4:45 am.
who would torture a seal with fluorescent objects?
it no longer trusts anything but fish.
unless they are day-glo.
5:03 am.
it is not in the pit of stomach, like everyone paraphrases from everyone else.
fear is located within my pores, it is seeped out with my sweat and soaks through my sheets and leaves damp uncomfortable spots underneath my armpits, lower back, *** knees, and the soles of my feet.
5:26 am.
nodding implies agreement but I never allowed this!
(someone is going to lose their job for this, I swear.
this needs to go through ME for approval first.)
I just want to go to sleep.
nodding off but NOT approving my eyes to snap open again, I HEAR EVERY SOUND in my house right now.
the only people home are the creaks and cracks and apparently my creeping paranoia.
james doesn’t count, he is too far away, we are separated by a wall that doesn’t even allow the sound of a ****** to pass through, we might as well be on different planets for all of my subtle cries for help.
and what could he do?
I am naked, literally, figuratively, I am frightened of sleep and what can he do about it?
and right now,
5:41 am,
I am almost certain his face will be decomposing.
and if I wake him, will he be too groggy to put it back together before he comes to see me?
(and so we are all one-time mozarts, the very first time we fall asleep in our existence we must learn to compose our faces. we are all prodigies but we lose our creativity as time goes and we put ourselves together the same way every day for the rest of our lives. maybe if we all woke up in the middle of the night and saw that unraveled mess in the mirror, we would become geniuses again and compose a new piece.)
6:00 am.
my heart is beating like a vertical iron rod placed straight in my middle, from my throat to my crotch, stiffening me, now disappearing, now back again, and when it fades away, I fear moving, I am afraid of curling up because of the horrendous wrenching I would get when that beating heart rod returns.
6:06 am.
I think of the seal, which confuses me now as time is the greatest murderer of dream images so the fluorescent objects no longer make the sense they did when the dream was whole but the feeling I got from that dream leaves an uncomfortable sticky residue!
6:10 am.
the sun makes its presence known as a strip across my door.
if I leave and come back, and the strip is broken, I’ll know someone was in here.
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 1:09 PM UTC
I believe my muse may be a tease.
It will visit me with an idea,
but not the words to express it.
I am
FRUSTRATED.
My vocabulary
and eloquence
and articulation
have
dim-
in-
ished.
A poem will start itself;
The end product will be
WRONG.
Un-natural,
un-flowing,
un-readable,
un-me.
****
that
*******
teasing
muse.
(Although this is a poem -
and in being a poem, has created a paradox.
Nobody think about it!
If you do it will all disappear:
Poem, muse, and me.)
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 10:42 AM UTC
hot water administered directly into a teabag-filled mug.
clear first - but then, morose gray!
curious, and off-putting.
·
the world outside is gray, as looks my immediate future.
I refuse to also ingest this nothingness!
I will only blend in with the depressing surroundings when I so desperately desire to be
coloured
with
inspiration!
·
- wait -
- ah -
a swift tug on the teabag produces an instant blossoming of
cranberry crimson throughout the luridness.
this is the deeply emotional colour I want to infuse myself with.
now I see the shots of brightness throughout my bruised world.
Jul 9, 2010
Jul 9, 2010 at 12:13 PM UTC
le couloir de mal
c’est un hôpital
où la gardien de la mort
habite; il te donne,
avec un frisson,
un baiser: et tu dors.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
i don’t know what it is
you know that thing that makes my stomach -
and my throat -
and my brow -
and my breath -
and my eyes -
and my anger -
…
well whatever the hell it is
you are ******* LOUSY with it
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 9:12 PM UTC
Dear ************
This is the hateful letter. This is the one in which I tell you how much of a ******** you are and how I am so much better off without you, so thanks for leaving me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is where I tell you that you’re an idiot if you ever thought I depended on you for my self-worth, because I don’t need you for validation, and I never have. I was trucking along just fine before you came along, and will continue to do so without you, so you can go **** yourself.
This is the part where I call you a ******* for saying all those things you said. If you weren’t trying to hurt me, you must be an idiot to think that it was a good idea to say what you did. I’ll tell you that it ****** me off to realize that you obviously didn’t know me as well as I thought you did. It ****** me off that our communication was clearly not functioning like it should have been.
And I’ll tell you how ******* livid it makes me that you just sat there and thought and thought and ******* thought about this while I was still writing ******* poems for you. I am angry at how oblivious I was, which I also blame on you. I blame you for being so introspective and quiet, for needing to think important issues through in your head, only with yourself, before you can voice them, and I am angry because you thought and thought and ******* thought and made a decision that was logical from the inside of your head and you were confused by my reaction because, surprise! Owen’s-head-logic is not the same as Katie-is-being-broken-up-with-logic. And that’s where your speech faltered, where I stopped saying the lines that you wrote for me in your script, and that’s when all of those stupid words came tumbling out of your stupid head and things continued to not go as planned and it all eventually cumulated in this: zero contact. I know it’s not what you wanted but you’re a ******* If you were smarter about it, we may still have been talking, but you said all of the exact wrong things. So I am angry at you for hurting me with your idiotic words, but I am also angry at you for pushing me away. I may have liked to still be talking to you, but all of the **** that came out of your mouth just ruined whatever chance we could have had, so way to go. You are a ruiner - and so concludes the part where everything is always your fault.
This is the part where I understand where you’re coming from, I would have broken up with me too if I were you, I know it’s hard for you to put your words together sometimes, I know your (brutal) honesty only comes from a place of love, I know you love me, I know you miss being my friend…and so on.
That last section makes me sadder than I am willing to be at this point, so I think I’ll stick with anger for the time being and you can **** my nonexistent **** ************
Your Ex-Girlfriend.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Yours,
I know where you live (how many times have I walked in the door, as if I lived there myself? Opened the cupboard, filled a glass with water, asked about your roommate’s days? Kicked my shoes off nonchalantly, checked my email on your computer, spread out on your bed and read a novel while you played video games? Sat on your couch to watch television with the rest of your house, my legs draped over yours? Slept in your bed, pressed up against your body? Was woken up to satisfy a primal urge, knowing what you like? Kept the volume of my moans down, not out of embarrassment, your roommates have heard me so many times it hardly matters, but out of respect for the early hour? Made myself some toast, drank some juice from your fridge, left you sweetly sleeping to catch the bus?).
I know where you work (and when, when there is no point for me to look for you, glimpse you in your uniform, a quick kiss before class, join you on your break while you eat turkey and cranberry sauce).
I somehow find myself in these places. I look up from being lost in thought, and panic as I realize that I could run into you at any moment. Seeing you hurts me so I rush away from these danger zones - but always glancing back.
Why do I torture myself so, with the hurt comes from seeing you, thinking of you? Because one day, I know I will see you without distress. One day I may smile in recollection at the love we once had. I am tortured every day with the sight of you by the hope that finally, this day is the last you will cause me pain.
Mine.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Yours,
You have caused the salutation and signature of this letter to reverse. You belong only to yourself and I suppose it should be the same for me, but you will always hold something of mine. I am not less because of it; I have and always will have the full complement of myself. But you carry something that is me as well.
I am angry about this. Why should you have some of me to take away, like a doggie bag of our year and a half? You should be stripped of me, I want to reabsorb that piece, I want to be greedy and have all excesses of myself back.
There was something else too, something that was not just me but something that we created together, something that we shared and was more than you plus me. It has died now; you cut it in two and each half has perished of loneliness. That is what I feel like I have lost. A part of it died inside of me and compressed itself into a hard little ball that sits in my heart. Sometimes I forget it is there and then I feel its calcification against the soft parts of my body and I collapse and re-realize what it means.
Mine.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:27 PM UTC
Mine,
You are blah, blah, blah, something-or-other. Murmur murmur mumble hum, sigh.
Yours.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:24 PM UTC
Mine,
I do not enjoy missing you. I had forgotten that it hurts a little bit to miss someone; I suppose I cannot love to be with you so much without it hurting to be without you. You and me together are more than the sum of our parts. When we’re separate, we are both missing that difference, that creation.
Yours.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:23 PM UTC