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swatches My deviant thoughts in the classroom, daydreams, fantasies, no longer consist of hot rendezvous and sorid affairs, rather they ponder and rearrange furniture, debate style, color, and texture of fabrics for the sofa, and wonder at chandeliers. I tip-toe through a bathroom that is not now, nor possibly may never be mine, creating relaxing candlelit bubble baths and my choice of towels. My patio is a garden, my dining area a diner, my kitchen full of non-descript jars containing all those stangely shaped pastas and legumes that will never be consumed. I debate over the decision for a rug in the living room, the placement of the entertainment system, which lamp to use. How anyone has time for a life when there seems so much planning to do, is beyond me. |
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bye bye birdie If anger and hurt and rage and triumph could turn into a laser at Stone Mountain, I could have blown the head off of good ole General Bobby E. Lee, and maybe even old Stoney's nose. It was like a fine focused point of light, some power that seemed to warm up my arms and make my mouth draw tight into a perfect little rose bub. Nice little sugar smile injected with cocaine, then a pretty little stream of venom, lime green like linoleum, pointed right at your forehead. Wonder Woman in flip flops and a pink bandana. I could've been a freight train comin' your way, chuga chuga chuga toot toot!
Does Wonder Woman ever feel like purging after fighting the bad guys? Does she ever second guess her intentions? With every whip of her golden lasso, does she really feel like joining a support group for violent women? Our culture tells us we are supposed to be passive, submissive, push-over barbie dolls. I may not have a golden lasso, but sometimes domination feels like it is best left to the comic book breast women. I still got my flip flops. |
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codine and tylenol pm mixed with hash I write for who I am. I write to save my life.
What does it mean when you look in the mirror and see a monster? What does it mean when you look in the mirror and don't recognize the person there as you? My tears trace a path down the curve of my breasts and no one cares. My lips, nose, and eyes are puffy from crying. Small things shouldn't matter, but they do. Small things lead to big things. Small things tell us who we are. I am somewhere in a place I promised not to be. There is no me left in me. I am a parasite. I can not imagine that anyone could feel about me the way I feel about them. They, you, are gracious enough to tolerate me. There is no way, no possible reason, for you to feel the way I do. I forgive you for not loving me. I forgive you for forgetting me. I forgive you for taking me before I knew you. I apologize for me. The longer I stare at myself in the mirror, the more I see the things inside me come out. They have no names, no faces I could describe. There is a monster I know, a werewolf or monkey man, something hairy with beady eyes. There is a woman cloaked in black, a boy whose eyes say fear thyself, hideous creature. Know thyself, I don't. I am not who I want to be. I am not who I think I should be. I am not what you want me to be. I am not what they want me to be. I am Victor Frankenstein, I fear my progeny. I fear myself. I am the Anti-Narcissus, I loath my imagine in the pool. I will become no flower out of sympathy. I will become dust, the plaything of pall-bearers, I will cease to exist and the world will not stop for it. My mind is nothing but chemical reactions. I have no thought, no soul, no something in me which is not 6 billion other people. I am utterly like everyone else and everyone else is utterly like me. I am not a unique special butterfly. I am a worker ant whose limbs still move with my head cut off. I am not a thing of beauty who is a joy forever. I am not immortal. I am everything I have made myself out to be to this point and will be what I continue to immerse myself in. I am not you. You are only a result of my imagination. You are not real. I am not real. I am but a burst of some gaseous chemical intermixing with another. I am not a soap opera star. I am not Vanna White. I am codine and sleep deprevation. I have lost myself and don't know where I am. I love that which cannot love back. Nothing ever could really love back. It is impossible. I am phthalo blue paint, stretched a thousand miles over a white sky. That is my soul. There is sand in my chest. I can feel the grains running, grating, sanding down my arteries, trying to reach my lungs. My eyes are but hot peeled green grapes turning into raisins. My limbs don't feel like moving. I have exhausted my whole person, mind, body, soul?. I am what I make myself, and I am a monster. No one can love me. No one knows how. No one knows me because I don't know me. No one loves with the passion I love. No one cares with the tenderness I care. No one would make themselves a servant to grant your every wish but me. I would be your Mrs. Cleaver, martiniandloafersdinnerat5howwasyourdayhoney? I want adoration the right way and I don't have it. I apologize for your faults. I apologize for my skeptiscm. I apologize for everything in this world that is not and never could have been my fault. I apologize for what I have created. I'm just sorry. I will demand better. I will not bow down to okays and partials. I AM WHO I MAKE MYSELF AND I WILL NOT MAKE MYSELF YOUR FOOL. I would paint the screen phthalo blue. I would paint my whole body phthalo blue. I would be phthalo blue. What hue for you? |
A Prayer to St. Jude - Patron Saint of Lost Causes Teach me self-restraint, that I might not move too quickly in the arts of love. I have a history of abruptness and lust - the explosive matchhead that quickly burns out. Teach me to cherish the moment, not force it; to evaluate my feelings before action, to wait until that time when Fate deems it appropriate for a thing to occur. I am not Fate's sister - nor daughter to Eros - I am but a puppet who has captured its own strings and attempts to write the scene - never realizing that my actions, my attempts are the play, my liberation a folly. Teach me patience that I may know the way of things - teach my heart to give some leeway to my head. Amen. |
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