There is no money left in my bank account.
I lost my pants.
I don't want you to know what I do (all of you).
You! I do not want you to know we kissed, I do not want you to know that I pulled you shivering out of the shower.
Cold white freckles shivering.
I live I live I live in symphonies.
I pulled you out and from your boyfriend's arms
I picked you up frail one and I combed your hair frail one.
With one hand I help your pointy chin up, the other cleaned the walls.
I cleaned the colors the smells the what-I-did-not-want-to see-again off the walls and held your small face out of the water.
Slowly I held you and put my shirt on your cold sad body.
Slowly I held you up and gave you my pants.
I see what you are and I live I live I live in symphonies.
You unconscious I give you my symphony and you will not remember.
You! I cannot tell you how I hear your voice and say your words.
You do see how I move fawn mold around you
but do you know why?
I live I live I live in symphonies and you never need to ask for I will,
I want to be, I am.
You are gone far away from me and is it possible to be more in love with you knowing that I can never have you?
I gave you my symphony and you are the one who has heard it.
You are the only one who has seen me in my primal movement
my primal thought
like spiderwebs
you
me
like a symphony.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Nouveau
I want to write an ugly poem where similes don't kiss metaphors they punch them in the fucking face.
I want to write a poem where truth doesn't hide behind warm sweet "sun-kissed" lies.
I want to strip, expose and terrorize the truth.
I want it naked, crying, vomiting up words and tears and bitter exposures in the corner.
I don't want pretty, I don't want rhymes, I want ugly, volatile, powerful and bloody raw truth.
I want it to know I'm there, and I want it to squirm.
I dare it even to try to be graceful and elusive.
Fuck you poem.
I want the truth.
I want the pot smoke to curl and I want it to cringe.
I'm here to clear the air and I'm here to suffocate.
I want the truth, sweaty, delirious and deliberately drunk to stumble over and try to drive.
I want the truth on that dark beach and in that car and in that room to come out and clear out before I get violent.
"Let's get biblical"
I want to write a poem where truth doesn't hide behind warm sweet "sun-kissed" lies.
I want to strip, expose and terrorize the truth.
I want it naked, crying, vomiting up words and tears and bitter exposures in the corner.
I don't want pretty, I don't want rhymes, I want ugly, volatile, powerful and bloody raw truth.
I want it to know I'm there, and I want it to squirm.
I dare it even to try to be graceful and elusive.
Fuck you poem.
I want the truth.
I want the pot smoke to curl and I want it to cringe.
I'm here to clear the air and I'm here to suffocate.
I want the truth, sweaty, delirious and deliberately drunk to stumble over and try to drive.
I want the truth on that dark beach and in that car and in that room to come out and clear out before I get violent.
"Let's get biblical"
Little Blue Truck
you smelt like old car
little blue truck!
a peculiar old smell of salt and sweat and rubber and warm
all in a tiny cab with one tiny-bench-seat
worn tan seat,
shiny cd player
little blue truck
you hummed and sang and rumbled and played
but little girl,
old little girl older than me even,
your stick shift was dated
your blue spray-paint was faded
all it took was a group of drunk boys
to drain the life out of you and burn your little spirit away
like the black smoke
and the creaking
and final the aching stop
of your little gray heart, warm, old, jerry-rigged with rubber bands
little blue truck good luck in your next life
a "sheldon" has your body now, your weary old-toyota-smelling body
and perhaps I will hear you, see you, smell you one last time.
little blue truck!
a peculiar old smell of salt and sweat and rubber and warm
all in a tiny cab with one tiny-bench-seat
worn tan seat,
shiny cd player
little blue truck
you hummed and sang and rumbled and played
but little girl,
old little girl older than me even,
your stick shift was dated
your blue spray-paint was faded
all it took was a group of drunk boys
to drain the life out of you and burn your little spirit away
like the black smoke
and the creaking
and final the aching stop
of your little gray heart, warm, old, jerry-rigged with rubber bands
little blue truck good luck in your next life
a "sheldon" has your body now, your weary old-toyota-smelling body
and perhaps I will hear you, see you, smell you one last time.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
With Grace
Her smallest hope was to lose with grace
to be prettier...
to make him feel like he lost it all.
Although she knew this was a lie.
For to lose grace is to have it in the first place-mary full of grace.
Is grace the ability to function in limbo? To function, to kiss sweet kisses and whisper sweet terrible nothings that are full of limbo and chaos but still they ring out full of grace? full of grace.
Maybe grace is to lie with perfection, pretend, tease, and lie terrible nothings that give off an allusion of full of grace and pretty and losing it all for this one...would he for another girl?
But she never knew if it was her.
So she kept these small glass balls of thought, like little buoys that would hold up bobbing nets of fear and deceit on a turbulent ocean so chaotic and dark it was only these little glass balls, with bubble imperfections, that showed her the surface.
Showed her the surface and laid out the lines of how to function and hope above the deceit and limbo.
The truth.
The Grace.
Grace kept her afloat. The truth-the anchor would pull all the nets down and away, but what would that leave her with? The dark?
So she prayed to Mary full of Grace and to the tiny blue pills (two) that would maintain her lies.
Two tiny blue pills the day after that day so tiny blue pills that would maintain her grace, her purity,
no one would know.
So yes she prayed to the Dana of Planned Parenthood and concrete futures.
Knowing, she prayed to knowing.
She prayed at least let me go with grace.
She will let the lies go, never knowing praying to grace, to mary, to the tiny blue pills to take it away and leave her knowing.
She will let that other girl go, there has been greater ache than this surely.
She has been on the other side, but it was different oh so different drunkenly different graceless but unintentional
unintentional cruelty that no one will know and surely this boy will never know because it was different drunkenly graceless but meaningless.
It is the meaning that hurts her.
The intentional cruelty, the lies that are meant to harbor more lies and the possibility of a future with her....that other girl with the name of a Grecian Goddess. A cruel greek goddess whose name she knows and will toss under those little acts of grace floating above the dark currents below.
I know.
I want to go with grace.
to be prettier...
to make him feel like he lost it all.
Although she knew this was a lie.
For to lose grace is to have it in the first place-mary full of grace.
Is grace the ability to function in limbo? To function, to kiss sweet kisses and whisper sweet terrible nothings that are full of limbo and chaos but still they ring out full of grace? full of grace.
Maybe grace is to lie with perfection, pretend, tease, and lie terrible nothings that give off an allusion of full of grace and pretty and losing it all for this one...would he for another girl?
But she never knew if it was her.
So she kept these small glass balls of thought, like little buoys that would hold up bobbing nets of fear and deceit on a turbulent ocean so chaotic and dark it was only these little glass balls, with bubble imperfections, that showed her the surface.
Showed her the surface and laid out the lines of how to function and hope above the deceit and limbo.
The truth.
The Grace.
Grace kept her afloat. The truth-the anchor would pull all the nets down and away, but what would that leave her with? The dark?
So she prayed to Mary full of Grace and to the tiny blue pills (two) that would maintain her lies.
Two tiny blue pills the day after that day so tiny blue pills that would maintain her grace, her purity,
no one would know.
So yes she prayed to the Dana of Planned Parenthood and concrete futures.
Knowing, she prayed to knowing.
She prayed at least let me go with grace.
She will let the lies go, never knowing praying to grace, to mary, to the tiny blue pills to take it away and leave her knowing.
She will let that other girl go, there has been greater ache than this surely.
She has been on the other side, but it was different oh so different drunkenly different graceless but unintentional
unintentional cruelty that no one will know and surely this boy will never know because it was different drunkenly graceless but meaningless.
It is the meaning that hurts her.
The intentional cruelty, the lies that are meant to harbor more lies and the possibility of a future with her....that other girl with the name of a Grecian Goddess. A cruel greek goddess whose name she knows and will toss under those little acts of grace floating above the dark currents below.
I know.
I want to go with grace.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Honestly
New Years Resolution: to be a less shitty person
It seems strange that one who hates lying, is hurt by lying, finds lying to easy, innate even.
Lying is a selfish thing, a powerful thing, and I am good at it.
I lied last night and the night before. I am very selfish but it is also a survival tactic.
I would have gone crazy by now if I didn't lie about where I was going/what I was doing. I lie to survive. I lie so I can have privacy and escape the opinions of others especially my mom because she knows my achilles heel and takes a stab at it every so often. I lie to buy myself time, time to think, time to plan, time to brace myself. I lie because I want to be left alone.
Plight of an only child in a tiny house ;)
It seems strange that one who hates lying, is hurt by lying, finds lying to easy, innate even.
Lying is a selfish thing, a powerful thing, and I am good at it.
I lied last night and the night before. I am very selfish but it is also a survival tactic.
I would have gone crazy by now if I didn't lie about where I was going/what I was doing. I lie to survive. I lie so I can have privacy and escape the opinions of others especially my mom because she knows my achilles heel and takes a stab at it every so often. I lie to buy myself time, time to think, time to plan, time to brace myself. I lie because I want to be left alone.
Plight of an only child in a tiny house ;)
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Are you a Blanche or a Stella?
I am a senior about to leave for college and I know what I want to do with my life (what a nice feeling). I have submitted 9 college apps thus far and it has become apparent that I am going to major in English, where ever I may end up. I think I need practice in "my expression" of thoughts and blogging may end up being the best mode of expression for me as my handwriting has gone down the tubes/sheer laziness/I can facebook and listen to music at the same time. Lovely.
Right now I am working on my 10th college app (G-town) and multi-tasking on a Streetcar Named Desire paper as well. Here it is: am I a Blanche or a Stella?
There is no doubt in my mind that I am a Blanche. White Forest. My name means Water Door. My thoughts are anti-coherent but trust me there is a rhythm although the rhyme may seem convoluted to others. I have soft thoughts, I am a soft person, I need safe harbors. I am impractical, Stella makes practical sacrifices.
Last night I was at China Walls. A hidden cliffside on the outskirts of an expensive neighborhood. Here people smoke pot, drink classy beverages, catch morray eels, and surf parallel to the cliffs. Last night I sat between twin palm trees and the stars; white pinpricks, holes in the black velvet, they are mistakes in the black. Here my soft thoughts, scattered, connected by loose spider threads played out across the undulating purple-black ocean. I am a Blanche.
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