blowing bubbles

it's a small this,
a sprouting seed
inside my bubble world
floats, cuts through
the sky radiant
with trails of iridescence,
ribbons running
behind my head
into the clouds,
high as hell,
looking down on
red shingled rooftops
and chimneys burning with
winter,
the snow falling all around
my bubble,
almost imaginary
i concede just as well
to ride it out, glide
until my steel-soap walls
burst in
anticipation
and a fall, fall,
fall back into
reality.

k.

opinions are like assholes...

i just read something so incredulous i almost couldn't laugh. i did, but it was the fact that i almost could not that made me angry, because i'm pretty sure the author of these words believes them.

this is coming from a young girl, not even yet out of her teens, or college, or who has transpired into adulthood. she has never lived anywhere in the world besides a rural north georgia and although she is sweet, she could also be classified that way because of her innate and untouched naivete. this is not the first time she has written something like this, but it is the first time i almost dropped my tea after reading it myself; and i am not someone who is extracurricularly political. in fact, in the past i have tended to keep my mouth shut during political temperence because as good as i am at feigning intellect, the game of politics has never failed to disclose openly my stupidity on the subject.

with that being said, i will move on to this. one of the reasons this country is so wonderful is because we all have the right to voice our opinion. as stupid or brilliant or moving or whatever they may be, we all retain the right of free speech. much like my blog of rambling desires, repetitive jousts on love and being hurt, and my sycophantical poetry, everyone has the right to a stupid opinion. this one, however, was such a ludicrous suggestion, a blatant piece of shit opinion, that i felt i must do a small psa about it.

"Have you ever thoug​ht you could​ do a bette​r job at being​ presi​dent?​​
well,​ i doubt​ it
i could​ proba​bly do a bette​r job than obama​ thoug​h"

that happened. a nineteen year old from north georgia who also wrote this a couple lines before that - Are you liste​ning to music​ right​ now? yea, my favor​ite song from hocus​ pocus​ =] - thinks she can do a better job than a man who was born into a multiracial family and who has been lobbying in washington for the length of her less than significant life. a girl who states her favorite song is from a movie about witches and the paranormal (as well as ending the sentence in a smiley face) believes herself to be a fit candidate to govern the united states of america domestically AND globally? really?

really.

i have no problems if you want mc cain/ palin to win. i will think you're a moron, and possibly argue that a man who allowed his vice presidential candidate to be dressed and made over in 150,000 dollars of the taxpayers money during staunch economic crises should not really be the best choice to govern our treasury... but you're entitled to it the same way i'm entitled to think barak obama is a good and decent man, who genuinely wants to save america from it's unending corruption in washington, who prides himself on honesty and loyalty and a good sense of being a man and not a pussy. but hey, the republican party has sexy sarah, a woman who drinks beers and shoots large animals and winks at you when she talks (excessively at that, i wonder if she's been checked for parkinsons yet)... what more could you want from a vp? no, the young'n is probably right. we should probably just surpass the two candidates on target for the presidency and elect her, a self-proclaimed "doormat", who's family all lives in georgia, who probably knows less of politics than i do (which is not a great place to be making assumptions such as the one she made)... she is definitely the one for the job.

listen people... i don't give a shit if you like certain things that i think are horrid. like black licorice, or anal sex. but really... i stand so firmly by this... please think before you make assumptions that are so absurd, so blatantly farcical they could never be brought to fruition. especially when you are announcing it to all the world on public display. it just makes you look immature and slightly thick... not that it doesn't parallel the image you have already created for yourself. i mean, who wouldn't trust a woman who loves bette midler's classic performance as 'winifred sanderson', a lightheaded but snappy witch who loves to sing... that screams "lead me!!! lead me into domestic prosperity and economic security, oh wise one... show me moral capacity and homeland aegis in one clean sweep...

and please, shut your fukking mouth.

k.

to my grandmother, with love

in and
out
of dreams, last night,
thinking of you
and your skin
like weathered
watercolor paper, how
it so much
sounded like your voice,
frail, worn, and thin;
i could hear
how you smiled
at my happiness, but
with tears
rising from your throat,
through your eyes...
we don't have much
time
you told me last night,
lucidity seeping
from my skin,
as you lifted your shirt
to show me
where the strawberry patch
of scar tissue formed
over the wires
whitecoats inserted
to beat your weak heart.
and my hand to
your chest, you
looked at me
with tired eyes
and said you loved me,
that you always had,
no matter what
color my hair
or steel in my face,
and it was done,
you in your mountains
and me in a darkened,
frigid hotel room,
miles apart but
closer than ever.


i never knew my grandparents until about two years ago. they were always around but what i thought, in my selfishness, as generic. you know, the grandmother that bakes cookies and makes clothing, the grandfather that retired from war so long ago. it wasn't until i broke from my path of classicality that i understood they had loved me all along, that they were, in fact, some of my biggest fans.

my grandmother went in to the hospital four weeks ago because her pulse dropped to around 40 beats resting, and she was barely strong enough to walk to the kitchen from the living room, a mere 10 feet. we had talked earlier that day, and she had sounded so happy, so full of life. it never occurred to me she was faking, the same way i had before i let them know who i really was. what pretty pictures we paint, with colors crayola has never heard of.

i waited until she was strong enough to talk, which happened to be yesterday. i told her about the drive from cleveland to maryland, how the hills of virginia and pennsylvania looked like a beautiful painting with the colors of fall. and when she said goodbye, i could hear her voice swell with emotion as she said she was happy for me, that i was able to see all of the things that my grandfather and her have experienced three times over in my lifetime. her smile was pushed through her tears, and i could hear her pacemaker fuzzing through her chest into the phone. and when all was said and done and she said goodbye, i could do nothing but cry, because of how long i have waited to get to know her, and how soon it all may end.

love appears to us in different ways. i never thought my grandparents understood me and what i wanted to do with my life and my art, until i had nothing to show for myself but who i was. they stood by me when i was stripped of everything, even my immediate family. and still they have been the ones that seem most interested in what i do and who i am. they remind me that i will forever be a part of them, as they have always been a part of me. my dreams last night scared me, pushed me to a truth that i don't want to recognize... this life is frail and fragile, much like the love we find inside it.

value that, above anything else, because when we go, we're gone. there are no more chances to understand firsthand what shaped you before you were lurched into existence.

k.

a tribute to grey

i listen to the lyrics and dwell underneath them... grey. in love with everything grey, in love with everything my own way... 'i smoke and i drink and every time i blink i have a tiny dream... but as bad as i am i'm proud of the fact i'm worse than i seem...' it's a ittle flash, a little paparazzi bulb going off in my head, this painful reminder of who i really am compared to who i want to be, but she cleans up real nice; she never looks a mess and talks like she knows what she's doing. i have more than i thought i would but crave the taste on my tongue as if it were foreign and not inside my palms, and everyday this little pink heart sinks further inside it's cage, feathers wilting, bags under it's eyes... and ticking on like a bomb inside my head, this metronome to my sanity like the turn of the grey tides, my mind is caught and set free, fraying neurons left and right, short circuiting, like water on a socket, those flashes, short bright short bright headaches! oh, grey headaches... you are not enough, too much sometimes; and back and forth the badminton goes...
i'm sick of you but i can't get enough in my veins. running grey.
why me?
why this now?
why this way?
walking walking. always wandering. meandering, hah. will a kept key be returned, to me? stumble up on it, between my toes? hm, silly girl... definition of insanity doing it the same way over and over and expecting different results ... sweep in, sweep out and wash grey over me, wash me off the shore, grey in, grey out... in, out...

le sigh.

k.

polarity

there's something
about these towns, a spark
lit small
on the avenues,
dressed up
in a bigger city's
clothing...
i walk knowing
nothing, but,
familiarity
is webbed
all around,
vague wisps hang
in the air
suspended,
like lava in it's lamp;
each city i despise
on my way in,
and wave goodbye
on the outs,
exchanging smiles
like secrets between
old friends...
peripheral rolls by,
faster as we go,
the velvet ropes
like licorice
swaying and swirling
the edges
of this lucid
five day happy hour.

k.

re-evolution

these are my first year contemporary students. they may not be as clean as the older girls but they are certainly just as beautiful and heartfelt. enjoy.

k.