A good combination comes when I least expect it. Hot pink, burnt orange and teal. I begin to smell my body odor as I gaze at the colors. My concentration shifts.
It shifts again. I start thinking about bodies fitting together. Not like puzzle pieces or anything like that because we arent shaped that way. But legs intertwined comfortably and a shoulder to a chest. I'm on my back (it's my shoulder), and you're on your side (it's your chest). What about bodies of land and water? Bays and peninsulas. More natural, more all the time.
Finally, time is hard to kill when you just dont want it anymore. But I'm fine. More good combinations will come by, my body will give away its odor, bodies are fitting together right now, and time is just as hard to save as it is to kill. I'm fine.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
cause you don't wanna judge
No. This is how it is supposed to go: Chipped tiles, scraped knees, tucked under your chins. strung out, drawn out, worn out. Red eyes, blue eyes. Your eyes. They're there, but the rest aint'. This isn't how it's supposed to be.
Knotted dirty hair, pull her into you. She's dirty. It makes her so clean.
Flourescent light over you, perfect messes.
This is how it's supposed to be---not sterile, not christian, not actually like your mother and father would want to see you----but you. Ragged and right. Take it all off, baby. You're it. You're so it.
God, I'm done. You'll never see me, chipped tiles, scraped knees, quiet and smiling.
So, we just won't know.
But yeahhh okay oh well. You're so it anyways.
Knotted dirty hair, pull her into you. She's dirty. It makes her so clean.
Flourescent light over you, perfect messes.
This is how it's supposed to be---not sterile, not christian, not actually like your mother and father would want to see you----but you. Ragged and right. Take it all off, baby. You're it. You're so it.
God, I'm done. You'll never see me, chipped tiles, scraped knees, quiet and smiling.
So, we just won't know.
But yeahhh okay oh well. You're so it anyways.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Mrs. Yokitis gathered about two dozen of us and played leader as we followed her to the trailer behind the school. We were twelve-year-old girls. We all sat close as our guidance teacher showed us some slides and a short video.
The slides were of breasts on each: a twelve-year-old girl, eighteen-year-old young lady, thirty-year-old woman, fifty-year-old lady. I felt embarrassed. I thought of my own breasts, then my mother's and my grandmother's. I felt embarrassed again.
The video showed different girls getting their periods. One of the girls received balloons from her family on her first period day. Another jumped for joy and embraced her perky older sister. At the end of the film there were some animated diagrams of vaginas. Little things moving in tubes. I felt terrified.
On our walk back into the school, everyone giggled and tried to hide the serious emotions and bags of samples that surfaced during our thirty-minute class. We were invited to hide our tampons and pads in the supply closet until dismissal so that the boys would never know.
A few months later I found blood on my bathing suit bottom. A year later, my mother took me to a hospital for a second showing of the vagina film. A few months after that, I skipped a day of school, crying because of the bloodstain on my lightwashed jeans.
The slides were of breasts on each: a twelve-year-old girl, eighteen-year-old young lady, thirty-year-old woman, fifty-year-old lady. I felt embarrassed. I thought of my own breasts, then my mother's and my grandmother's. I felt embarrassed again.
The video showed different girls getting their periods. One of the girls received balloons from her family on her first period day. Another jumped for joy and embraced her perky older sister. At the end of the film there were some animated diagrams of vaginas. Little things moving in tubes. I felt terrified.
On our walk back into the school, everyone giggled and tried to hide the serious emotions and bags of samples that surfaced during our thirty-minute class. We were invited to hide our tampons and pads in the supply closet until dismissal so that the boys would never know.
A few months later I found blood on my bathing suit bottom. A year later, my mother took me to a hospital for a second showing of the vagina film. A few months after that, I skipped a day of school, crying because of the bloodstain on my lightwashed jeans.
Unleveled In This New Era (January 2010)
We re-met at the masturbatory celebration of self on the twenty-seventh floor loft of another new and temporary acquaintance. I arrived drunk with a pocketful of uppers; encased bathroom exchanges with other martyred artists and demonic socialites soon following. It was then a luscious space of pretentious paintings, gargled guffaws and finally personal and familiar thoughts of suicide once the balcony was at last free of pretenders
The tiny blue-green talk of the town had just abruptly kicked in; my mouth dry from its uncentered effects as the spin from over-priced glasses of white wine distorted my vicious visions of the living room. Nevertheless your aged and hindered glow struck without warning; my perceptions on the even soon downshifting to splotchy memories of our faded former selves.
We were suddenly the bored and forgotten children of conquistadors again; our contributions to the world of free-roam exploration consisting of standard variables.
There were the damp and rampaged hardwood floors drenched with the somber remains of cheap cigarette ash and fermented bubbles. The unorganized stacks of torn envelopes and dated publications some clipped specifically for the refrigerator door. The uncut backyards and little litter boxes filled with landmines and then covered before ultimately being forgotten at the sound of a passing sports car. The claustrophobic bedrooms scattered with discarded hardbacks and underwear that was clearly visible through the worn threadbare holes in your favorite pair of blue jeans.
And finally the apologetically empty look at what would be our last hurrah. It was from across a similar distance; lined with paint-stained bodies that we both took pride in ignoring. Their polished routine was idyllically stale; the two of us escaping to the back cement steeps for nicotine and last rites.
"I'm not exactly sure if I'm going to miss this" You said, hands and fingers extended toward starlight.
"I know I won't." I replied coldly with an uneasy sip from the bottle.
"You're just saying that to make this all go down smoother." You grinned drunkenly as I tried not to appear lost within such an expression.
"And you're just talking to me because I'm the only guy you haven't fucked out of our friends."
You were then no sadder than usual; acting arousingly offended by my glares as you leapt from island to couch cushion in the dim remains of our safe haven. I walked home alone, shit faced as per usual, and grateful to finally be the guy placing myself at a distance out of shear necessity.
It was this same kind of undaunting need to flee that made me second-guess my staggered positioning on the balcony as you started to kiss cheeks and graze shoulders. I waited, nervously suspicious of my own thoughts and posture before we converged by the bar and began with the padded round of questioning.
"So I'm ashamed to say that I haven't really been keeping up with your work." You started honestly.
"It's okay. Neither have I."
You then giggled and fixated on the tall gentleman across the room, smoking a black cigar. "I think I got bored with it when you stopped using me as a source for inspiration." You ironically joked.
"And yet you still can't properly handle the attention."
"Are you kidding? I shocked this room back to life ten minutes ago."
"Well it's just too bad I'm already dead." The phrase was whispered a hair before I started walking away from you.
"Oh you're so fucking deep now Jonas!" You shouted through the static. "The all-perceptive writer with am halo of tragedy above your shoulders..."
I didn't respond or act in the least bit unhinged by such noises, but rather parted the sea and found my wife, yammering about city-life with a lower-level CoS enthusiast. It would be the last night I enjoyed fucking her before the dust cloud settled around us, and all I could remember was the sound of your voice from across the room.
The tiny blue-green talk of the town had just abruptly kicked in; my mouth dry from its uncentered effects as the spin from over-priced glasses of white wine distorted my vicious visions of the living room. Nevertheless your aged and hindered glow struck without warning; my perceptions on the even soon downshifting to splotchy memories of our faded former selves.
We were suddenly the bored and forgotten children of conquistadors again; our contributions to the world of free-roam exploration consisting of standard variables.
There were the damp and rampaged hardwood floors drenched with the somber remains of cheap cigarette ash and fermented bubbles. The unorganized stacks of torn envelopes and dated publications some clipped specifically for the refrigerator door. The uncut backyards and little litter boxes filled with landmines and then covered before ultimately being forgotten at the sound of a passing sports car. The claustrophobic bedrooms scattered with discarded hardbacks and underwear that was clearly visible through the worn threadbare holes in your favorite pair of blue jeans.
And finally the apologetically empty look at what would be our last hurrah. It was from across a similar distance; lined with paint-stained bodies that we both took pride in ignoring. Their polished routine was idyllically stale; the two of us escaping to the back cement steeps for nicotine and last rites.
"I'm not exactly sure if I'm going to miss this" You said, hands and fingers extended toward starlight.
"I know I won't." I replied coldly with an uneasy sip from the bottle.
"You're just saying that to make this all go down smoother." You grinned drunkenly as I tried not to appear lost within such an expression.
"And you're just talking to me because I'm the only guy you haven't fucked out of our friends."
You were then no sadder than usual; acting arousingly offended by my glares as you leapt from island to couch cushion in the dim remains of our safe haven. I walked home alone, shit faced as per usual, and grateful to finally be the guy placing myself at a distance out of shear necessity.
It was this same kind of undaunting need to flee that made me second-guess my staggered positioning on the balcony as you started to kiss cheeks and graze shoulders. I waited, nervously suspicious of my own thoughts and posture before we converged by the bar and began with the padded round of questioning.
"So I'm ashamed to say that I haven't really been keeping up with your work." You started honestly.
"It's okay. Neither have I."
You then giggled and fixated on the tall gentleman across the room, smoking a black cigar. "I think I got bored with it when you stopped using me as a source for inspiration." You ironically joked.
"And yet you still can't properly handle the attention."
"Are you kidding? I shocked this room back to life ten minutes ago."
"Well it's just too bad I'm already dead." The phrase was whispered a hair before I started walking away from you.
"Oh you're so fucking deep now Jonas!" You shouted through the static. "The all-perceptive writer with am halo of tragedy above your shoulders..."
I didn't respond or act in the least bit unhinged by such noises, but rather parted the sea and found my wife, yammering about city-life with a lower-level CoS enthusiast. It would be the last night I enjoyed fucking her before the dust cloud settled around us, and all I could remember was the sound of your voice from across the room.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
the basics.
NN
yes
compatible music tastes
sensitive
kind
smart
cute
musician
wore heart on sleeve
good writer
"wounded"
deep
great family relationship
no
abrasiveness
selfish
whiny
too emo
greasy hair
JV
yes
mystery
cute
bad boy
fun to kiss
mysterious
mysterious
mysterious
no
perv
teeth
dishonest
CG
yes
adorable
good laugh
kind
really funny
skates
writes pretty well
no
sex
lack of depth
flakiness
friends
height
RH
yes
hilarious
artsy
great taste
thinks with heart
sensitive
so funny!
so cute
no
not driven
tendency to just disappear
JN
yes
sex
very attracted to him
smart
fun
open
confidence
no
drugs
smoking
issues
bisexual
flakiness
issues
issues
issues
JR
yes
funny
taste
taste
taste
energy
no
confidence
petty
height
JA
yes
funny
eyes
sooo smart
drive
everything is fun with him
no
tough
height
taste
women
JH
yes
drummer in sweet band
nice smile
likeable
friendly
outgoing
fun
no
smokes
friendly
no focus
sex
KM
yes
funny
likeable
so fucking handsome
responsible
motivates me to do better
writer
taste
makes me laugh all the time
doesn't lie
entirely endearing
his dick is perfect
charmed by me
needs me
seemingly good father
best snuggler
older
genuinely good guy
no
older
makes me feel immature
divorced
kids
easily stressed
smokes when stressed
could be more open
doesn't trust me
cares too much about job
feels inferior to me as a person
energy (lack of)
MQ
yes
loved his old band, dig his current
funny
non-smoker (!!!!!)
eclectic taste
likes me
no
shy
popular
ex
not as cute as km
Please be safe. Please be okay. Not sure how to fix your headache, but we can go to a more open field. Carefully a clover will be placed over your left kneecap. Oh, your knees. The most attractive giver. I will give you the moments to see it--all those terrible, lovely things. I will write those letters you never got with words and neat little glowing pictures of the things you like to see at night.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I never thought it would take this long for my life to flash before my eyes.
It's slow.
With a lot of pauses and dead space.
Without any logical order.
With surprises in things like dreams (and memories.)
There is no logical order.
Maybe flashbacks,
but always flashing.
Before my eyes.
Here it all is.
Here is everything,
before death.
It's slow.
With a lot of pauses and dead space.
Without any logical order.
With surprises in things like dreams (and memories.)
There is no logical order.
Maybe flashbacks,
but always flashing.
Before my eyes.
Here it all is.
Here is everything,
before death.
Predictions on the Death of a Modern Relationship
It began with bubblegum pop in winter; both barricading themselves in the stagnant basement with their parents' discarded '45's. They started out just listening, scratching their brains for some kind of logical starting point between the fuzz. It was then, on their fourth consecutive day off, following the February blizzard during the fade out of "Rag Doll" that sparks officially flew towards the frost-bitten windows.
Neither one thought to flip the dusty black sphere over, nor close the warped and spinning suitcase hinge to silence the static. They simply and unapologetically rounded inappropriate corners until the abrupt rumble from the garage door was soon falsely eclipsed by the soft chime from the oven timer. Dinner was ready, overcooked and wouldn't ever taste the same.
They all soon knew and would talk with mouthfuls of medication in spring; mumbling strategically fractured words of advice that neither party would take to heart until the swift kick of unexpected appointments in the summer. It was the Friday before the holiday; both lying to visiting aunts and cousins as they let the radio soothe their wounds on the ride to and back from the clinic. The waiting room was hushed by scrolling headlines on the bottled television set, before amongst the sounds of waterfalls and crickets, a smokey voice reassured the patient that they would both be okay. Picnic table introductions were then tainted with the remains of a lingering presence; all subsequent tastes, noises and spectacles filtered through a dented lens.
She was then quick with the digital switch; tuning out with white dung beetles lodged in each newly-pierced ear. He soon followed suit, fraying the red and blue wires and hesitantly plugging himself into her highly diminished frequency. She then rewarded his effort (following another seasonal transition) with a soft and lucid mattress; strenuously carried up to the attic by her alcoholic father on his day off. She would then bitterly ask for his assistance with the proper paperwork; his expression contented by the act of watching her try on her mother's forgotten wardrobe.
Meanwhile the other side developed a taste for complete disconnection; ordering glossy and forgotten imports, hoping she would return to the center chest bone and re-pump the maroon wine through both their homemade reservoirs. Results were mixed along with flared tempers and round actions at the racetrack. All bets for a future spin were placed; odds invariably stacked in favor of the common trend.
She faltered first in the church, confessing her past and future sins before seductively letting her legs do the talking across the street. They all knew her, were well-informed of her history, and of the faded and slanderous ink on the restroom walls. They felt the external struggle of their home appliances and the stretched durability of black plastic bags filled to the brim with indulgences the following morning.
They knew him, by his actions, words repeated in dense and abrasive settings, sporadic and yet still meaningful when dwelt upon further once their headaches settled. They wanted to be like him, to have something so shallowly pure that it kept them going through their daily dosage of pinpoint daydreaming and faulty load times.
So it was with a fashionable amount of certainty that they double-clicked the invitation, letting the sour satellites beam everyone into submission. There were then stolen substances splattered against the wild and containable, before the scene played itself out as all had predicted and foreseen.
A look. A babbled explanation and the cold ride home; both humming along out separate open windows. "I love you just the way you are..." It was officially winter again.
Neither one thought to flip the dusty black sphere over, nor close the warped and spinning suitcase hinge to silence the static. They simply and unapologetically rounded inappropriate corners until the abrupt rumble from the garage door was soon falsely eclipsed by the soft chime from the oven timer. Dinner was ready, overcooked and wouldn't ever taste the same.
They all soon knew and would talk with mouthfuls of medication in spring; mumbling strategically fractured words of advice that neither party would take to heart until the swift kick of unexpected appointments in the summer. It was the Friday before the holiday; both lying to visiting aunts and cousins as they let the radio soothe their wounds on the ride to and back from the clinic. The waiting room was hushed by scrolling headlines on the bottled television set, before amongst the sounds of waterfalls and crickets, a smokey voice reassured the patient that they would both be okay. Picnic table introductions were then tainted with the remains of a lingering presence; all subsequent tastes, noises and spectacles filtered through a dented lens.
She was then quick with the digital switch; tuning out with white dung beetles lodged in each newly-pierced ear. He soon followed suit, fraying the red and blue wires and hesitantly plugging himself into her highly diminished frequency. She then rewarded his effort (following another seasonal transition) with a soft and lucid mattress; strenuously carried up to the attic by her alcoholic father on his day off. She would then bitterly ask for his assistance with the proper paperwork; his expression contented by the act of watching her try on her mother's forgotten wardrobe.
Meanwhile the other side developed a taste for complete disconnection; ordering glossy and forgotten imports, hoping she would return to the center chest bone and re-pump the maroon wine through both their homemade reservoirs. Results were mixed along with flared tempers and round actions at the racetrack. All bets for a future spin were placed; odds invariably stacked in favor of the common trend.
She faltered first in the church, confessing her past and future sins before seductively letting her legs do the talking across the street. They all knew her, were well-informed of her history, and of the faded and slanderous ink on the restroom walls. They felt the external struggle of their home appliances and the stretched durability of black plastic bags filled to the brim with indulgences the following morning.
They knew him, by his actions, words repeated in dense and abrasive settings, sporadic and yet still meaningful when dwelt upon further once their headaches settled. They wanted to be like him, to have something so shallowly pure that it kept them going through their daily dosage of pinpoint daydreaming and faulty load times.
So it was with a fashionable amount of certainty that they double-clicked the invitation, letting the sour satellites beam everyone into submission. There were then stolen substances splattered against the wild and containable, before the scene played itself out as all had predicted and foreseen.
A look. A babbled explanation and the cold ride home; both humming along out separate open windows. "I love you just the way you are..." It was officially winter again.
Monday, January 19, 2009
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November 18, 2008
A woman hit me in the face this morning. It was an accident that happened when the bus went from stop to start. I may have been more embarrassed than she was.
(No more family portraits, but keep taking them)
November 29, 2008
"Are you getting what I'm getting?!" "THE CREEEEEPS!"
November 30, 2008
Happy birthday, someone out there.
December 8, 2008
the control we have/the control that is found based on energy paths
December 13, 2008
We dream of things we think of often. Sometimes in metaphors. Those are more magical, somehow.
12-26-08
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor. The window with the yellow jacket skulls is open, and I am very awake (in some place.) I hear: chainsaw. Chainsaw. Chainsaw. Gunshot. Chainsaw. Rain.
1-4-09
We all walked near a dam and saw castles. Saw Hatchet Jack's lane and some bent and twisted trees.
I think the tylenol pm kicked in.
1-15-09
I held spit in my mouth for so long. Found no place to get rid of it. It was so warm by the time I had to swallow it again. And then some woman blessed me. I didnt even have to give her anything first.
A woman hit me in the face this morning. It was an accident that happened when the bus went from stop to start. I may have been more embarrassed than she was.
(No more family portraits, but keep taking them)
November 29, 2008
"Are you getting what I'm getting?!" "THE CREEEEEPS!"
November 30, 2008
Happy birthday, someone out there.
December 8, 2008
the control we have/the control that is found based on energy paths
December 13, 2008
We dream of things we think of often. Sometimes in metaphors. Those are more magical, somehow.
12-26-08
I'm sitting on my bedroom floor. The window with the yellow jacket skulls is open, and I am very awake (in some place.) I hear: chainsaw. Chainsaw. Chainsaw. Gunshot. Chainsaw. Rain.
1-4-09
We all walked near a dam and saw castles. Saw Hatchet Jack's lane and some bent and twisted trees.
I think the tylenol pm kicked in.
1-15-09
I held spit in my mouth for so long. Found no place to get rid of it. It was so warm by the time I had to swallow it again. And then some woman blessed me. I didnt even have to give her anything first.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Passing Scene
- So what'd he say?
- I'm not sure I should tell you.
- You feel inhibitied to tell me something now, when we're this fucked-up?
- Maybe a little bit...
- Just dish already...
- So he said that you put that song on the mix because you want to fuck him.
- Then what'd you say?
- I said about how you put that song on a mix for me too.
- Then what'd he say?
- He didn't say anything. He just casually walked away and puked in the backyard.
- Well do you think it means anything?
- Maybe on some Freudian level.
- You think it's that bad, huh?
- I guess. I mean, I did mention how I only make mixes for people I wanna fuck.
- Well that's quite the statement.
- I suppose it is.
- So do you wanna get me another drink?
- Yeah, sure
- I'm not sure I should tell you.
- You feel inhibitied to tell me something now, when we're this fucked-up?
- Maybe a little bit...
- Just dish already...
- So he said that you put that song on the mix because you want to fuck him.
- Then what'd you say?
- I said about how you put that song on a mix for me too.
- Then what'd he say?
- He didn't say anything. He just casually walked away and puked in the backyard.
- Well do you think it means anything?
- Maybe on some Freudian level.
- You think it's that bad, huh?
- I guess. I mean, I did mention how I only make mixes for people I wanna fuck.
- Well that's quite the statement.
- I suppose it is.
- So do you wanna get me another drink?
- Yeah, sure
From what I can remember of last night.
O' sweet, dark sleep
Like a mother's womb
How I long to return to thee
She sings, soft, faint melodies
But for whom?
Tonight, let them be for me
Like a mother's womb
How I long to return to thee
She sings, soft, faint melodies
But for whom?
Tonight, let them be for me
Friday, January 16, 2009
I'mma ride for you, baby boo
Your friends and I are going on tour now. I'll keep thinking about you. I hope you are thinking about you, too. I'll tell everyone I could love that I love you. Transitively, they could love you too. When I get home, let's make ourselves crazy. Let's finish things and start things and remember things we don't.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
date night.
He put his ungloved hands in his pockets and asked what I wanted to do next.
"At this point, just go home. I'm cold, tired and haven't been there since Saturday morning."
He asked me where home was and I told him I was halfway between moving into a new apartment and living with my parents. I told him the new one was on Richmont Street because I knew he'd ask where.
He just laughed.
Turns out he lives on the bottom of the hill. I could see his house from my attic window. Too convenient, I thought. Get out of this while you can.
"Looks like we'll be hanging out a lot more."
I looked up only to reveal a half-hearted smile and then quickly covered my mouth in my gauzy scarf again.
There's no reason I shouldn't have been eager to hang out with him. He was great. He did everything right. Made me laugh. Made sure I didn't have too much. Listened. Asked questions. Didn't try too hard. He was cute, too. Also tall, but thinner than the former. Glasses like the former and his skin isn''t quite flawless. I didn't care; mine isn't either. He's in a cool band and like the former, I like the way he dresses and how he crosses his long legs.
That's why I felt so dishonest the whole time. I kept seeing similarities. The former has a year on him, a career and nicer eyes. And though he is definitely not the one for me, I couldn't help but let my mind stray to when he and I first started dating. The way we sat in the parking lot all night. The eagerness I felt waiting to see him after work. His snugglebug tendencies and how he tried to make me laugh about everything. It made me sick thinking of him trying that with someone else. I had no right to stop it; but I couldn't help feeling terrible twinges of jealousy. I was so ashamed.
Even more ashamed that I was thinking of how he was probably drinking tea to keep warm, smelling like Indian food (but not because he was cooking it) and probably watching Social Distortion or Danzig videos on YouTube alone. I wanted to think of him in a pathetic state, and for that I felt awful. Maybe I give myself too much credit. Maybe he wasn't alone. Maybe he already found someone else to share his twin size bed with. Maybe they were fucking while I stood there in the cold in what felt like cities away from where and who I'd rather be cold with. I could've slapped myself for thinking that. Not what'd he'd do, I'd tell myself, knowing it's the truth. He's not that kind of guy.
Everyone I've ever had to let go of wronged me in some way. All he did was not be right for me. And I'm far too apologetic for the stuff I fucked up to let go right now.
I could've done what I wanted to do. Let this new potential suitor undress me so I would still feel desired, wanted and most of all, needed, but I knew that empty tactic I've used for so long just wasn't going to do anymore.Being used does not garner one necessity. I thought of it. I really did. I knew it'd be chilly in the attic where i was sleeping and I always loved the sensation of a guy feeling up my cold sides in the dark winter. But I knew half of my desire for him was being driven by spite. So I gave the spectacled 28 year old in front of me a hug that if I were the recipient would think was cheap, said goodnight and started my car.
When I saw the last of Mike's taillights in the snow shower haze, I ran into the courthouse yard, gathered a fistful of snow and pegged it into the nothingness. All it did was come apart in the air before falling back down on top of fluffy flakes like itself.
"At this point, just go home. I'm cold, tired and haven't been there since Saturday morning."
He asked me where home was and I told him I was halfway between moving into a new apartment and living with my parents. I told him the new one was on Richmont Street because I knew he'd ask where.
He just laughed.
Turns out he lives on the bottom of the hill. I could see his house from my attic window. Too convenient, I thought. Get out of this while you can.
"Looks like we'll be hanging out a lot more."
I looked up only to reveal a half-hearted smile and then quickly covered my mouth in my gauzy scarf again.
There's no reason I shouldn't have been eager to hang out with him. He was great. He did everything right. Made me laugh. Made sure I didn't have too much. Listened. Asked questions. Didn't try too hard. He was cute, too. Also tall, but thinner than the former. Glasses like the former and his skin isn''t quite flawless. I didn't care; mine isn't either. He's in a cool band and like the former, I like the way he dresses and how he crosses his long legs.
That's why I felt so dishonest the whole time. I kept seeing similarities. The former has a year on him, a career and nicer eyes. And though he is definitely not the one for me, I couldn't help but let my mind stray to when he and I first started dating. The way we sat in the parking lot all night. The eagerness I felt waiting to see him after work. His snugglebug tendencies and how he tried to make me laugh about everything. It made me sick thinking of him trying that with someone else. I had no right to stop it; but I couldn't help feeling terrible twinges of jealousy. I was so ashamed.
Even more ashamed that I was thinking of how he was probably drinking tea to keep warm, smelling like Indian food (but not because he was cooking it) and probably watching Social Distortion or Danzig videos on YouTube alone. I wanted to think of him in a pathetic state, and for that I felt awful. Maybe I give myself too much credit. Maybe he wasn't alone. Maybe he already found someone else to share his twin size bed with. Maybe they were fucking while I stood there in the cold in what felt like cities away from where and who I'd rather be cold with. I could've slapped myself for thinking that. Not what'd he'd do, I'd tell myself, knowing it's the truth. He's not that kind of guy.
Everyone I've ever had to let go of wronged me in some way. All he did was not be right for me. And I'm far too apologetic for the stuff I fucked up to let go right now.
I could've done what I wanted to do. Let this new potential suitor undress me so I would still feel desired, wanted and most of all, needed, but I knew that empty tactic I've used for so long just wasn't going to do anymore.Being used does not garner one necessity. I thought of it. I really did. I knew it'd be chilly in the attic where i was sleeping and I always loved the sensation of a guy feeling up my cold sides in the dark winter. But I knew half of my desire for him was being driven by spite. So I gave the spectacled 28 year old in front of me a hug that if I were the recipient would think was cheap, said goodnight and started my car.
When I saw the last of Mike's taillights in the snow shower haze, I ran into the courthouse yard, gathered a fistful of snow and pegged it into the nothingness. All it did was come apart in the air before falling back down on top of fluffy flakes like itself.
A Drifting Scene
- So why do you still shovel that old bitch's driveway?
- It's a long story. I'm not sure I wanna get into it right now.
- Are their more important matters we're supposed to be talking about right now?
- No, it's just a shitty situation. That's all.
- What's up?
- She caught me and the wife smoking a joint right when we moved here, and threatened to call the cops unless I shoveld her driveway on days like this.
- You're kidding, right?
- Fraid not.
- Man, if she would've caught me, I would've told her to go fuck herself.
- Yeah, well I was younger. It was back when I still cared about things.
- Yeah, I guess. Of course, why weren't you just smoking in the house?
- My mother-in-law was watching the baby at the time.
- Oh, well I guess we got to the bottom of that one.
- Yeah, I'd say so.
- Ya know, it's amazing what old women can still accomplish as far as complicating our lives.
- Amen to that.
- It's a long story. I'm not sure I wanna get into it right now.
- Are their more important matters we're supposed to be talking about right now?
- No, it's just a shitty situation. That's all.
- What's up?
- She caught me and the wife smoking a joint right when we moved here, and threatened to call the cops unless I shoveld her driveway on days like this.
- You're kidding, right?
- Fraid not.
- Man, if she would've caught me, I would've told her to go fuck herself.
- Yeah, well I was younger. It was back when I still cared about things.
- Yeah, I guess. Of course, why weren't you just smoking in the house?
- My mother-in-law was watching the baby at the time.
- Oh, well I guess we got to the bottom of that one.
- Yeah, I'd say so.
- Ya know, it's amazing what old women can still accomplish as far as complicating our lives.
- Amen to that.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
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Monday, January 12, 2009
Predictions on the Death of a Modern Artist
Written between tracks 9 and 13 on 1/11/09
They say the countdown begins now
The artist died in an amoral fashion. Overdose, suicide, murder and an inability to cross the proper one-way street all potential answers to the question of why such an inevitable act occurred. The dearly bereaved then quickly fell into place; going to work, tearing themselves apart in thick saucepans or finding that special kind of seclusion in one of many boxed-in guestrooms; such dire activities being the only way for them to handle such an expected tragedy.
Still others, more particularly the women in the artist's life, bought dresses with matching handkerchiefs and insisted on claiming that the mediocre times were, in all reality, now because of recent developments, in fact the good times. They then took part in clever indulgences; hiccups registering on foreign radar machines as information of arrangements were soon relayed across multiple cluttered desk tops.
Text messages of condolences and online sentiments to the recently deceased were sent via satellite as last gasp attempts to converse with the stiff and colorless.
The service was then full of barricades, for those holding flowers plucked meticulously from their dyed and speckled hair and placed on the closest stone.
The eulogy called for a return to basics, to a time when the line between childhood, life, death and adulthood didn't seem so transparent. These were of course the artist's words, read by the hired preacher for a confused atheist's found farewell.
The dinner was infused with catered delicacies that only further helped to soak up the alcohol and smoke, spilt and filtering on carpets and through long vacuous hallways.
There was no discussion of favorites nor compiled treatments of the artist's work. Loose-leafed attempts were found and discarded of along with reel-to-reel failures of heart and mind, and spacey canvases splattered with the remains of some indiscernible and barely lingering posthumous emotion.
Next of kin were informed unaware of the blood coarsely running through their veins; the subsequent inheritance and rights soon being pawned for diluted favors and better ways to help pass the time.
Purchased items sat on shelves before eventually decomposing; brown cardboard boxes full of reminders dedicated to a day and time, soon seasonal examples of clutter, meant to be discarded of with other obsolete technologies and faded mementos.
Eventually even the wandering and curious eye lost its motivation to dig just deep enough to taste the soil above surface, and so those who remembered quickly forgot to spread the individual pieces out on their dining room tables before the big game. Instead they simply decided to use the rusted change from their heavy pockets to fill in the blanks and loosely hope that all would strategically balance out once the final electronic lights singed their fingers and went out.
They say the countdown begins now
The artist died in an amoral fashion. Overdose, suicide, murder and an inability to cross the proper one-way street all potential answers to the question of why such an inevitable act occurred. The dearly bereaved then quickly fell into place; going to work, tearing themselves apart in thick saucepans or finding that special kind of seclusion in one of many boxed-in guestrooms; such dire activities being the only way for them to handle such an expected tragedy.
Still others, more particularly the women in the artist's life, bought dresses with matching handkerchiefs and insisted on claiming that the mediocre times were, in all reality, now because of recent developments, in fact the good times. They then took part in clever indulgences; hiccups registering on foreign radar machines as information of arrangements were soon relayed across multiple cluttered desk tops.
Text messages of condolences and online sentiments to the recently deceased were sent via satellite as last gasp attempts to converse with the stiff and colorless.
The service was then full of barricades, for those holding flowers plucked meticulously from their dyed and speckled hair and placed on the closest stone.
The eulogy called for a return to basics, to a time when the line between childhood, life, death and adulthood didn't seem so transparent. These were of course the artist's words, read by the hired preacher for a confused atheist's found farewell.
The dinner was infused with catered delicacies that only further helped to soak up the alcohol and smoke, spilt and filtering on carpets and through long vacuous hallways.
There was no discussion of favorites nor compiled treatments of the artist's work. Loose-leafed attempts were found and discarded of along with reel-to-reel failures of heart and mind, and spacey canvases splattered with the remains of some indiscernible and barely lingering posthumous emotion.
Next of kin were informed unaware of the blood coarsely running through their veins; the subsequent inheritance and rights soon being pawned for diluted favors and better ways to help pass the time.
Purchased items sat on shelves before eventually decomposing; brown cardboard boxes full of reminders dedicated to a day and time, soon seasonal examples of clutter, meant to be discarded of with other obsolete technologies and faded mementos.
Eventually even the wandering and curious eye lost its motivation to dig just deep enough to taste the soil above surface, and so those who remembered quickly forgot to spread the individual pieces out on their dining room tables before the big game. Instead they simply decided to use the rusted change from their heavy pockets to fill in the blanks and loosely hope that all would strategically balance out once the final electronic lights singed their fingers and went out.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
January 10th, 2009
The following was written last night and very early this morning between the hours of 11 pm and 7 am, roughly.
I believe these words to be the closest thing to truth this evil hand is capable of penning. I believe my mind to be free of all pretense. Existence is stripped bare, and in its nudity, its silly nudity, I see folly. I see laughable folly.
Within myself I see an ineluctable darkness; an unharnessed desire for destruction, chaos, misery, blood, fire, pain, grief, endless torment.
I want to die.
They are celebrating life - I was cast out. I am exiled from the cast outs; not even fit to be around the misfits.
For me there is no letting go, for my letting go would release an unspeakable horror.
I am now being made witness to truths I can
no longer ignore
Truth seeping out like divine luminescence
around my bedroom door
The Serpent's Tongue embedded eternally
within my mouth
I can almost . . .
I can almost see the top now
Daemons speak through me,
Clumsy in this mortal tongue
Daemons scream within me:
Laughing, mocking, controlling, devouring
Everyone
There is no life where no light is let in
They will watch me from the heavenly realm
(knocks at the door)
Call for me to join them beneath their artificial helm
(a voice from beyond)
'Pull the cozy, warm wool of love back over
your eyes.
All is well. All is love. All is kind.'
The Nausea begins to whisper
There is no satisfying this
Desire to suffer
The vomit begins to stir
I reject all promises of a brighter,
Better, happier future
This darkness . . .
This darkness is what's pure.
In its carnal howls, I hear intimations
of a human voice
In its acidic claws, I feel tightly clenched,
enthralled by the void
Sever all limbs, every root to the real
Spread my skin across the surface
Of the nearest star
Leave me to burn, dissolve,
Return to the blackest tar
Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy
Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy
I know the Daemon's name!
I know the Devil's taste.
I have seen deepest hate
And I have only this to pray,
Should the memory not remain:
I must never forget I was offered Salvation
Forgiven, tolerated, accepted, embraced
And I rejected the light
In favor of this abysmal conflagration
I saw through the forest,
Grim and unaware
To find the singular truth:
We are but a flimsy membranous
Existence
Able to mold, permeate, and destroy
But this . . .
But this is not our right.
The hedonist denies this because
This love is not lavish and beautiful
True, selfless love is to stand -
Stand back, and not intervene.
For some, the dawn leaves nothing
But garbage to glean.
These words mean something . . .
Remember them . . .
Remember what is writing through you . . .
This body is losing its faculties, shedding its purpose. I am transcending.
(momentarily)
But how lucky I am to feel this jagged caress, this ancient pain. This infernal clamor buried deep within is a blessing, so long as I remember to keep it hidden beneath this pretty skin.
I am loath to admit such a thing, but my cowardly brain needs this putrid reality
For good, or for evil
I prefer the imprisonment of existence to what's beyond: unfathomable banality
I believe these words to be the closest thing to truth this evil hand is capable of penning. I believe my mind to be free of all pretense. Existence is stripped bare, and in its nudity, its silly nudity, I see folly. I see laughable folly.
Within myself I see an ineluctable darkness; an unharnessed desire for destruction, chaos, misery, blood, fire, pain, grief, endless torment.
I want to die.
They are celebrating life - I was cast out. I am exiled from the cast outs; not even fit to be around the misfits.
For me there is no letting go, for my letting go would release an unspeakable horror.
I am now being made witness to truths I can
no longer ignore
Truth seeping out like divine luminescence
around my bedroom door
The Serpent's Tongue embedded eternally
within my mouth
I can almost . . .
I can almost see the top now
Daemons speak through me,
Clumsy in this mortal tongue
Daemons scream within me:
Laughing, mocking, controlling, devouring
Everyone
There is no life where no light is let in
They will watch me from the heavenly realm
(knocks at the door)
Call for me to join them beneath their artificial helm
(a voice from beyond)
'Pull the cozy, warm wool of love back over
your eyes.
All is well. All is love. All is kind.'
The Nausea begins to whisper
There is no satisfying this
Desire to suffer
The vomit begins to stir
I reject all promises of a brighter,
Better, happier future
This darkness . . .
This darkness is what's pure.
In its carnal howls, I hear intimations
of a human voice
In its acidic claws, I feel tightly clenched,
enthralled by the void
Sever all limbs, every root to the real
Spread my skin across the surface
Of the nearest star
Leave me to burn, dissolve,
Return to the blackest tar
Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy
Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy this awful frame/Destroy
I know the Daemon's name!
I know the Devil's taste.
I have seen deepest hate
And I have only this to pray,
Should the memory not remain:
I must never forget I was offered Salvation
Forgiven, tolerated, accepted, embraced
And I rejected the light
In favor of this abysmal conflagration
I saw through the forest,
Grim and unaware
To find the singular truth:
We are but a flimsy membranous
Existence
Able to mold, permeate, and destroy
But this . . .
But this is not our right.
The hedonist denies this because
This love is not lavish and beautiful
True, selfless love is to stand -
Stand back, and not intervene.
For some, the dawn leaves nothing
But garbage to glean.
These words mean something . . .
Remember them . . .
Remember what is writing through you . . .
This body is losing its faculties, shedding its purpose. I am transcending.
(momentarily)
But how lucky I am to feel this jagged caress, this ancient pain. This infernal clamor buried deep within is a blessing, so long as I remember to keep it hidden beneath this pretty skin.
I am loath to admit such a thing, but my cowardly brain needs this putrid reality
For good, or for evil
I prefer the imprisonment of existence to what's beyond: unfathomable banality
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Everything is annoying me right now. I know there is some kind of wave that is crashing into something that is trying to be stable and structured. When on snowpathed sidewalk, no one could know what had just happened and why the thoughts of things better than running at night caught up. You're not as present as you used to be. I might as well take a small lamp into a closet and sit against the wall and look at things and tape things and write things and burn things. You would be able to see the light from the outside. Wonder if you should open the door or just walk past, or even worse: sit in that room and do something else other than look at that small line of light and keep questioning. I liked what you were trying to say, I always do. But please, don't bring that rough set of rocks in a bag or disgust. Don't hand it to me. I do not want it.
Friday, January 9, 2009
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