Things I'm scared of-
Falling in love,
Falling out of love,
... the jack in the box man.
Scratch that last one.
But I'm still scared.
Since I got back from the hospital,
Everything scares me...
Love scares me.
I'm with someone; yes you steven.
And yes I'm scared.
You know how I can get so down
That I can't get back up.
But you are scared too.
That I'll leave you.
You're scared of me, that I'll hurt myself.
You are scared to know my past and my mind, cause maybe...
It'll be too much for you,
My problems will become your problems.
And you'll feel just as shitty as I do...
I am a terrible human being. Shit storming, anger machine that spits hateful things in poetry.
My memory is a landfill, of abuses, and poorly remembered happier times. I struggle to find the truth behind my anger, sadness, and regret. Is it what I remember, forget, or can’t forget that has fucked me up? Her face causes the familiar rage to rise. Voice spewing lies, or what I think is lies. I spent most of my life trying to figure out how it was my fault. I am still trying to figure how it might be my fault. Hyper kid, tired and lonely mother, the formula does not mix. I cannot calculate the value of her violence minus what I did to deserve it. Did I earn it? People aren’t all bad? I can remember going to the movies a couple of times, traveling and listening to music, holidays and presents, but in the present all that is shaded. I am jaded by being locked in an unlocked room, cut off in solitary confinement, because she got busted for the violence. I remember how she had to know what I told the counselor. So I stopped telling them anything.
A smart man knows that human memory is not perfect, so I keep trying to figure out how I deserved to get hit, why I deserved to be isolated, verbally degraded. Part of it had to be my fault, cause people just don’t lash out. I struggle to find out what it was all about because I am scared. If I can’t figure out the reason, if there was no good reason, could I become her?
She grabbed her faux leather messenger bag,
threw in 3 old band t-shirts, 3 pairs of underwear,
2 bras and a couple pairs of ripped skinny jeans, her Polaroid camera to take photographs of where she goes, a book, a journal to document her thoughts, a sketch pad, a package of Marlboro Red 100's, a lighter, her iPod and some toiletries. She didn't say anything, she just out and left. No note, no warning, nothing but her mess of a room. She smiled at her room, her dream catcher, her poster-strewn walls, all of it.
And she slipped out of her window. 'Goodbye,' She thought to herself and started walking. But what she didn't know was she had
just left her life and started a brand new one. She was walking to the edge of oblivion. She was shooting herself straight off a cliff,
off of the safety under her roof, the safety of her bed, the safety of everything she left behind. All she had was that bag. 17 items. That was her life. 17 items to keep her safe, 17 items to live on for the rest of her time. For the 3 years until she was 18. Until she could show her face in public again until she could be seen. But until then, she was alone. She sparked her lighter and lit up a cigarette. All alone with her bag and a package of cigarettes. She sat down on the curb by the bus stop and began to draw. And that was that. She was lost in her mind. Her mind had run farther than she had. Because after all,
Spectral in heaven as climbs
the frail veiled moon
So climbs my dreams
So yesterday in father's exquisite garden
where crystal water's flowing, flowing
flowing from an adorned goddess fountain
and amongst lovely flowers blooming
blooming, blooming, blooming
i inquire of father, my father whom i adore
my loving father, the king of all dreams
daydreams, night dreams and fantasies
Father, from whence does dreams come?
and he explains this mysterious mystery
Of little messages from muses eluding
more than some,
dream messages so mysterious to me
And my father the king of all dreams replies,
"All dreams love, my child whom I adore
are designed from a fine misty mist
As pure as pure and as fine as fine can be
Caught betwixt dimensions of timeless time
and heaven's fine pure line of divinity,
As any fine misty mist is purer than pure
and finer than any of finest sunlight
And like sunlight slips through our grasp
yours and mine my dear you see,
such is our dreams and such is time,"
says father, "betwixt reality and infinity
Dreams of every origin and means my child
dreams of light and dreams of darkness
are spun only by mysterious dream weaver
Dreams are yours and dreams are mine
dreams are everyones"
And so contemplatively, i inquire of father,
"father, now i'm more puzzled than ever,
how does dream weaver spin so many dreams?"
And father replies, "an interesting question,
my child, and one I must ask dream weaver"
and still i am puzzled
Their souls had spoken. Rushed off into adventure fueled by mania without first breaking the ice. These talks were between new friends. Altogether anchored by deathless subjects, they deliberated naively over a shared pot of bone apple tea. The glass was broken, but this was no emergency - just heavy words minced by chattering teeth.
Hesitating only slightly, they took a death pledge. “I’m bad and it’s not worth it,” she said. “You’ll be disappointed by me too, and I’ll bet my life on it,” he returned. They chuckled sheepishly. “You’re going to miss this too”, sang the younger sibling.
Of course, their conversation was purely conjecture, subject matter the victor of a game of happenstance, mutilated in transcription, like notes copied over the shoulder from someone else’s lecture.
Still, he hoped it didn’t matter, and without hope, it didn’t matter. Perhaps this was merely thinkful wishing. “I was a single digit, a gorilla in a concrete jungle,” his words seemed to suggest. “A flightless bird makes good food for thought. Fight or flight, fight the good fight. Always choose your battles wisely, and never speak in absolutes.” she recommended.
“It’s got to be somewhere; everything’s somewhere, but, everywhere else is not here.” he wondered. She could read between the lines; and left to write. “Stop being ungrateful and just close your eyes.” She closed the door, and he opened a window. Then, like some thinly sliced avocado that didn’t quite make the cut, he fell asleep.
…the dream sequence
plays like vaudeville
in the peephole
of a kinetoscope
my drunken subconscious thoughts
undulate in murky waters
and slurin the visions of specters past
infrastructures and pylons
formed from childhood homes schools
skate parks friend’s houssand churches
faces familiar unfamiliar
mold and mend in wicked contortions
and diaphanous ambiguity
what obfuscates me from the truths
of my mind
I stumble through the chambers
haunted by childhood nightmares
and tickled by ancient fantasies
and the words
are like alphabet soup
in the director’s commentary
splashing around aimlessly mingling
in the waves of broth
what will be revealed
in this phantasmagoric phenomena
wax figures coming to life
and panoramas dancing on the walls
my body somewhere in time
waits with pen and paper in hand
eager to counter the façade
with the utmost coherence
just you wait til I wake up
and reveal all your secrets
oh wondrous mind…
every dream has a corresponding action.
You are a month of new beginnings.
You carry snow on your back and cannot
let go of the frustrating challenges you lay upon us.
You can be irritable at times but know how to
make up for the bad memories.
Your as bitter as black ice but as sweet as
the sparkling snow I mistake for sugar.
Promise me one thing, be sure to make each day
last, because soon enough you will disappear
behind another season. Behind another day.