3-22-10 (Oh yeah, she's losing it)

I could scribe my life in song.
I think that is what all artist think, and then they pick up their laptops as I do know, and write some ridiculous nonsense like “Code Monkey” or “We the Dreamers” or “Like Steps in a Dance.”
And then, lo the beerholder, voila splits a song that all other artists can relate to in completely relative ways.

It probably started when they had an asi-asi day at their prep school, came home, drove to their empty best friend's house, immersed themselves in that person's scent, and observed their domicile whilst the said person was out and about. They then turned into The Almost's song “Say This Sooner” which made them realize their insociability and disgust/curiosity in the eyes of most people. They then drove a rode that was once, two days ago, new to them, but no longer has the lemon orange taste of freshness. Now, they know where they are going, that it will lead to another road on which their bodies will autopilot home, and all will result in gas waste. Upon arrival at their own dwelling, they logged into a social networking site, on which they spent an hour enraptured with the live of others. They live that hour or so vicariously, and then feel sick afterward, with a reminder of the hammering homework ahead. They begin to finish a book, for a test that they probably shouldn't take, and eventually close their eyes. They dream of outrageous trinkets and escapades that occur in seconds of unconsciousness. Life in anime or something or something or something. Upon awakening to a mother's yelling voice, they forget every excitement the day held in those few minutes or hours of deadness. They proceed to make a sandwich, and think, I could write my life in song.

She eats the same bread every day,
All those who know her call it by name.
She drinks coffee in the dead of night,
Finally realizing sleep is for the weak.
Or invaluable. Or not as valuable as awakeness.
And she also happens to take showers only so the next day she can skip one.
She burns her icy tongue every day of the week.
Her life consists of dead flowers and candles.
She blatantly speaks in secretive oxymorons.

…..I have not the patience for a song at this point, I realize.
I also have not words to elaborate my ill disposition to my wondering mother.
Perhaps it is because money is so very short.
I then remember a part of my dream/dreams, where when told the miniscule-in-comparison-to-total amount of money in my missions trip account, instead of smiling politely to Mrs. Dickens and thanking her for her concern, I took a sword and sliced down my leg. It is easier for me to give blood than money. Perhaps that is where the aphorism “blood money” came from.
No, probably not.
Perhaps my foul mood is result of a timid fear. A fear, like a shy doe, that has been frightened and runs with calamity, displacing all the neatly orderly placed places inside my chest and stomach.
I fear the lumps in my tissue.
I fear the lack of feeling and poor circulation.
I fear that my knee is still unhealed.
I think I have my memaw's disease.
I cannot escape it.

But my mother drops the topic without further prodding and I mount the stairs with my life and curse (coffee) and force myself to believe that I am too young for health or money problems.

Then my coffee gets cold and my mother calls, and I know this is the beginning of my (their) evening.

Shed the Glib and Bones

Public interrogation swelled and ceased.
Self proclaimed verdict of
Counterfeit.

I unzipped my plastic skin,
threw my havocked bones to Flight in migration,
banished my
glass green eyes.
Nothing left of my lonely, fine figure but
metal
teeth.

Mr. Dead Sea gorged himself on my crackled shell;
Next day he “spewed me out of his mouth.”
Tramp, Or my soul, acrid and heavy like sand in the mouth,
Convulses in space for its rightful owner.

She decorates murderous detached hearts and sobs when embraced with love.
'Hunger' is her middle initial with calligraphy curls of burgeoned eyes and skin suctioned ribs.
Her nests of idle words scrounged in trees of “vanity underneath the sun...”
Fall.
She is ink mishaps in books.
She storms with elephants and Preys with octopuses.
Stars are enticed by her.
Sun is her sea.

I am a mere vestige now.
Devouring time with my metal teeth in desperation for a Mother
Something.
I donated preconceived eloquence I've yet to attain.
Vigil to my hollow words and pulped art -
I am a mere ghost.
Reconstruct our memories and mourn that I was good.

She is insatiable for bona fide.

3-18-10

“Good'ay, neighbor.” An elderly gentleman in a grated familiar fire red plaid shirt and useful sky blue jeans.
I know I am the only one who would wave back with a genuine smile in my stomach. I also know I am the only one to use the peripheral vocabulary to describe such a trivial event.
I had never seen him before.

The sky is like a fan. Such turret like trees are its folds. And lamp post yet unlit...I am still deciding what it is in the grand scheme of things. For I am merely an artists finding metaphors for perfect art.

How is it impossible to laugh with my best friend? My silence is not forced – it is automatic. In my awkward stage of a sprout sweating fruit, my tendency is to brag and to protect without social skills.

With decision, I extract my beauty into my art and words. Why else is my hair knotted, my eyelashes whipping with thick paint? Sores on my feet, sores on my hands, I just unintentionally tasted my own blood. The ceiling of my mouth is scaled like seaweed.

I miss my peaches n' cream kiss my face lotion. I loathe the thick smell of mystery I tote with me. For it is liquid and not soul evoked. And I cannot find my tweezers.

Today, lack of sleep feels good. Accomplishment and fulfillment with every additive caffeinated coffee. But I fear premature wrinkles and envied white hair.

I know this doesn't make sense, so please don't ask. I keep my monk-esque life to myself and selfishness. Just another day imprinted in the ground after rolled over by a barrel.

Is it a sin to offend?

“You are a Soul. You have a body.” -C.S.Lewis

From vast black void

Is fashioned our blue-green face.

Perfect Hands patterned earth's hands' momentum.

Cursed. Delicate Ticks melt to

Daunting gongs.

As the eroded pendulum,

Heavy,

Begins to

Fall.

Tick

Tick

Tick

Tick

Mourns now

Gong

Gong

Gong

Gong

A mere hour after it was begun,

The earth plummets from generations.

As time is to a clock,

So a soul is to a body.

Residing in towers

Above

or

Below.

After the dear acrid bronze pocketwatch is

Cauterized,

Hanging alone from a calligraphy tree.

But inviting snow caresses this hour.

Red Patriot

Slowly, the greased barrel is slithered back, with a shush
A'fore a little boy's heartbreaker eyes.
His little finger caresses the trigger
Without grief or thought of

Dead Dead Dead Dead

A red cardinal is dead -
Unable to point a now limp red finger to accuse
His murderer.
Red beak,
Red with love.
Red with spring
Or lack thereof.
Red his blood that melts on my
Sad fingers.

Red Red Red Red

In misconstrued disrespect
The koolaide served is more vivid
Than the innocent patron.

Muse

"when you name something, you identify it....and take responsibility for it."