Tuesday, December 22, 2009 11:44 PM
I've come to realize that people lie--it's not so much a conscious choice they make, but a defense mechanism to protect themselves from the truth or whatever is masquerading as such at the time. It's nothing personal, but I'll trust anyone about as far as I could throw him.
I've come to realize, upon talking to some newly-venerated elders, that art and science were once a single entity and unless I choose to complicate them and separate them myself, they can remain as such.
I've come to realize that mosquito-killing in the Mississippi Delta is less of a casual action, but more of a competitive sport to see who can kill the most and lose the least amount of blood. Other variations include the fewest/most number of hand claps before actually killing the mosquito and the most successful kill rate by throwing blunt objects (any damage to the sheet rock sets points back to zero).
I've come to realize that I'm more calm if my mind is busy. Letting my thoughts sit and stagnate is a recipe for disaster. Self-loathing, you can kiss my sweet ass. I've got shit to do.
I've come to realize that I have stronger feelings for this new boy I've found than I expected. He sneaks up on me with after-midnight poetry and backhanded compliments. I never wanted love easy or sweet. It's a cheap thrill. I hope it sticks around for a while.
Nothing makes me feel more home than paint on my jeans and skin, working long hours, and knowing that hours and hours of sweat and tears will soon turn into a finished product--mixed media, mixed emotions--that will never grow old.
I think I may start writing again.
taking twenty-nine lives in twenty-nine minutes.
Sunday, November 1, 2009 9:51 AM
After it's all said in done, there's a decision to be made about what you want to do with your life. Life, you know--the part before you die, which is rest. Sleep. Calm. Organize the chaos while you're breathing.
There's no place here for Anna Chron and her ism
's anymore. There's nothing comforting anymore, nothing "home" about reeking of other people's cigarettes and my own perfume when I wake at 1p.m. the day after a party. There's no beauty in mediocrity or lost time or failed attempts. People will tell you that trying is the important part, but all that really matters always ends up being the final project, the grade at the end.
They say it's the "process" that makes the person real, but more and more I'm finding that people, as a whole are full of bullshit as far as what they say and do.
I need to shower. My head is exploding with unspoken words. I don't know how to write anymore. I've taken to acrylic cuneiform--takes the guesswork out. You can call it "art" and no one questions it because it's beyond the realm of "figuring it out." These words, you see...people don't know what to make of them.
safe and routine.
Sunday, August 30, 2009 8:10 AM
we lived inside each other, such careless lazy lovers. it would have been nice to say i knew you then.
somewhere, someone else.
Friday, August 28, 2009 11:50 AM
nervous laughter...something witty
you have it, constantly--
that cunning edge; my rapt attention.
ice falls from the sky
my hands shake and I
paintings throw themselves from the walls
to encourage, to move us along
vibrantly, & at that point
I barely know you
from the hours spent
combing frozen rain from my hair
washing acrylics from my hands
afternoons spent fighting the cold
legs crossed, hands folded
over you, the archetype.
frigid air seeps in
around the glass doors
and you tell me that I am your
and I can't help but wonder, too
if our banter could be chilled
after good evenings and better nights came
and...well, you went and I stayed
but the distance isn't worth the miles.
Labels: boys i love and hate, disappointment
Wednesday, August 5, 2009 11:14 PM
First comes the phoenix, then the historian--I don't see much difference in the two of us, as we both transcend the actual occurence. We just appear at different times: while you're burning out, I'm stalling. I pick through the ashes once you're dead.
This time, they're waiting in the car for me as I pick through the debris of some forgotten church off the Interstate. This is my game, now, and I belong to any broken building across the state. I've been digging for two years now, been lying for the same.
This chapel has its name spray painted out, leaving only the simple announcement of "baptist church" against its white wooden sides; poison oak chokes away at the pillars and stone stairways out front. It's not as though there'd be any doubt, though--it screams Baptist, from the gaudy red-carpet guts to the two front pews that appear never to have been utilized. That's all over now, though. Nobody meets here, not on purpose. The roof has ruptured, leaving the ceiling tiles coughing out the remnants of hymns, scriptures, dead saints, and insulation--the remnants of the worship of an awesome God. The pulpit is just a podium now, commonplace with common names carved into its rotting wood. Lucky churches end up like this one, all honest and broken; all the others just let the cancers eat away at them silently until all the members have turned to dust. I shudder at my own sacrelige.
The piano is in decent shape, though its keys have been well-played and are missing the occasional ivory. I sit down to inspect it closer, resting my fingers upon the cool white tiles. They're sticky with spilled beer now and the guilty can on the bass notes is still overturned. Ants teem in and out, in and out. I strike the keys again and again, a simple hymn to anyone who may be listening.
The first real poet of the twentieth century died not long ago, but the newspapers didn't notice her... Every day I visited her sickbed, every day for a year. I watched the eloquent, beautiful belle wither away into a pallid child incapable of speech. I watched her dig her fingers into her curls, repeating the same word over and over as she rocked herself to sleep.I know it hurts. I'm sorry.
But none of my sorrow could fix it. Nothing I did could kill the pain or bring back the late nights of Jeopardy! and Wheel of Fortune on her television as we ate frozen blueberries from the previous season. There'd be no more sweet tea, no more sweet dreams after she tucked me into the spare bedroom's too-hot darkness.
I always waited until I couldn't hear her stirring in the kitchen outside that door before I kicked the blankets off and flung my young arms and legs across the sheets in a desperate attempt for coolness in the face of that Mississippi heat pounding on my window. I wanted to learn her trade, her grace and splendor; I never wanted to give in.
I never did. I was there when the morphine wore off, when they told me to say goodbye, when she died. There wasn't anything beautiful or spectacular about it--I lost someone important to me, but the pain stopped for her. They told me I was too hard, too honest, because I didn't pretend that the body that I saw before she died was the same one that held me when I cried as a child. She'd died a few months back, but everyone was too busy watching her chest rise and fall to notice. Everyone's sorry, but nobody's sorrow can fix it. It's human life, the circle. It's brutal. It hurts.
As I sit in this church, playing the piano for the ghosts and the saints and anyone else who will listen.
My feet itch from the stupid plants outside the door and my eyes sting with stupid tears.
I want to burn this place down, destroy everything beautiful I've found within it. I want someone to notice how bad things have become and how rotten to the core this place is. My heels creak against the floorboards and I stomp them out. I carve obscenities into the paint with my keys. I throw hymnals through the stained glass windows, out into the underbrush. I hope they rot like bodies and the ants find their way to them
down between the ivory slats
to eat them alive, leaving nothing but a memory of a song we used to sing on the front porch as the sun set behind the hills.
Only sleeping, sweetly sleeping,
While the angels vigil keep;
Jesus gives to His beloved
Rest at last in peaceful sleep.
Labels: ants, church, hurt, old buildings
Tuesday, July 28, 2009 11:03 PM
this is what they call sophomore slump:
writers don't write when they're happy
and singers don't sing after their lyrics come true.
we've worked so hard to get where we are
and when we're here, when we're there
there's nothing more to call home about.
once you've figured me out, that's when
this stops being fun
you're just another boy
and i'm just another girl
so we talk circles
all night long and i don't ever want to sleep...
not if there's a chance that you'll forget me
while i can't talk to defend myself.
friday. that's all i can say, repeatedly.
friday, friday, friday.
one stone building and a walk in the park.
friday, friday, won't you be mine?
from a bond-carpenter stairwell.
Saturday, July 11, 2009 10:03 AM
northeast and away
away from here, away from we
because no matter what you say
you'll always be God to me
oblivious to nails and hammers
and corruption and my furtive attempts
to pull you in
to be alluring
words pulse in your brain
paint flows through your veins
and i stitch you up with dull needles
and tangled threats
and still your whispers, sweet, echo
in my ears, through the whole of me
fly north east
and escape the cage i've made
but call to me when you get there
lay forth the path
occlude my foreshadowed eyes farther
detangle your plans
entangle your fingers within my curls
and tell me that love always finds a way
Labels: birds, flying, freeform, no punctuation, no shift key, stream of consciousness