Thursday, December 31, 2009

everyone is a fucking napoleon

it has been evident to me in my experience that when a person says, "i am a very..." that almost 100% of the time, whatever character trait they are saying they are, they absolutely are not.

"i'm a very non-jealous person." oh yeah? then why did you scream at me in the bar parking lot for and hour after on the way to the bathroom i stopped and asked my friend travis why he was wearing mascara?

"i'm a very trusting person." really? then why did you go through my phone and throw it in my face when i told my friend (who you dislike because you are threatened of him, for no reason whatsoever) merry christmas?

"i'm a very independent person, and i like to give people their space as well." huh. that's why you would get upset when i needed to run my errands and didn't want company just so i could have a couple hours to myself to go to the bank, buy groceries, and shit without having to make sure you weren't going to come into the bathroom right after i did it. i can't think of anything sexier than referencing the smell of fecal matter while your girl is giving you head. lovely.

"i'm a very humble person. i don't find it necessary to pitch my experiences in other's faces." riiiiight. so that's why you don't really know anything about me... because i had to sit and listen to how you were honorably discharged from the army because your parachute didn't open and how you didn't die but broke alot of bones about 17 times, or how much money your tattoo shop made in san francisco on a daily basis, what cars you had, what cars you were going to buy, how you know how to make goods out of leather, how you know how to make soap, how you interrupted me on a daily basis during me telling a story to let me know that he building on the corner of 42nd and broad was the one that you and your brother were the overseers for, and how you are pretty much better at everything than anybody who does anything, ever.

and the kicker...

"i'm a very honest person." no. you're not. no one is. i don't give a shit how mother teresa-like you are, no one is 100% honest all the time. you may try to be. you may aim for that and hit the target when you tell someone that they have food in their teeth at a public place or that you don't care for periwinkle blue as a color choice on them.

but you will eventually tell your grandmother that you love the pink crinoline party dress she made you for your 16th birthday, or had an "orgasm" to push the oral sex along cause it wasn't going anywhere, or that you really enjoyed the burgers your girl made for you even though she put way too much garlic in the meat and they were super soggy on the bun from the cream of mushroom soup she thought would give the patties more flavor.

and let's take it one step further. just because you don't tell someone something you did, that is also a lie. you may not have told me you went through my phone, but when you are trying to be a wiseguy and throw some of my actual texts back in my face verbatim it's kind of easy to know where you got them from. or when you first startetd courting me and were still talking to the 21 year old girl you had been fucking that you labeled as your "best friend" (which, by the way, is not true... it's a lie in itself that you could be best friends with a girl who is 12 years your junior), but you never really told her that you were dating me as well. two lies right there, one to me and one to her. so hows that for being honest? you just broke your own damn rule.

listen people. i don't care what you say, but none of us are honest all the time. therefore, none of us should play that card when you are looking for a reason to break up with someone. and on top of everything else, make them feel like shit for concealing the fact that a one night stand when you were drunk and lonely with a person they happen not to like even though it was before they ever even met you. it's not right. telling a good person who has been by your side and listened to all your stories about how great you are and taken you out to dinner and bought all the ingredients to make soaps for your families for christmas (grand total was somewhere around 250.00, who's the fucking idiot? me. that's who) to point blank, GO FUCK YOURSELF.

go fuck myself? go fuck MYself?

right. because you're so much better than me. because i never say shit like, "i'm a very honest person," or, "i'm a very open person." i'm not. but... i'm not any less honest or open than you, nor will you ever be better than me for everything you've accomplished. you are a great person. but you are no better than the last one before you.

because it turns out... you are all the same. we are all the same. we are all thieves in our own ways. we are all liars in our own ways. we are all assholes in our own ways, and that's what makes us amazing. it may suck to be lied to. but it's not the end of the fucking world. it shouldn't be the one thing that determines wether or not a person is good or bad. we are human. we do bad things. it's what's engrained in us; we are programmed to fuck up. and if you can't love it or at least learn to live with it, you will never be satisfied with anyone, ever.

how's the view up there, from that beautiful golden pedestal? because it looks really lonely from where i'm standing.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

the klutz

saw a ghost
of you today,
someone small and sweet,
and without doubt
you should know
i tripped
on two left feet.

the more i try and keep my thoughts at bay, the choppier the waters get. why does my mind do this to me? months will go by and i will still reel inside. something got to me, in that space between my synapses. something is haunting me, the way i wish my shadows would be on his black-patterned walls. there is nothing more i can do, because everything has been done, and said, and slung...

i'm starting this thing from the ground up, again. i have some more searching to do, as it seems the restlessness inside is rearing up again. my heart hurts and my organs shift and my brain spins every day, all while a head so full of smile bobbles around on wobbly bones and makes pretend like pretty little christmas cookies in the dimples of my cheeks.

you will never know what you lost. but then again, i'm getting the feeling that you didn't want to anyway.


Monday, December 28, 2009

prefrontal cortex says no *cough*

wipe away this dry
erase board of memories, so
you can press
reset on nyc... reset.
there, i did it for you
and your new life
filled with everything
besides me.
defriend me,
slander my position and
my character, let me be
a platform
for your pity, party
of one...
let the dust develop
and the photos fade
and walk away
like nothing
point your fingers,
but don't forget
to do it in the mirror
as well.

isn't it odd how we can just will ourselves to forget people, erase them from our minds like the delete button on the computer so gracefully erases them from our frontal lobes. i make bad decisions. i do, it's not necessarily a good thing but at least i know what i am. and right now, i am someone who has been lost in the wake of one of them.

i knew at the very beginning of this what it was that i was about to sacrifice. five years of fun times, great rapport, and laughter. five whole years, down the fucking drain. and now, because it was by my hand, i'm the one who barely has a house, albeit a clean one at that, and i'm the one that everyone looks at and shakes their heads.

"what was she thinking? how could she do that to him? is she an idiot?"

well. i may be an idiot, but at least i was the one who was honest. and that doesn't come out in any of this. i'm the one with the staff and horns. i'm the one who wears the dunce cap for what people think are "selfish intentions." i'm the one who got fucked on social networking quotations. because i was honest. because i had respect for someone who has not shown so much for me in the afterbirth.

maybe i'm being bitter. but i'm also fucking couch surfing and giving all of my money away and cleaning and doing laundry and making sure that he realizes there was a friendship that i respected enough to try and make lives better. in twenty years if i had continued down this same road would it have been so kind?

i think not. i think the one-sidedness of the situation would be roman candles exploding like spiders across the night sky. and not in the good way, kerouac. i'm not angry you don't want to be my friend anymore. i'm angry you have managed to cheapen everything i have tried to save, however miniscule i can show it. i may have been the hand that held the axe. unfortunately, my head is the one rolling on the ground right now.

boo hoo, me. at least i was never a victim. life was before this, and life will continue after. and if i died tomorrow, it would be a shame that all my pictures have been deleted from any point of return. chew on that. you can keep the pity.


Saturday, December 26, 2009

dirty laundry

Laundromats may just be one of the most interesting places in the world. The universe, even. Fuck that.

The galaxy. I'm feeling adventurous today.

Not only is fabric softener one of my most favorite smells in the world, this is an excellent excuse to watch people in a habitat that says a lot about their personality. The clothes they wash are a reflection of who they are of course; the gangsta in the corner folding out ninety of his best do rags and waiting for his rocawear puffy fur lined jacket to be released from the royalty wash of clothes, the dry cleaner; the hipster girl separating her black plaid button downs from her red ones; the mexican mothers folding mountains of clothing (literally... they are taking up two folding benches and they are still waiting for their other dryers to be done) and letting their children eat candy and swordfight in the aisles of washing machine glory...

I have been washing and drying for a long time, it seems. The last time I had a washer/dryer set was the first apartment in buckhead, near six years ago now. The one I had in boston didn't count, as I figure the point of naming something is if it lives up to that name. Just as a slut should have previously slept with several of your or your friends boyfriends, a dryer should actually dry the material within its boxed-up stature. I did, however, figure out how to get quarters for free from it, which I promptly used at the coin-op down the road. It was a good means to an end.

The convienience of having the pair is amazing. You rarely ever have to break out the febreeze just so people don't think you live next to a landfill nor do you really have to spot clean a pair of pants to try and release the two-week spaghetti sauce stain that you swore you were going to take care of the next day. It's literally a wash and go deal when its right there.

But the laundromat. That's a welcome inconvienience to me.

Yes, it can be expensive, and of course, time consuming. But it does lend you a couple hours to yourself, and let's you dive into that book you've wanted to finish or, in my case, be the girl who watches you as you gingerly fold your hanes so there are no wrinkles to grace your ass. Among the many things I've seen inside:

-several parents beating their children (although I think the cocktail of twizzlers, gummi bears, and four orange sodas had something to do with the catalyst and really, its not the kids fault)
-a breakup over the phone
-a breakup over the phone and the girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "I may have hooked up with him but at least you never had to clean the fucking skid marks off my underwear you piece of shit!"
-someone trying to clean bloodstains out of a bedsheet and eventually throwing it away. I don't even want to know anything about that one.
-a couple get engaged (technically it was outside of the actual place on a restaurant patio, but still)
-someone watching porn on their phone (mobile porn: masturbation of the future?)

So I've seen quite a bit, here, in this fishbowl of downy goodness. But definitely not as much as the laundry ladies, who wash and dry complete random stranger's clothing every day. Wash, dry, repeat. Wash, dry, repeat. I even fell culprit to this convienience. No matter if you love the fresh-smelling people watching atmosphere, we all have to go to work at some point, and new york city keeps you busy. So I dropped my clothes off to 'mia' or 'selena' (if those are their real names) and went about my busy day.

I didn't realize that this is a very odd practice until recently. I don't know if we understand how personal our clothing is. We wear it every day, this colorized sheild to the world. It can be a defense or an enticement, and we make that decision based on our feelings that moment. It is a tangible manifestation of our emotions, or more significantly, who we are. These women look into our lives, and we hand it over willingly. Its a bounty prostitution ring and the fuzzy little bear is our pimp.

These women know our styles. Metalhead. Businessman. Professor. Thug. Ballerina. Hipster. Housewife. None of us the same but with patterns of our lifestyles evident in all cycles of cold or hot wash. These women know if your businessman husband wears briefs and that he likes to fuck you in crotchless panties. These women know if you have bullet shells or paintbrushes in you pockets, if you wear magnum XL's or trojan 'just your size' condoms, or if you accidently sharted yourself laughing when you watched it's always sunny in philadelphia last Thursday. It's quite amazing, really. They will probably know more about you after doing your laundry than a friend will know before you die.

Maybe we should be more careful with our personal lives. Protect the sheilds that protect us on an everyday basis. It's not bad for me because I don't mind keeping to myself, no matter if it's at a laundromat, bar, or washing my own panties. Id like to kow my armour is keeping my secrets safe with me.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

the ice, it has a color, and its name is pelagically pretty

Oh, it may be a small this, but oh, how it makes my head reel with smile.

Alone, heading towards another hallmark holiday, but I'm giving thanks for the hands that still grasp on to me, helping me over the icy patches.

Thank you, to the blue bluer than any blue I have ever seen.


Monday, December 21, 2009

turpentine chaser

days go stronger,
this length, it gets
longer, but
my spine stands
straighter and this head,
screwed on tighter
my temples hurt less
by a vice loosening
by these warm nights
whipped by wind,
burned by snow and skin
fingerprints fade from cheeks
blushed by thoughts
from foreign palms,
brushing away
ice from eyelashes
like the dust on all
corners of life,
settled in after shaking
voices quieted and
the flecks of paint chip
and my walls warp with
these questions,
but the silence lends
rest to a saturated brain,
and for that, thanks
are abound... cause my
hands are heavy, laden
in lead jackets,
protecting my bones
from the frostbite
of your biting knife.
a fever-seed, this
newfound light, it's
growing stronger with
every missed smile
and forgotten glance.
tomorrow's a new day,
and once again,
everything's going to be okay.

once things got quiet again, they should've just stayed that way. even now, after everything that has happened to me and even the things i have implemented myself... i still have faith in people. shit. i even still have faith in myself. it may be small, but it's strong, and it's a fighter.

it would have to be considered so. for me to be rocked this hard so many times... and get up from the kicks. i've been kicked everywhere...

the ass: coming to new york
the head: losing a friendship over a relationship
the gut: listening to a pretty mess of words
the chest: my father's cancer
the ankles: jack daniels (that one's a combo of my destructive habits and stilettos)

and that's just the first few. there's even a couple repeats. probably more than there should be for someone who's traveled as much as i have. but. regardless. it's been a wild ride.

i guess i'll never know how things will turn out. the cuts and bruises of my everyday life will eventually not mean as much once the skin has healed. i don't even scar that bad in most cases. maybe that's why i forget and give people the chances they probably don't deserve. but then again... can't that be classified as faith? running on a hunch... believing even when you've been knocked down and drenched in sorrow?

no matter the final outcome, no matter how severe the burn can feel. i will always have faith in others. and it will either pay off, or wind up killing me. but since i know death is inevitable, i may as well hope for it to pay off. it's better than taking a grudge to my grave.


Friday, December 18, 2009

the fame monster

bah hahahaha check it... i'm in the new york times for... LARRY THE CABLE GUY?!?!?!

and yes, it's cause i googled myself. i'm an asshole. :)


the keyboard has been drinking

i'm done.
i'm done, cause my
head hurts from the
jack and bitterness,
from the questions,
and from the
unrequited handshake.
i have to be done
with you
because if i don't
it's curtains for me
and my poor little
brain, don't you see...
don't you see...
i'm sure you are rooting
for this, silently.
this humor is eluding
me, and my
stupid drunken letters,
i'm a regular
tom waits over here
with a drunken piano
and a full head
it's done like thanksgiving
and my birthday
and you.


Thursday, December 17, 2009

let it flow, let it flow, let it flow


We didn't think anything about the effect, just the cause, and now I'm lodged in between what's good and what's right; but who knows what's right, anyway... did someone hold out on the rule book so that everyone else would look bad, so that they could look better than all the rest- what a dick, it's not fair- whatever, rules were never for me anyway and I know that... I don't ever want to look back and say that I did what was in accordance with fcc regulations; a censored life could be nothing I could ever attempt, seeing as I have hard enough time putting the muzzle on in social situations and family gatherings- btw I'm never telling THAT joke again at the next familial function- but I digress, again... the cause and effect (or affect, however you want to see it), it truly was never deciphered; words can murder like knives or a syringe full of air, or maybe even a sexual esphixiation gone two seconds too long too wrong... be careful what you say just the same as what you wish for... both can murder the mind and eat away at the psyche; as long as you have a haven, you can get away... but in saying that, I didn't have a safe spot for the last couple months, until about a week ago, until that cobalt blue washed over me, walked through the swinging doors, and pushed everything else away; all this negative, all this bad that has been eating my psyche as a snack over the last two months- by the way, it said I was so delicious it came back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths... I guess I can be like a good book to some, but to others as difficult as trying to finish even cowgirls get the blues by tom robbins (dig, dig); tom robbins is difficult to get through but so rewarding and life changing in the end and if I'm anything like his lyrical prose then I have come a long way, for those who can't finish it, I guess it's their loss on life, right?

Right. The horizon is starting to look a lot clearer, drenched in this blue. My run on is done. My restoration and replacation (not replication; as in, replace... that's right, I verbed it, fuck off) has already begun. The choreography is being created everyday and soon, people will know how run-ons can be great for an ailing mind.

Here's to a good day, and many more to come.


Wednesday, December 16, 2009

my alchemy

a mix of everything, an elixir of life.
some days i wish i could be a park ave shallow pool genetically blessed princess.
just so i wouldn't have to think so much.

but then i think, nah.
i could never be comfortable in that cocktail.
i guess i'll have to take the insanity
and shake the dust off life.

picasso had never sounded so pretty until it was in reference to me.
but then again, i guess nothing ever does, hm?

life before vs. life after... the outcome?
it always goes on.


Friday, December 11, 2009

blowing out candles

i feel a little better.
i feel a little stronger.
i feel a little sadder, though,
the days are growing longer.
i feel a touch nostalgic.
i feel this calm wash over.
i feel a little crazy, still...
i feel a little colder.
i feel a little brasher.
i feel a little closer.
i feel a thicker heartbeat, which
will soon be one year older.
i feel like breaking walls.
i feel like breaking down.
i feel like i should yell and scream
so you can hear the sound,
of everything you gave me,
and how words can be a killer,
and see how much i want to hold
this bloody, beaten thriller;
it's the story of a cowboy
of a man who should know better,
the basket of our dovetail dive
in a desert of disaster.

its my birthday. irony is one of my favorite things of all time. i love it... how else can you take it but with a smile, which is another one of my favorite things...

“A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.”
-Jessamyn West

so the irony today, you see, is that for the last four or five years, i have kept to myself on my birthday. well, kept it for myself, at least. i was actually performing last year with the dames but i didn't tell anyone it was "my special day" so it doesn't count. the years before that were spent with my cats and an ex-boyfriend and two bottles of red wine and a movie. i don't really care about birthdays. i get sad just knowing i'm past my quarter-life crisis and heading up to my mid-life one. that sucks.

so here i am, on my birthday, with a beautiful party dress i bought in orlando on black friday to wear on the first birthday i really wanted to go out on; the first one that, leading up to it, approached with excitement and happiness. i have a dress and a hat and shiny new stilettos, and i was going to walk in the park with a flask and there would be hand holding and possibly ice skating and champagne sunsets and birthday awesomeness... and, now, with whom will i be spending my birthday?

with me. alone, in a party dress, at the cabaret. how's that for an ironical situation? well, i guess it is ME. i don't know what it is about me that magnetizes these things, but shit, these lessons get overwhelming at times. how could they not? it's like they're being catapulted in my direction from all angles of life. LEFT FIELD! no, no... GO LONG GO LONG! wait - SHORTSTOP! WHO'S ON THIRD BASE???

and i'm watching this game of baseball from the dugout with a cast on my broken arm. which, ironically, did happen... when i was eleven.

but it's alright. i was never really all that good at baseball, anyway. i guess my preference for cigarettes, alcohol, and not getting sweaty unless it involves ballet or a naked man surpasses that of a penchant for organized sports. and i like that better anyway, which is NOT ironical at all because i'm okay by myself. i always have been, and i always will be. i don't need another person to tell me i'm pretty in my badass party dress. i've known it all along. it's why i bought the damn thing.


raise your rose colored glasses

fleeting, so
quick it was
the definition of
instant, like
oatmeal or a
seizure or a bus
smashing you on
a random tuesday
quick decision, now
locking the numbers
on the phone,
everything so
nothing can replace
what once existed
so gilded and golden
i will not budge
not an inch, not
a day, just
rot away
in these pretty, fake,
wobbly walls
they will get stronger,
again, they will get
better with age
i will build
build until the
sun sets and casts
shadow puppets under
my lids
i don't know how
to do anything
gracefully, except
dance in this dark
and wish for colder
and hopefully the hands
on the clock
will push me through
please, i want
them to.


Thursday, December 10, 2009

get 'er gone, 'lil dogie

i saw a little
black boy, last night with
hair like yours,
with curls
and this, angelic this,
a sheen that trumps
any candle by
he came out of
left field, and
slipped the rug
out under my feet.
his black curls that
built a bridge
over his scalp and
this fire in his
dark almond eyes
were enough to paint
a negative of you,
enough to remind me
of the regret
of the loss of your feelings,
not mine...
and all that, filled
on top with holiday
cheer and a bottle
of pinot noir and
twinkling lights and
hearts, aglow with fire
from somewhere i never
knew existed... all
my beautiful words,
wasted on the wine
and burned by that
non-existent fire. oh.
i see it clearly, and
for the first time in my life,
all i want to do is
take out my contacts
so the blur can get
in the way.
but i guess the
does that enough already.

my bones still hurt, from something beyond the beyond. inside the inside. damage was done with a text message and now my ribs will crack one at a time, breaking the cage that has been built up so strong. what a shame. and a shame that i let myself believe. i know that i have that stupid emo bullshit tone in alot of my writing. but there's a reason for it, and this could definitely be considered why. maybe if people would just lay off and leave me and my stupid wobbly walls alone i could get some sleep and be a happy writer. but the bulimia would eventually set in again and i guess i would create the emotions on my own.

i am an angry, sad motherfucker. and i don't think it's a bad thing. i find happiness in sarcasm, and fleeting smiles before the storm. it's enough to put gas in my tank and bullets in my gun. hell, it's enough to get me through 27 to 28. and if i do that, maybe... maybe i'll get another chance.

but probably not. :) see? i can make myself smile. it just depends on which way the frown is being loooked at, right?


Tuesday, December 8, 2009

here's an irish prayer for you

affirmation is the shitty thing about realization... and confirmation. and degradation. that "god grant me serentity" shit? go fuck yourself. i need to grow a sac and stop feeling guilty for shit that's not my fault. IT'S NOT MY FAULT. it's not my fault.

the more i say it, the less i believe it, and here i am again, feeling like the fool i made myself out to be.


Friday, December 4, 2009

boom boom

last night i had a swanky charity event, which i was invited to by a designer that "loves my style." though i hardly think a hanes his way wife beater, black jeans, and rattled old white boots constitutes a new york minute, i do have to agree with her. i make a plain white tank top i bought in a pack of three scream sex. i digress. the event was at a little place on bowery on the lower east side, and filled with industry specialists from designers to models to wonderful gay men who want me to be their arm candy at fashion week. D. and i had a blast, starting with vodka on the rocks and moving on to the free 2 buck chuck wine, laughing at the models sucking in their bellies and cheeks, posing for the paps, and eventually getting drunk on the christmas lights that from far away, almost look like the glowing city windows from a high rise in midtown.

after i dropped D. off to get her bags at my house i caught a cab to meatpacking and met up with my old friend steve, who reps makers mark and loves going to the sexiest clubs for free. i mean, who doesn't, right? evidently the answer to that question... is me.

we went all the way up in this glorious silver bullet elevator that had no buttons, to the top floor of the standard hotel, eminently dubbed the "boom boom" i guess. i basically only look at out the doors of my bar to the standard because there's no reason for me to ever actually go in there, hoping to get a glimpse of lovers caught in the heat of the moment, the windows foggy from lust and breath and whatever else the smoke and mirrors brings to them... it's not a place where i would go to drink or sleep or work. definitely not work. cause the bitches in there need to eat a cookie and they scream desperation with their "i'm an up and coming model" glances over their obviously fake and very forced eyelashes. please. i might never have been slender enough to be a working runway and fashion model but i most likely will have had more print work than any of them in this lifetime without ever sucking a dick to get there. there were beautiful girls and well dressed men and money and glitter and a balcony to smoke on as i drank my twenty-five dollar a glass of perrier floret champagne....

and all i wanted to do as i looked out on the beauty of the twinkling city in all it's chilly glory and christmas light hoax buildings, was to be drinking 40s and eating grays papaya dogs, smiling at the people who don't get it. i like nice things. but i like good company more, and last night, i got hit hard. down for the count, regret-the-loss-of-a-feeling low. i always thought that those pretty things were the things i wanted, all shiny and new and crisp and clean. nice things are wonderful things to have. but the catch?

they really mean nothing if the meaning behind them is gone. finding something intangible that you love and cherish will fill the void that we replace with all those new things. and since especially right now, in the wake of losing that, those shiny new pretty lies are so transparent, like looking at fish through the bowl. things aren't fun when you are sitting in the middle of everything and wishing you were anywhere but there. the golden glow of the bar and the laughter all around me wasn't enough to make me smile, or feel as glamorous as all the rest of the sheep in there looked. in fact, it all made me feel... corroded. battery acid covering my insides.

so i finished my glass of champagne, kissed a bewildered steve goodbye (he could not for the life of him comprehend why anybody would ever want to leave his presence, which is why i love him and can't stand him all the same), and went to my dusty bar that was a speck of nothing on the golden room's radar. i drank pbr's until i forgot the feeling of the corrosion on my brain and took shots of jack like a fucking sniper picking off the good guys in a matt damon spy flick. i watched the girls clog on the bar and hugged my burly security guys, smoked cigarettes on the bench outside, not even glancing back at the golden high rise i had just come from.

i took a cab home, and woke up this morning, in my wife beater, jeans, and belt. which, by the way, i do not suggest belts are a good accessory to sleep in. the buckle is a little much, i think. especially when the floor pushes it into your hipbone. not pleasant. i've been writing and stretching and thinking all morning, took a break to watch dogma, and i have two more eyepatches to make before i go in and play the role at work tonight.

the problem with wanting to learn about everything is that you have to experience the bad right alongside the good to find out just how valuable the good is. and now, the bad is making me hate ever tasting the good. le sigh. one day, when i'm an eyepatch millionaire, maybe i'll buy that bar in the standard and serve 40s and hot dogs wrapped in bacon. and the people who come in will be more beautiful than anyone could ever see.


Thursday, December 3, 2009

three little hot dogs

three little hot dogs sitting in a pan,
one got hot and it went BAM
two little hot dogs sitting in a pan,
one got hot and it went BAM
one lonely hot dog sitting in a pan
it got hot and it went BAM

when my cousin jackie was little we would play this game, her sitting on my lap as i bounced her up and down, and when the BAM part came around i would open my knees and she would almost fall through to the floor, if i hadn't been holding her hands. she would laugh hysterically, and after the last hot dog exploded she would squeal, "again! again! again!"

after she died, i would have nightmares about this, waking in cold sweats in the middle of the night, because on the last hot dog, i would drop her and she would disappear through my legs, to somewhere i couldn't touch, somewhere i couldn't see, and it was all my fault. i know these were just dreams. just lucid fears, from somewhere in my brain wanting to think if i would have been there at her death, i could have saved her. i could have found a way to resuscitate her from the liquid in her lungs. if i would have been there then, maybe she would be here now.

no. i know this isn't true. things are the way things are. if someone is going to die, it is their time, and i have no bearing on the situation. i just wish, one time in my life, that i was that person. that i was the person that holds that difference.

but that's just my problem. i wish too much. maybe i just think too much. my head hurts, and it's not even 930 in the morning. here's to another long day with myself.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

being bulletproof hurts more

i'm dizzy with everything,
today, lost
in footsteps resounding
through tunnels and
on top of pavement;
nooses around necks, give
way to hands that
are so full of habit
they've stopped trying
to stop
a long time before
i was ever known...
push everything
so that feelings
cease to feel, so that
the noise is
mute and the movement
is moot;
burn my tongue
with your mouth full
of matches, let your
water extinguish my
fire, so that
heads can walk
so full of smile, but
it's so empty, and
so fake. i'm faking
this silence and
giving you gifts,
ribs cracking and
heads bobbing and
feet walking and
for what...?
for this?
fuck this, i hate
this. this
de-collision of
worlds, this sweeping
up shards, this
shiny plastic-wrap silence.
i don't even know
how this

karma - you win. i give up. i'll be in the studio, i'll be walking, i'll be anywhere but where this is.



this chick is my new theme for my life. so, so lovely.


fighting proper

when i was seven years old, i had an unfortunate accident which involved a hill, a scooter, and a large brick mailbox. this is probably the first good sign (a red flag, if i may) for me not to want to ever buy a motorcycle, but there is this beautiful vintage yamaha with red and black detail my friend had which inspired me to own one too. maybe it's just my dream to be able to take the helmet off and shake my hair out. or maybe it's because it's up there with being an assassin slash spy... fucking badass.

so anyway, i took the hill at top speeds, eyes watering with wind and fear and the understanding that at the speed i was going, the scooter was either going to slide out underneath me if i turned the handlebars and jack my body up in the air like a ragdoll before shattering on the pavement... or was going to keep on the straight and narrow, not turn the handlebars but go straight for the mailbox and hope to somehow gingerly fly by it into the neighbors rose bushes. i opted for the latter, but narrowly missed the rosebushes because my body had smashed directly into the brick heathen, as my scooter went on to the brambles.

it was one of those times that everything is happening so fast around you, and your heart is dancing the night away with adrenaline, and you are aware that you have about 3.4 seconds before you are going to make it out unscathed or epically fail...

but life holds it's frames in slow motion, and your thoughts are clear and poignant and articulated. you see everything in this soft, underwater world where gravity doesn't really exist and at that one moment, you know that anything could happen. anything. beauty, breakdown, soaring, or diving... all of the contradictions are complete and you feel, well, unreal. drowning in lucidity, reeling with unknown.

i hit the mailbox, yes. smashed into it and hugged it and knocked myself out. i flew full force into that thing, the same way i do everything else in life. looking back writing this, it was my first memorable venture into what i realize now... calculation is just not for me. maybe if i would have planned out the turn before the big hill, i wouldn't have generated that much speed. it would have been rational, and calm, and i would have all the ability in the world to avoid the blood-pumping adrenaline junkie high right before the crash.

fuck it. i don't care anymore. i guess i didn't care then, either. fuck calculating and planning and freaking out. so many people make decisions based on someone else. take than hairpin turn. be the scooter speedracer and laugh into the wind. you feel it. you know it. so why don't you just go with it and let things take you away? i would crash into a mailbox seventeen times over if it meant i didn't have one more day of someone telling me i'm not planning for the crash correctly. and i don't give a shit what those airline attendants say, the tray tables being in a locked and upright position will have nothing to do with my safety as we plummet thirty-five thousand miles to our 'final destination.' we are going to die, motherfuckers. let me lay my god-damned head on the fucking tray table. fuck.

in the end, i want to know i did it my way, no doubts. i want to sinatra that shit, bitches.

hope alls well. but is open for business.