Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
home
Its different
not hearing the sound of the world
outside my thin apartment walls. in the city.
birds are sirens and people never sleep.
the wind plays with slamming doors, and neighbors
are just as restless as the streetwalkers. only they
are confined to their rooms up above my room and is prone
to dropping, picking up, dropping, picking up their alarm clocks.
trees dont make noises in the burbs.
noise is non-existent
Its different, but not fully unwelcomed
not hearing the sound of the world
outside my thin apartment walls. in the city.
birds are sirens and people never sleep.
the wind plays with slamming doors, and neighbors
are just as restless as the streetwalkers. only they
are confined to their rooms up above my room and is prone
to dropping, picking up, dropping, picking up their alarm clocks.
trees dont make noises in the burbs.
noise is non-existent
Its different, but not fully unwelcomed
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
A political joke
A woman in a hot air balloon realized she was lost. She lowered her altitude and spotted a man in a boat below. She shouted to him, "Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."
The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, "You're in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above ground elevation of 2,346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude.
"She rolled her eyes and said, "You must be an Obama Democrat."
"I am," replied the man. "How did you know?"
"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct. But I have no idea what to do with your information, and I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help to me."
The man smiled and responded, "You must be a Republican."
"I am," replied the balloonist. "How did you know?"
"Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You've risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You're in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but somehow, now it's my fault."
The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, "You're in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above ground elevation of 2,346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude.
"She rolled her eyes and said, "You must be an Obama Democrat."
"I am," replied the man. "How did you know?"
"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct. But I have no idea what to do with your information, and I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help to me."
The man smiled and responded, "You must be a Republican."
"I am," replied the balloonist. "How did you know?"
"Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You've risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You're in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but somehow, now it's my fault."
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wandering Star
Please could you stay awhile to share my grief
For its such a lovely day
To have to always feel this way
And the time that I will suffer less
Is when I never have to wake
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
Portishead
For its such a lovely day
To have to always feel this way
And the time that I will suffer less
Is when I never have to wake
Wandering stars, for whom it is reserved
The blackness of darkness forever
Portishead
Saturday, November 20, 2010
I dont love you anymore
Her stare was hard.
Like a rock that was
thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood from
where I accidentally
bit the insides of
my cheek. And fuck
did it hurt the stare.
Not the rock metaphor
used to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was
the actual pull
of the trigger
to the gun that
released the metal
bullet which
pierced my heart
and literally
killed me.
Like a rock that was
thrown from her hand
and was caught by
my face.
I can taste blood from
where I accidentally
bit the insides of
my cheek. And fuck
did it hurt the stare.
Not the rock metaphor
used to describe the stare.
That was all figurative
But the 5 words that
followed was
the actual pull
of the trigger
to the gun that
released the metal
bullet which
pierced my heart
and literally
killed me.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
portfolio draft stillborn
Stillborns
Hello sister.
Even though we never held hands, brushed each other’s cheek with butterfly kisses or braided the others hair I love you. I have even before I could understand that I didn’t have two birth certificates, but that we shared the same name. You were already long gone by then, even though I was only just discovering why I missed you.
I loved you as I sat with mama still deep in her grief on the day of your death. Loved you as I watch her struggle to put your baby blanket away again, back in the yellow box, back into closet, back on the top shelf. I loved you as mother turned her head into my chest and listened to the heartbeat of her stillalive baby.
When I am feeling nightly unrest, Father say its because you cant fall to sleep in your bed in heaven. That I must hold your spirit in my arms and sway you back to sleep. When you do I will finally be able to rest. So please sleep soundly tonight dear sister and I will continue to love you.
Your younger sister
Hello sister.
Even though we never held hands, brushed each other’s cheek with butterfly kisses or braided the others hair I love you. I have even before I could understand that I didn’t have two birth certificates, but that we shared the same name. You were already long gone by then, even though I was only just discovering why I missed you.
I loved you as I sat with mama still deep in her grief on the day of your death. Loved you as I watch her struggle to put your baby blanket away again, back in the yellow box, back into closet, back on the top shelf. I loved you as mother turned her head into my chest and listened to the heartbeat of her stillalive baby.
When I am feeling nightly unrest, Father say its because you cant fall to sleep in your bed in heaven. That I must hold your spirit in my arms and sway you back to sleep. When you do I will finally be able to rest. So please sleep soundly tonight dear sister and I will continue to love you.
Your younger sister
Sunday, November 14, 2010
3 days of sleep
it rained friday and again sunday. maybe it happened saturday but i was too unaware of anything to notice something as lovely as the rain saturday. too far inside my mind. too tired or plain ole didnt care.
i wondered and thought about a lot of colors, instincts, and behaviors as i often do when i shut myself away from the world.
most suicides occur in the spring. the month of may has been noted for its high rate of suicide. mayday approaches. maybe its because i am such a romantic that i thought the best month to take ones life would be february
not that i think about suicide often. call it my guarded secret obsession with the idea of death. which apparently isnt that much of a secret. death, creation, purpose and those are just the things i find fascinating.
captivating is a whole new list that includes birds, change, clouds and time. i can go on and on but lets continue.
the clouds have been beautiful lately and i feel as though i am the only one to notice. it rains more in the city than any place else and contrary to popular beliefs is very quiet. only because you grow to have selective hearing. and that i believe is the only reason i can sleep with the window open for 3 days straight.
it rained friday and again sunday. maybe it happened saturday but i was too unaware of anything to notice something as lovely as the rain saturday. too far inside my mind. too tired or plain ole didnt care.
i wondered and thought about a lot of colors, instincts, and behaviors as i often do when i shut myself away from the world.
most suicides occur in the spring. the month of may has been noted for its high rate of suicide. mayday approaches. maybe its because i am such a romantic that i thought the best month to take ones life would be february
not that i think about suicide often. call it my guarded secret obsession with the idea of death. which apparently isnt that much of a secret. death, creation, purpose and those are just the things i find fascinating.
captivating is a whole new list that includes birds, change, clouds and time. i can go on and on but lets continue.
the clouds have been beautiful lately and i feel as though i am the only one to notice. it rains more in the city than any place else and contrary to popular beliefs is very quiet. only because you grow to have selective hearing. and that i believe is the only reason i can sleep with the window open for 3 days straight.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Draw the curtains on the Peace Lilies that smell of death.
i have flowers drawn on the space where my wrist meets my hand. trying to give some beauty that is not...
lost my phone last sunday. finally found the song Ive been searching for, but what is the point? my orchids are slowly dying. mayday is six months away in the distant but still not within sight. these are the words my life speaks, as I live it. and they are self melancholic, bitter, and uncaring.
the thought is. i wont be here one day to explain the meaning beyond each constructed word, moment, line, period, phrase, pause and faze therefore i am compelled to record every bit it. being a writer. if only to give myself a richer presence when gone. everyone wants to be remembered, right?
even though the writers intent dont mean shit right now, only after she is dead will truth be constructed. dont really fucking matter when worms are gnawing on her innards what her intentions were when she wrote what she wrote. the thought will be we have this text and must dissect it for our own truths. and truth being really fluid and multiple in this context. the occupational hazard of every artist is, dont expect much understanding when alive.
but i can only make things I understand, I shall only make things I know how to construct however imperfect. writing has so much function in this world and is a form of communication second only to speaking. however somehow somewhere lines blurred, or was forgotten, or disregarded to the point where writers stopped being artists and started becoming communicators. it frustrates me for i am not a communicator
i see myself as an artist. so if you are reading this than, thank you. but since i write just for the sake of writing. i dont really care if you comprehend my words or not. so dont expect anything deeper from the words you are reading, that is not my objective but if you do happen to discover something meaningful, good for you. intertextuality and assumptions has sunken its teeth into the side of your neck and has ripped out your throat. congratulations.
lost my phone last sunday. finally found the song Ive been searching for, but what is the point? my orchids are slowly dying. mayday is six months away in the distant but still not within sight. these are the words my life speaks, as I live it. and they are self melancholic, bitter, and uncaring.
the thought is. i wont be here one day to explain the meaning beyond each constructed word, moment, line, period, phrase, pause and faze therefore i am compelled to record every bit it. being a writer. if only to give myself a richer presence when gone. everyone wants to be remembered, right?
even though the writers intent dont mean shit right now, only after she is dead will truth be constructed. dont really fucking matter when worms are gnawing on her innards what her intentions were when she wrote what she wrote. the thought will be we have this text and must dissect it for our own truths. and truth being really fluid and multiple in this context. the occupational hazard of every artist is, dont expect much understanding when alive.
but i can only make things I understand, I shall only make things I know how to construct however imperfect. writing has so much function in this world and is a form of communication second only to speaking. however somehow somewhere lines blurred, or was forgotten, or disregarded to the point where writers stopped being artists and started becoming communicators. it frustrates me for i am not a communicator
i see myself as an artist. so if you are reading this than, thank you. but since i write just for the sake of writing. i dont really care if you comprehend my words or not. so dont expect anything deeper from the words you are reading, that is not my objective but if you do happen to discover something meaningful, good for you. intertextuality and assumptions has sunken its teeth into the side of your neck and has ripped out your throat. congratulations.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Butterfly draft 2
in a cocoon reality where she is not so weird and frightened to think of herself as different. where it possible for her to love not at an arms length distant. but from within. hate so little cry a bit less and dance more.
all the colors have a hint of magenta to them and cats were more adored. smiling is never forced and sleeping an occupation. tales of the sun being war shipped off to become men are just fables. to scare little boys into not doing chores. for war is not present in the absence of peace. but harmony is the reworded of its presence we must keep.
as mothers absorb the presence of the sun they become humbled just for the offered gift of its warmth. the clouds transforms the sky. routine is just a made up word and structure only comes in chaoas. books are vivid and death is lovely. never sad and never lonely. being able to miss someone would never make her feel weak or weeping for no reason appear too meek.
flowers are handed out ever Thursday. music is played during every meal. food is not a privilege for the wealthy, and water is never used to as a tool to oppress the unlucky. in an alternate universe where she is not weird and dont think of herself as needing to be fixed. there is a difference between sexual beings and sexual objects. just as its okay if you want to hurt them for making you cry is not okay to actually go out and take a bat to their car.
everyone is vegetarian animals are not killed for sport. humans are capable of coexist. naps are mandatory. age is an illusion beyond numbered list for all to compare. we remain child like all throughout the years.
everyone is different and growth is beneath the skin of human development. we dance and play. flutter by and by expanding to greater heights in our transformation. we become beautiful in the sky. only because we know no other way to fly.
all the colors have a hint of magenta to them and cats were more adored. smiling is never forced and sleeping an occupation. tales of the sun being war shipped off to become men are just fables. to scare little boys into not doing chores. for war is not present in the absence of peace. but harmony is the reworded of its presence we must keep.
as mothers absorb the presence of the sun they become humbled just for the offered gift of its warmth. the clouds transforms the sky. routine is just a made up word and structure only comes in chaoas. books are vivid and death is lovely. never sad and never lonely. being able to miss someone would never make her feel weak or weeping for no reason appear too meek.
flowers are handed out ever Thursday. music is played during every meal. food is not a privilege for the wealthy, and water is never used to as a tool to oppress the unlucky. in an alternate universe where she is not weird and dont think of herself as needing to be fixed. there is a difference between sexual beings and sexual objects. just as its okay if you want to hurt them for making you cry is not okay to actually go out and take a bat to their car.
everyone is vegetarian animals are not killed for sport. humans are capable of coexist. naps are mandatory. age is an illusion beyond numbered list for all to compare. we remain child like all throughout the years.
everyone is different and growth is beneath the skin of human development. we dance and play. flutter by and by expanding to greater heights in our transformation. we become beautiful in the sky. only because we know no other way to fly.