Thursday, January 10, 2013
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
when pressed to talk about something i know little about i want to look away, out the window, into a storm that i could calmly announce was heading our way. and everyone might forget that i don't know a thing about politics or love for that matter. all i really know is when i see an ex of mine with someone else, my stomach starts to clench and a ball of sad love gas falls from my intestines out of my butt and into the room, where i smell it and want to yelp. instead i say "who farted" and look at the nearest stranger accusingly.
and that poor old stranger will deny it, but no one will believe him because a pretty girl like me could never make a sad love fart. you can taste the heartbreak on the back of your tongue. (it's like dried out roast beef on stale bread being chewed up by someone with cotton mouth. and then they take a sip of the nearest beverage only to find out that what they just drank is older than the roast beef and definitely had an expiration date.)
i want to breath normally. and eat normally. and drink normally. all of these things come only half naturally to me. but most nights i wake, my body folded in half and my stomach as tight as a brand new rubber band. i have to stretch back out and start to breath again into my belly. and when it comes to food, i hesitate every time i feel hunger for fear that i won't look so nice anymore after it. and drinking is the only thing that makes me smile. and have a fair laugh with people. otherwise they start to see my true sadness and cant stand to be around me anymore. all i'll have left is self loathing, but with drinking, i entertain.
i jump around, i take my sweater off and i left my hips touch everyone around me. i kiss my friends and promise them love and satisfaction, just at a later date. a storm is coming, i think, while i'm spinning on a dance floor, but i wont know what it looks like until i sit down by a window and avoid a perfectly fine question.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
when beef was wild
cowboys were real. they jumped on
their truly broken horse
and threw dust in the air.
they stuck a knife in between
their teeth and gutted the shit
out of their dinner. they spit
blood and mucus out on the grass and
rode from lightening bolts and His great
thunder. when beef was wild
cowboys had a job. they had women
who made cornbread proper.
cornmeal and water. none of this
extra shit. spoils the flavor.
they sat round a
wagon wheel table and
spoke of indians and gold. they spoke of
building fences to claim what was
rightfully theirs. they shot
people who stepped on their ranch.
they got up every day ready to do what they had to.
they went to bed full and satisfied.
clouds look like they're on interlude.
we could reach up and pull each one apart
like it was cotton candy. each particle separating from itself
but not wanting to let go. stretching and tearing.
they move across the sky,
following the bus like
an old ship, fierce and majestic. their shadows hit
the rocky fields and
mountains acting as spilled paint causing
anyone to feel small.
and as the bus turns into wagon hound rest stop,
i wonder when i'll be home.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
outside of the quaint café
we throw in-tact fox
skull's for our little
while sipping on
spiked with evan's finest.
he applies his red lipstick
while she barks orders
at pup one and pup two.
i cover my ears in frustration
for that fox skull is
too pretty and broken
too perfectly at the jaw
to become a toy for
an inbred chihuahua.
(i feel that she is always taking control)
and the lipstick he puts on
makes his lips look
surprisingly thin which vexes
(those lips were so kissable once)
strange parisian man
comes and invites us to the gardens
and with a decision made
we are there arguing about
trips to france and the re entry into school.
trips to france will not do if one is
serious about school! trips to france
helping with lighting when one know's little
the dreams of an anxious young lady
demonstrate paranoid anger and loss
and usually leave a cold sweat on said lady's
pale smooth forehead. the lack of control
on anxiety stricken dreamy nights that one might feel
is completely part of the process of
figuring shit out
and must run it's vicious course on the
left and right side of the brain.
(mostly right, she can tell by her headaches)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
I'd rather eat some brownies
stuffed with weed,
or hey fuck it! Mushrooms!
Then I'll march down some hip trails
and look at the clouds turning
into paintings and out of reality I'll go!
Yes, and when the nausea kicks in
and I think of Hannibal the real Cannibal
I'll let out some ridiculous scream and laugh
and start down some crazy spiral of tears
swollen eyes and basic hysterics.
I'll stand in the middle of some parking lot
and watch a car wait for me to move,
and I'll feel really brave, like I'm stopping this car
from making any progress. Any progress at all! Yeah!
Until the person gets out of their car
and shouts at me to move! And I'll just run away
like some deer who only eats grass,
praying that no one will eat my brains!