts inviting consciences that hide
and count down hours in their still sad dreams.
It's time to push and fight, not sit and scheme,
the time to act on truths instead of lies,
for more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
We cannot hope to learn by shunning beams
of bright sunlight. Remember how I cried?
But never count down hours instead of dreams.
Though purity is held in high esteem,
the life well lived is one that's truly tried,
one that is found and lost through life's hard themes.
I used to turn from anguish, from my screams,
but never grew or got away - besides,
why count down hours if I still can dream?
Much more is found and lost in life's hard themes.
12 February 2009
#15
I slipped on ice, it caught me unawares
and down I tripped, I hit my head on cold
cement. The sun still shone but I lay folded
on the ground, unconscious of the stares.
The cold was perfect, I alone could not
summon such calm. My mind was fast,
too quick for truth, just good for ideas rash.
The slip could save me from a mind too hot.
Emotions crwoded in on me, both love
and loss combined. In freedom I had found
them both, my tears within my smile. I pound
my chest, I laugh my pain, I reach above.
The ice, it slowed me down, it broke me up
and then I rose above my self-destruct.
and down I tripped, I hit my head on cold
cement. The sun still shone but I lay folded
on the ground, unconscious of the stares.
The cold was perfect, I alone could not
summon such calm. My mind was fast,
too quick for truth, just good for ideas rash.
The slip could save me from a mind too hot.
Emotions crwoded in on me, both love
and loss combined. In freedom I had found
them both, my tears within my smile. I pound
my chest, I laugh my pain, I reach above.
The ice, it slowed me down, it broke me up
and then I rose above my self-destruct.
#14
You save the things you love for special times,
to keep their shiny faces new and fresh -
afraid to wear away your little finds,
so sure with time and life they'll cease to mesh.
You wait - emergencies arise, you grasp
your honey tea, favorite CDs, your cat
to your sad chest with desperate clammy clasp
and pray these tools have not just met their match.
Invest power in little things, and small
will be returned - but let the world be big
and you shall reap the good, avoid the fall
of empty symbols, losses, subtle digs.
So live your life, enjoy the best always,
and happiness will dog your every day.
to keep their shiny faces new and fresh -
afraid to wear away your little finds,
so sure with time and life they'll cease to mesh.
You wait - emergencies arise, you grasp
your honey tea, favorite CDs, your cat
to your sad chest with desperate clammy clasp
and pray these tools have not just met their match.
Invest power in little things, and small
will be returned - but let the world be big
and you shall reap the good, avoid the fall
of empty symbols, losses, subtle digs.
So live your life, enjoy the best always,
and happiness will dog your every day.
03 February 2009
#13
you broke my heart when i left you. my choice,
my irony, what can I say? I sob
and you return my things. The bitter job
is nothing, for she makes your heart rejoice.
we're better off this way, I know, and this
knowledge just makes me choke on deep
dark dregs of dreams. My heart no longer leaps
at sight of you, my lips no longer kiss.
If I could turn back time - but would I? Know
that this is done, my heart cautions. I do.
My actions are but that; I cannot rue
what my mind undid - my mind, my heart's foe.
It's too late now to change my mind and heart,
so one must close, the other hope impart.
my irony, what can I say? I sob
and you return my things. The bitter job
is nothing, for she makes your heart rejoice.
we're better off this way, I know, and this
knowledge just makes me choke on deep
dark dregs of dreams. My heart no longer leaps
at sight of you, my lips no longer kiss.
If I could turn back time - but would I? Know
that this is done, my heart cautions. I do.
My actions are but that; I cannot rue
what my mind undid - my mind, my heart's foe.
It's too late now to change my mind and heart,
so one must close, the other hope impart.
#12
Elizabeth
I wish
I wasn't so alone.
I wish
he'd come back.
I wish
things were the way they used to be.
I wish
that Thunderbird would just disappear and leave my husband.
I wish
it was high school
or before the war
or any time but now.
But wishes aren't worth anything,
not even the horses or tears that they turn into.
(wish)
I wish
I wasn't so alone.
I wish
he'd come back.
I wish
things were the way they used to be.
I wish
that Thunderbird would just disappear and leave my husband.
I wish
it was high school
or before the war
or any time but now.
But wishes aren't worth anything,
not even the horses or tears that they turn into.
(wish)
#11
Wish
Me
I wish I wish I wish I wish that I
could take the time to wash my mind so clean
that never thoughts of you nor I would dream
to scar the shining surface and fly by.
I wish I wish I wish that I might run
away from memories of happy days
of love and light. These times, they have not stayed
beyond the tests of men that now are done.
I wish I wish that I was not alone
but it seems to be that none the less I am.
I wish that I could find a single friend,
but even then I would not share my moans.
I wish that I could release and unbend,
and tell the world I'm mad, tumbled end on end.
Me
I wish I wish I wish I wish that I
could take the time to wash my mind so clean
that never thoughts of you nor I would dream
to scar the shining surface and fly by.
I wish I wish I wish that I might run
away from memories of happy days
of love and light. These times, they have not stayed
beyond the tests of men that now are done.
I wish I wish that I was not alone
but it seems to be that none the less I am.
I wish that I could find a single friend,
but even then I would not share my moans.
I wish that I could release and unbend,
and tell the world I'm mad, tumbled end on end.
#10
Elizabeth
What helps?
Filling my mind with distractions,
idle chores, trying
to just stop thinking.
TV, laundry, bourbon -
clouds. Daydreams.
Memories. I try to escape the now
with thoughts of the better past
but there's no way away,
no true escape.
I'm pulled back to now
by my empty bed.
(tools)
What helps?
Filling my mind with distractions,
idle chores, trying
to just stop thinking.
TV, laundry, bourbon -
clouds. Daydreams.
Memories. I try to escape the now
with thoughts of the better past
but there's no way away,
no true escape.
I'm pulled back to now
by my empty bed.
(tools)
#9
tools, me
Cheap cigarettes and alcohol are mine,
the ways I cope during the hardest days.
At night so that I can cut out the lines
in-drawn by daily lies, I try to daze
myself with television screens and dreams
of times when I will finally give in,
when in release I'll scream my loudest screams
before the darkness soothes away my sins.
In lies and drugs and wine I try to find
something to help me cope – to cope with loss,
the loss of what and who steadied my mind.
For now I drift. In sleep I turn and toss.
There is no help that stays beyond an hour
but love, and that I tormented til sour.
Cheap cigarettes and alcohol are mine,
the ways I cope during the hardest days.
At night so that I can cut out the lines
in-drawn by daily lies, I try to daze
myself with television screens and dreams
of times when I will finally give in,
when in release I'll scream my loudest screams
before the darkness soothes away my sins.
In lies and drugs and wine I try to find
something to help me cope – to cope with loss,
the loss of what and who steadied my mind.
For now I drift. In sleep I turn and toss.
There is no help that stays beyond an hour
but love, and that I tormented til sour.
#8
Elizabeth
What brings me pain should really
give me joy;
what I fear will tear us apart
is meant to bring us close.
I can't sleep or dream;
memories are torment
instead of shelter.
Why is it that in these times
the best of news is really worst?
Even when he's here
I'm all alone,
every inch of me in crying.
(pain)
What brings me pain should really
give me joy;
what I fear will tear us apart
is meant to bring us close.
I can't sleep or dream;
memories are torment
instead of shelter.
Why is it that in these times
the best of news is really worst?
Even when he's here
I'm all alone,
every inch of me in crying.
(pain)
#7
pain, me
It's hard to stay, to try and be your friend.
You tell me truths and tales to make me cry
and all I do is hide my tears and sighs.
To be true friends I must forget our end.
Misguidedly I run towards this pain
because I hope to learn and grow instead
of hoping foolish hopes, filling my head
with new ideas, not our former joyous fame.
I don't know if I love you any more,
but it's true that you still make me cry
much quicker than other boys I've let fly.
So pain helps me slam shut our closing door.
For though I hurt we've gone our separate ways,
and better that than fight for all our days.
It's hard to stay, to try and be your friend.
You tell me truths and tales to make me cry
and all I do is hide my tears and sighs.
To be true friends I must forget our end.
Misguidedly I run towards this pain
because I hope to learn and grow instead
of hoping foolish hopes, filling my head
with new ideas, not our former joyous fame.
I don't know if I love you any more,
but it's true that you still make me cry
much quicker than other boys I've let fly.
So pain helps me slam shut our closing door.
For though I hurt we've gone our separate ways,
and better that than fight for all our days.
#6
Love
I had a dream about you, you had died.
I woke up screaming, could not breathe, and I
was forced to slip away from my warm bed
to check if you still breathed. You did. I cried.
That's love, for me, the pain that goes with joy,
the fright that leaps into my heart at signs
of age, ill health, disease. No more a boy,
coy Time has greyed your hair and drawn fine lines.
I told you how I dreamed but you would not
give comfort to me with old lies. Instead
you said full face, “I'll die, sweetheart, I've got
only so much life.” I went back to bed.
But there's only so long for me to hide,
and I couldn't love you more if you had lied.
I had a dream about you, you had died.
I woke up screaming, could not breathe, and I
was forced to slip away from my warm bed
to check if you still breathed. You did. I cried.
That's love, for me, the pain that goes with joy,
the fright that leaps into my heart at signs
of age, ill health, disease. No more a boy,
coy Time has greyed your hair and drawn fine lines.
I told you how I dreamed but you would not
give comfort to me with old lies. Instead
you said full face, “I'll die, sweetheart, I've got
only so much life.” I went back to bed.
But there's only so long for me to hide,
and I couldn't love you more if you had lied.
#5
conflict, elizabeth
Why is every choice a bad one?
To move or stay,
to tell or lie.
I stay, I wait, I do not argue.
The problem grows.
Yet to protest, to pick, to anger
will only drive him away.
To, tell,
I must deal with worried glances,
unbearable sympathy, but to refrain -
then worry in battery acid
in my throat, my stomach.
To love or leave, either way I ache.
But either way, I choose by not choosing,
I drown by staying, scream by moving.
I have no choice but to choose.
Why is every choice a bad one?
To move or stay,
to tell or lie.
I stay, I wait, I do not argue.
The problem grows.
Yet to protest, to pick, to anger
will only drive him away.
To, tell,
I must deal with worried glances,
unbearable sympathy, but to refrain -
then worry in battery acid
in my throat, my stomach.
To love or leave, either way I ache.
But either way, I choose by not choosing,
I drown by staying, scream by moving.
I have no choice but to choose.
#4
Conflict, me
I cannot choose which one of you should get
to stick around. There's one I love and one
I use; do I settle for things or run
and leap for dreams? Either way, one gets left.
And why am I the one that has to choose?
I do not lie, they know that they share me.
I do not try to hide the bitter tea
I brew within my heart, my hinges loose.
By all beliefs I should be lost alone,
and yet I have unlucky chance to run
with both you two. Please go; I've had my fun
but do not want a boy to call my own.
Yet how to say it? Nothing I can do
but grit my teeth and see this battle through.
I cannot choose which one of you should get
to stick around. There's one I love and one
I use; do I settle for things or run
and leap for dreams? Either way, one gets left.
And why am I the one that has to choose?
I do not lie, they know that they share me.
I do not try to hide the bitter tea
I brew within my heart, my hinges loose.
By all beliefs I should be lost alone,
and yet I have unlucky chance to run
with both you two. Please go; I've had my fun
but do not want a boy to call my own.
Yet how to say it? Nothing I can do
but grit my teeth and see this battle through.
31 January 2009
#3
Competition, Elizabeth
Elizabeth:
I have to compete
with blonde hippy road sluts
the temptation of liquor
the shining steel of guns
and fights, violence.
I have to fight
against memories of war,
grotesqueries.
How can the cast off wife
shine through the dark visions
of smoke and fire,
murder and slaughter?
Elizabeth:
I have to compete
with blonde hippy road sluts
the temptation of liquor
the shining steel of guns
and fights, violence.
I have to fight
against memories of war,
grotesqueries.
How can the cast off wife
shine through the dark visions
of smoke and fire,
murder and slaughter?
#2
Competition: Me
I hate you. Why?
Because you always seem
to push, to do more than you should.
I know I'm better -
I could trounce you in a heartbeat.
I know you aren't happy,
and I am.
But still all the empty things you do,
I want to do better,
more completely,
just to show you.
I hate you. Why?
Because you always seem
to push, to do more than you should.
I know I'm better -
I could trounce you in a heartbeat.
I know you aren't happy,
and I am.
But still all the empty things you do,
I want to do better,
more completely,
just to show you.
2009 #1
Anger
Could you just shut your mouth for one second?
You ramble on about yourself and I
pretend to care about your childish things,
your stupid hates and immature desires.
But should I try to speak a word – you glare,
you criticize. For after all there's little
more important than you and your failures.
Ay, that's the rub, for even when you run
on and on it's never good news, always
about how you can never ever min.
Shut up! Grow up! And leave me be!
Could you just shut your mouth for one second?
You ramble on about yourself and I
pretend to care about your childish things,
your stupid hates and immature desires.
But should I try to speak a word – you glare,
you criticize. For after all there's little
more important than you and your failures.
Ay, that's the rub, for even when you run
on and on it's never good news, always
about how you can never ever min.
Shut up! Grow up! And leave me be!
Silence
So it's been mad silent around here. I think I'm giving up on the 52 short stories and just reverting to poetry; I've been writing a lot, especially because it was a requirement for my theater class. Obvs. have not uploaded any; expect an explosion of poetry over the next few days.
Other literary news:
possible new novel
possible research paper
Haven't heard back from Caesura
playing with the idea of submitting to another journal
Thanks for reading, guys. Even in my boring times.
Other literary news:
possible new novel
possible research paper
Haven't heard back from Caesura
playing with the idea of submitting to another journal
Thanks for reading, guys. Even in my boring times.
01 January 2009
2008 Recap
Goal: 365 poems
Actual: about 250 (there are over 30 not posted on here)
Success? Yes. The whole point of this experience was not really to write a specific number of poems so much as to write more poetry. And yeesh, I did. I experimented with form, got out some stuff about my life, and made up some poems too. All in all, I'm pleased with this.
New Goal: 52 short stories, one a week. No mini/max word count. I also plan on continuing with poetry, which will still be posted here as well. However, the poetry might actually have titles haha. The short stories will be numbered 1-52; it's easier to keep track that way.
If anyone reads this, I hope you and yours had an excellent New Year's celebration. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to seeing you soon.
Actual: about 250 (there are over 30 not posted on here)
Success? Yes. The whole point of this experience was not really to write a specific number of poems so much as to write more poetry. And yeesh, I did. I experimented with form, got out some stuff about my life, and made up some poems too. All in all, I'm pleased with this.
New Goal: 52 short stories, one a week. No mini/max word count. I also plan on continuing with poetry, which will still be posted here as well. However, the poetry might actually have titles haha. The short stories will be numbered 1-52; it's easier to keep track that way.
If anyone reads this, I hope you and yours had an excellent New Year's celebration. Thanks for reading, and I look forward to seeing you soon.
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