period pieces

in reverse chronological order, because i'm dumb like that, here are the five poems that i wrote over the past five weeks that haven't been posted here yet.

sepia-tinted lust (a quick pitch in the haystack.)

lick your lips, taste defeat
unable to stay away
a few months of downtime
run your fingers through your hair
where did you go wrong?
fruit on the table, melted wax
memories burning to a crisp
memories of fantasies returning
and you'd like to say cease and desist
but there's something about the feeling
the sensation in your body
you can taste the anticipation as much
as you can't taste the fruit
but as pain and pleasure intermingle
the issue becomes moot.

a few minutes later,
you come to.

&& feel a little guilty.

-----

opening...

the foreseen hard rain fell last night
iron fists in velvet gloves pounding the ground
bludgeoning the grass and the mind alike
without so much as a warning
from the weather channel.

-----

for claire, with apologies.

emptied bottles; cans
mental and physical
litter this emotional no-man's land
i'm here and
it'
s clear that things aren't easy
to understand
from the evolutionary biology to the ethics
to the religion — discussions i'm not quite sure
if i'd rather not have
but i have anyway
they leave me the worse for wear
to the point where dreams really might be
destiny
and your dreamt-of friends
are just outside your door;
just around the corner
waiting to be found if only i had
the good taste to wake up
on the right side of the bed.
goes to show what i know —
i woke up anyway. though
the rebukes were less stinging in real life
even if i knew why already.

but the most important thing is the binary
fear / and having forgotten it
it seems that's all there is these days

{i pause a moment to
take off my new
christmas gloves.}

and then resume

it's the gnawing, it's the cold
it gives me the shakes, the shivers, the fear
doesn't
let
go
and as if that wasn't bad enough i'm not allowed
to be fearful, not by others
and not by the part of me that knows fear is stupid
because what i fear ain't avoidable
still i cling like a drowning rat of a man
drowning in debt / drowning in air , unable to breathe
falling from the nyse and accelerating
at 9.8 metres per second squared
only they don't use the metric system
in america.

(i would, of course, love to end there — my senses tell me
it would be a good place to end
but my logic tells me
the story's not half over and so
i continue)

this fear which like the cold
makes my heart flutter and pump faster
for a second or two
makes me ponder whether i have a heart disease
i'd love t o hear that. i've always wanted a doctor to examine me
and be in awe
and disbelieve
and wonder how i've lived a normal life
so far, how i managed to survive
and not even make a big deal of it
and i'd just say "i got used to it"
"i thought it was no big deal"
or whatever, like some kind of nonchalant
medical miracle but i've always wanted to be special
always wanted to have superpowers,
play in the nhl, be a rockstar
a writer a poet an artist
someone who doesn't fall in step
left right left right left
i always wanted that something more
which half of me laughs at
"yeah right you dumb fuck,
you're gonna be working nine to five like the rest of us
a job you hate, a boss you hate
coworkers you either want to strangle or you want to fuck
or maybe both
or maybe both at the same time, but fetishes are weird"
and the other half valiantly defends
"fuck you man
i was always different
always not quite the same stuff as
everyone else
always just a different shade of a similar story
but there's that difference
and that's what separates the people
who go on to be rockstars
or writers / poets / artists
whatever
from everyone else"
and then a third half of me comes in with
"oh but does a career really define a person?"
and the other two halves agree on that at least
but now the seed of doubt is sown
and i'm not so sure.
i'd like to believe when i hear
from other people
that i'm going somewhere,
that i've got a gift or a talent but fuck
who doesn't these days?
and there's, of course, always someone better.
a problem i'm quite familiar with.
and this desire to be special
to be specialer because everyone's special
is the kind of thing that both leads me in
and causes me problems
when you're told and
it should be accepted but
i need to be told again
reminded over and over
how goddamn special i am
which for one makes me just like every other insecure self-centered prick
and for two is ridiculous
neither of which are attributes i particularly want to embrace.
and i'm told this makes me a woman

i'm afraid.
it's not the first time i've realized
how dominated by fear i am
how many of my actions, how much of my character
just because i'm afraid. but this time it really scares me
(oh, the irony — it kills)
i don't even think it's normal and
if there's one thing i know
it's that as much as i hate keeping up façades
the one i most want to bring down is likely also the most necessary
concordantly, while i'm trying to sound like the architect here,
fear vis-a-vis real life is totally ridiculously wrong
nothing drives that point home harder than
the misplaced paranoia
that hits me every time i see two teenaged guys
talking to each other
while i'm on the bus
and somehow i think they're talking about me
and i kick the part of myself that's stupid enough
to think i matter enough
to think i put enough of a dent in anyone else's life just like that
for them to start discussing me and i wonder of course
how i would react if i heard two people plotting to mug
another stranger on the bus
i always get afraid in public because i know
(Based on me feelings at least)
how loath to intervene in that kind of thing
people truly are
would you tell a stranger if they were about to get fucked over?
weirdass situation, i know
and part of me tells the paranoid half
to stop being such a pretentious fearful self-centered moronic cunt
but i can never shake that fear
and that's...

stupid.

ergo;
volunteering information,
as has been told to me today already,
is some kind cardinal sin.
i won't lie if i'm asked but i know it won't come up
so i shut my mouth
sit down and huddle around my feelings
my whiny bitchy fearful feelings
god i'm a woman.

meh.
life goes on.

[wow, that's a terrible place to end.
i really am sorry.]

well merry christmas in any case.

-----

exhibition

like offending real-life autumn leaves
on perfect pale statues
of supine couples bent at the knees,
free of offending hues
(but for us.) and i don't know if they believe
but we both know it's true;
fingers intertwined and a whispered, "k please"
it's clear that you like me
and i like you.

<3

-----

pyromania

she's a flame
and i don't want to play the blame game
but i'm starting to burn 'round the edges
oh, she's a flame

she's setting me alight
whirling dancing, shaking, really she's making
me high and i've got a few reasons why
tonight it's okay to die
going up in flames

she was flickering, she was blowing about
in the wind
she knocked on the door and i let her in
and now she's burning down the house
quiet as a mouse and she's in,

warming up the cockles of my heart
she's been singing me right from the start
but it's never been
such a bad thing
with her

oh, oh, she's a flame
and i don't want to play the blame game
but i'm starting to melt and regain
my happiness back once again

she's a flame.

-----

that's all, folks.

the last line of the song is i hope you choke

the thing that bugs me about the wall
is the dull bluntness
the way it feels used, worn out
though the ground it's over is fresh
and it should be young and hard and it should hurt
the corners should make me bleed
the surfaces pristine
but no such luck none of the above.

god i feel like i'm going crazy.
i'm sure she's talking to him and they're
having such beautiful deep and long conversations
and he thinks i'm ridiculous because ours
are so short and contrived and somehow with
all that's there there's still nothing
what did i do wrong?

and that part of me that used to be so rare
that showed up two days ago to no fanfare
and i wanted to kill him then and later i did too
but now he's back and i'm trying to shut him the fuck up
even if he won't go like so many guests around
christmastime.

and then someone else is parroting about
pseudo-deep bullshit, the wolf pack is screaming
and usually i'd love the anger about
politics and whatnot
but right now it hurts and i can only be angry
at myself.

an experiment in failure (aka success at last)

the perfectitude of a blank sheet of paper
a new piece
just an apple-n away
or
if i'm feeling industrious
a walk down a hall or two
in a drawer next to the printer
real, solid
if only a little.

but now i've gone and done it —
it's ruined.

oh well.

born with insight and a raised ... eyebrow

run my fingers through my hair
eyes tired from too many hours trying too hard not to care
drag my hand across my face
grasping at poems about rebels, walls, deaths & outer space
this crippling feeling isn't fair

and it really is
shifting back and forth
author /

critic

different styles of poetry
i'm not used to this ... inability.
god i hate selfconscious writing but

i can't not...

at this point i've been pondering relevent quotes from the background music to use so:

"say it ain't so / i will not go"

quietly into that good night?... of silence.

i'm trying. it's like trying to relearn to ride a bicycle.

spelling bicycle always gave me problems. the i and the y... and of course i'd like to think everyone else does it fine just so i can be special but that's stupid.

the author/critic break is SO pretentious... agh. i look at it and it's terrible but then i don't want to ... go back... i'm pissed off because i usually don't stumble, don't edit and that's gone and... augh. (i was going to write aurgh.) so my saving grace (recourse, i don't even know what that means) is to just ... write what i think afterwards instead of using it to edit... which taken to its logical extreme produces all sorts of typos and grammar aerros and it gets impossible to rea (see past sentecne)_

wow that's bad. god.

k i'm done.

pretentious (ridiculous at best)

i saw the best (worst) minds of my generation waste away under the strain of constant connected entertainment, who said things like and so he will not cheat on his wife and thus would make an excellent american president and ignored the painful irony or who talked knowingly (so knowingly) and yet ignorantly of freud or war or genocide, who criticized each other for n00bishness and who made things important because they were important, and for no other reason, who god this is pretentious i can't go on goodbye.

i'm stumbling! ... get me out of here.

Something About Poststructuralism...

I'd like at this point to shout and scream, "Let's go!"
But I'm aware the phrase has certain connotations
I'd like to rhyme with the last line but, alas, I know
It's overdone because so many words end with "ation"

I still manage to listen to and enjoy bands like NOFX
Rancid, Bad Religion and occasionally even Anti-Flag
Despite Minor Threat's stance against beer, drugs and sex
And the way they all make the guys from Propagandhi gag

I could over-intellectualize and dismiss the critics with a
Scoff and mention something about post-structuralism
To justify my taste for middle-of-the-road punk rock, but hey
It wouldn't make up for my marked lack of past & present activism

And while we're at it I sometimes even listen to Alkaline Trio
I don't hate post-Danzig Misfits and I enjoy a little Thrice
I don't think about factory farms at every fucking meal
Is my hardcore punk status walking on dangerously thin ice?

And while this isn't an update on Real World by Hüsker Dü
I still feel a sizable twinge of shame every time I listen to,
Say, American Idiot, or maybe, I don't know, Indestructible;
Every time I pass a homeless kid, or a squeegee punk girl.

I long to buy my clothes second-hand, replace my Nikes with
Unswooshers, go straight to vegan and start to fucking live—
Dance whenever the fuck I feel like it, stop being so self-conscious
Take action when people smoking starts to make me feel nauseous

I yearn to engage in discussions with total fucking strangers.
I guess the sum of this song is to talk about the dangers
Of being a punk rocker: Instead of just saying, "Fucking screw it!"
I'd rather smile wryly, nod and say, "The music made me do it."

you say it's a truce...

here i am drowning in nothingness
look into your eyes but i can see that you're bluffing this
asking for a breather, pleading for respite
hoping you'll be gentle but i see that you're rough at this

you say it's a truce
but i know it's just a ceasefire
you say it's the truth
but i know you've always been a liar

odd how the best things are also the worst
odd how the one that remains was also one of the first
odd how your smile cuts me up inside
i'm bleeding, yes, but not to satisfy your thirst

you say it's a truce
but i know it's just a ceasefire
you say it's the truth
but i know you've always been a liar

Cancer

there's the gun and the temple
the temple and the prayer
the desperate man whose life is
hanging on the words of a hearsayer

there's the noose and the neck
the neckline and the black hair
the desperate man whose life is
hanging on the words of a soothsayer

there's the blade and the skin
the skintight dress on the back of the chair
the desperate man whose life is
hanging on the words of an untruth sayer

there's the fist and the mirror
the mirror image of something so rare
the desperate man whose life is
hanging by the breadth of a fear's hair

hanging by a fear's hair's breadth
so until sweet, sweet black death
do us part, in the dark, oh my darling

you're my cancer, my sweet, sweet cancer
killing me with the poetry of a ballet dancer
and the unwitting precision of a coincidence
oh my cancer, of my causer of incidents.

I figure, no worries, right?

No one actually read this anymore. Like, at all. So I will post my feelings here, because I need to vent. And then maybe someday someone will read this, and all my idiocy won't have been in vain (will have been?) I'm not sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. However, here goes.

I like Shuang. A lot. I'm not going to make the mistake of using the word 'love' like I did with Nikki, back in the day, but hey, love is relative, so who knows, it's only a word. There's a great passage in Waking Life about the word "love," but I digress.

The feeling, or at least, my particular brand of feeling, isn't mutual. One could definitely argue, and very easily at that, that I painted myself into this, my own miserable corner, where I'm currently standing. According to her, I'm the "guy-friend" type, the one you talk to about your relationships with guys you'd actually date, confide in, complain about your period, etc. I can take this, I like being confided in, but apparently to actually be in the running for her heart, (wow that was cheesy, but you know what I mean) you have to not be like that. You have to flirt conventionally (I don't even know what this fucking entails, much less am I prepared to do it) and all that... I mean, fuck, I do my best to get close to her, I shut up about my own needs and wants, and when I tell her, I downplay them. And she's gone right back to treating me like just a friend. Thing's haven't changed at all, it still hurts just as much. I didn't realize it before. I guess earlier, it was okay, because I could still drop the bomb on her that I like her and maybe things would change, but I have, and they didn't, and now I'm empty-handed. I'm up against a wall of angst and loneliness with nothing to stave it off. All of a sudden, it feels like the world's flipped upside down and I have nothign but sky below me, an empty maw waiting for me to fall and be swallowed in the emptiness. It's not particularly comforting.

What can I do? Try to make her like me? I don't know if I could do this, or how I could, and if, by some crazy chance I was able to, I'd be fucked, and not literally. The kind of... well, you know, how Summer felt when she finally landed Seth back in Season One. If you think I'd have a clue as to what the fuck to do, or at least, to be able to pull it off on my own, you don't know me at all. At this point I've got nothing and it sucks, acknowledged, but could I really handle something? I have difficulty believing that I could, knowing me and my ability to fail off my ass when it counts. The more I think about it, the more the Summer/Seth metaphor makes perfect sense. Scary.

So yes, apart from reducing my love life or lack thereof and all the foibles it carries as baggage to a television show, it should be pointed out that while I don't necessarily have anything to be really depressed about, I don't have a fuckload to be happy about, either. I'd tell all this to Dan, but I can't see that being productive. He'd tell me that I need to do something I cannot, or shut up and quit whining about something I'm not prepared to act on. So I spill my guts to nobody, or at least, anybody that gets here by hitting the "Next Blog>>" button enough times to get here and has enough patience to read all the way down here. What a fucking waste of time. Ugh.

Someone, kill me. I don't have the guts to do it myself. Better yet, make Shuang love me. That would be nice.

Anyway, I'm out like trucker hats. I have to wake up early to see Amelie with Sandy tomorrow. I'll probably talk to her about this a little bit.

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