the cuff

ugh your genius bores me
i thought
sent-i-ment
may be the ghosts behind your bones
but it turns out
that livid feeling
is the bones behind your ghost
you talk pretty things,
things
that people sew into corsets
and other fancy
and glamorous things
that people want;
but i saw the sad in your eyes
and i know the
pedestal all too well...
it's lonely.
step down and swallow
it
before you turn into
something somebody forgets.

~k.

reprise

i'm too cliche to write, today.

everything i've typed and erased is forced. my head is swimming with too much to figure out what advice i need to give myself, so i'm just not going to give any.

the show will get finished.
i'll make it to work on time.
my grandfather will die.
i will go home for thanksgiving, too.
christmas will come and i'll get that sad cold in my bones.
i'll stilt for a parade or two.
next year will be here tomorrow.
and so on.
and so on.

no advice. just stick to the schedule and life will happen as it should, i guess.

~k.

queen of hearts

i.
can't.
wait.

but i have to, so i will.

but, universe, know this:

I DON'T WANT TO.

that is all.

~k.

riddles

give me things i can't see; give me the words in between the lines. give me this, give me that, give me the dashed sentences in between "see jane run"... i don't have a good frame to work on, it's clumsy and it's frail, i would think it's more of a whisper or a web, than let it be a frame. after all this time and after all this life you would think that i would know...

eh. i don't.

my frame has grown weak with winds, and words just fester, swell.

~k.

danny boy

i went to get a drink last night at a bar down the road from my apartment, just to sit quietly and let the long day of work and a stilt gig melt away...

no such luck.

as soon as i sat down, i got accosted by a drunk, foul mouthed dude in a dirty black polo shirt. he was rude and obnoxious, slurring to the bartender if they had any beer that was "kind of like blue moon, like you know, the one that's served with an orange?"

upon coming back from the bartender's suggestion that he look at the list on the wall behind the bar, and as said bartender was so graciously bestowing my whiskey-wine punch, he said to me, "well, i'm not going to buy you a drink, anyway, you never even told me your name. it's not being cheap, it's being fru- fru- frugal...", in between hiccuping what appeared to be beer bubbles that were just foul. just fucking awful.

it took seven minutes of him trying to have a conversation with me before i excused myself to go have a cigarette. seven minutes of inane gin-babble about how he quit his job and how he had been drinking all day and about how the neighborhood is nice but it's filled with too many "guineas" (which, i didn't know this but, it's okay for him to say because he's irish and the irish are allowed to say slurs like that to the italians cause they're enemies and everyone knows that)...

i had half a mind to kill myself while i was outside so i wouldn't have to walk back in from the silence of a cigarette break and hear his stupid, sloshy voice again.

i don't understand why people just can't leave me alone when i sit by myself at a bar. i have no desire to talk to you... and just cause i'm alone doesn't mean i have no friends... it means i probably just don't want to be around anyone at all, in general. otherwise, i would probably be around someone and not sitting by myself at a fucking bar.

it's not flattering to think that out of anyone at that bar that drunk, googly-eyed little irish man could have chosen to talk to, he looked at me and said, "now there's someone who i will have things in common with."

gross. i can't bring me anywhere. it leads to nothing i want. all the time.

~k.

cold war

"now hang me up to dry
you wrung me out
too too too many times
now hang me up to dry
I'm pearly like the whites
the whites of your eyes"

bone on bone
sounds like paint 
chipping off the side
of a house.
if i could wring
the you
out of me, we'd
be all set, then.


~k

the great lawn

ah, the damp underbelly
of fall, yellow leaves
sighing their way to the
cold
wet
concrete, somewhere
deep in central park.
three falls round
and i'm still here, still
beating, in this
tiny apartment slash town
and, from what i can tell
it's impossible just
to slow down, just
for a minute or two.
the sunsets and
walks and
smiles and
lovers and
dancing and
whiskey and
painting and
waiting have all been
the cold
wet
concrete
under my feet, these
three falls round,
one foot in front
of the other, in front
of the other.
central park awaits my re-entry,
as i bait
the carrot in front of
my horse, to lure me back,
to say good-bye.
the first fall round
was too hard
on my bones.
but by
the last, i
think my
walk in the park
will be much lighter
than the first, saturated
concrete and all.

~k.

what's en VOGUE? fluff.

i made the mistake of buying a VOGUE magazine before getting on the train after work yesterday evening. after thumbing through about 150 pages of ads, i came to the first article. seriously. i paid four dollars to look at pictures of models that are thinner, prettier, and more fashionable than i will ever be. i was searching in my bag for zoloft before i ever even got to the editorials.

when did magazines become such an inherent vehicle for advertisements? i mean, i know the lifeblood of the magazine comes from the investors of these companies selling their products, but, c'mon.

estee lauder.
chanel.
gucci.
louis vuitton.
dior.
estee lauder.
banana republic.
fendi.
dolce & gabbana.
lancome.
bottega veneta.
prada.
dolce & gabbana.
burberry.
david yurman.
clinique.
guess by marciano.
marc jacobs.
miu miu.
donna karan.
cartier.
st. john.
ralph lauren.
ralph lauren.
ralph lauren.
chanel.
bally switzerland.
valentino.
valentino.
valentino.
eres.
covergirl.
givenchy.
tiffany & co.
bulgari.
SK-II.
7 for all mankind.
hugo boss.
hugo boss.
covergirl.
jones new york.
laura mercier.
bottega veneta.
net-a-porter.com.
net-a-porter.com.
loreal.
dooney & bourke.

this is all before i ever reach something that has anything to do with the editorial recaps of what the magazine will be revealing to us. this is page 86 of the magazine.

when did things become so engrossed in fluff? these advertisements, they're really not even advertising anything at all. most of the pictures are taken of, like, a shoe heel next to a made-up eye of a model. has nothing to do with anything. you can't see the full shoe, or the full make-up of the model. it is an ad run for thousands of dollars in a magazine that is known all around the globe advertising nothing having to do with the product they're aiming to advertise.

is it art? oh, it must be art. it is a fully abstract photo kind of advertising something that has kind of something to do with fall. it kind of makes me never want to wear the partial shoe in question. not that i would ever be able to justify spending 1800$ on a pair of heels, ever. if i ever became wealthy enough to consider that option, i should probably just be adopting children like angelina jolie. at least it may save some shreds of my withering soul.

but it's everywhere, this fluff. it's sadly what art has to do in order to survive - get fucked. that magazine wouldn't survive without the hundreds of ads pumping hundreds of thousands of dollars into VOGUE. and what's ironic about this specific fashion magazine, one of the oldest and most stapled of the many that are out there, is that so much of the content is geared towards people invested in the arts. yet no artist i know, of the underground performers, the people who start these trends because of their freedom in themselves and of the corporate ties that would shackle them into dress suits and ties... none of these artists could ever afford any of these designer prices.

mainstream media doesn't help, neither does the american obsession with celebrity. what used to be an inaccessible lifestyle is now offered to the millions of americans who want to be included, albeit the fact that exclusion is necessary for a product to be wanted. and yet there it is - splashed on the pages of VOGUE, the clean lines of a miu miu heel, retail price, 850$.

that's my rent. to buy one pair of the shoes that are supposedly going to make me fashion forward in the fall is the amount is costs to LIVE IN MY APARTMENT. insane.

maybe i'm jealous that these people make enough money to buy these really beautiful things that i could only dream about. but maybe i'm pissed that the work that myself and all my friends do inspires the designers of these beautiful things is being used as a vein for their pockets.

for now, all i can do is read the two hundred pages of fluff and scoff when i uncover a single column article on the "new wave wing's of desire", feathered earrings and extensions a woman in california now makes for her jewelry line for appx. 300$.

i bought an even cooler one on the streets of brooklyn from a real-live street artist for 10, and i can also make them for myself for about that much as well. that designer is making a killing on chicken feathers. and she should be ashamed.

but it's art, so it's okay, right?

~k.

found time to shine (finally)

there was too much
dust
in the corners. the scent
of cat dander and
dead skin cells resting
on chipped paint and bruised
paneling was too
much, too
present. hours of
hands and knees and
scrubbing and (please
don't think this is
actually
about my floors, now)
withered hands, pruned
by pine-sol-water, and
-poof-
no more dust. no
silvery strands of spider-spindle
or finger-printed walls.
erased the traces
and opened spaces, i
guess picasso would even
be proud.
fall is here, again,
and my mind feels so
damn
clean,
it squeaks.

~k.