saturday afternoons

you are such an enormously safe place!
i am so quiet and satiated and warm, i'd rather be asleep on your bed.
though that was definitely not possible.
i promise i will not judge you on based on your family,
even though i am always tense about them
even though i never have to actually talk to them.
and not that i care; but for you, i hope they win, alright?

poorly formatted poetry! charles bukowski!

Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular fate.
nobody ever finds the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

merry christmas

it is obvious to me that we are no longer a young family. there's a little more bitterness and a little more real life involved, whereas it used to be just us, at any given time.

things happen so suddenly. i have an unrealistic perception of the passage of time. i can't even begin to imagine another twenty years, and look what happened in two. life is one long string of moving on.

you broke up with us. things like that don't tend to happen. i'm not even really upset, more disappointed and angry that you think so little of us after years of being part of our family.

cause and effect. three years ago, we all had christmas together, and it was going to be that way for as long as i could imagine. now he is dead and you are gone, and all i can keep thinking is 'but i always thought that they would be at my wedding' which is not something i'd imagine myself thinking. and from there it just keeps going into 'i thought they would see me graduate... i'll never travel with them... they will never meet my children.'

aaaand now i'm crying, haha. this is weird, i can't remember ever getting this upset about this. these were important people. to be a bit clicheed, i suppose after you've lived awhile, seventeen years is just a phase, but that is my entire life to date. so.

conversation

if you actually pick up when i call you ridiculously early tomorrow morning, this is probably what i'll say to you:
'are you awake?
...you're not wearing pants, are you?'

i am full of snow

i don't appreciate people enough...

Happy list for this week (no particular order):
JESSIE for being master of the west wing, aka martin sheen, and for her plate costume.
elliot... i mean, he'll always be on this list, but for now, socks in pants.
abbey for a perception-altering postcard
arielle for LOVE
adam, for changing my state of mind and for unfinished thoughts: "when i'm with you, i'm happy. in between..."
elena for always being fabulous
paul stickney for his fanclub and underground houses
esmeralda for an extra day of painting
chris for a bit of honesty and apologies and for one-word prompts
seanna for dinner
hannah for pending phone calls

goddamn

blogspot wouldn't let me log on, and now i don't even
remember what i was going to write.

i still creep nex

"I do not care what car you drive, where you live. If you know someone, who knows someone, who knows someone. If your clothes are this years cutting edge. If your trust fund is unlimited. If you are A-list, B-list or never heard of you list. I only care about the words that flutter from your mind. They are the only thing you truly own. The only thing I will remember you by. I will not fall in love with your bones & skin.I will not fall in love with the places you have been. I will not fall in love with anything but the words that flutter from your extraordinary mind.”
--Unknown

wallowing moment

FOR E.J.P. (cohen)
I once believed a single line
in a Chinese poem could change
forever how blossoms fell
and that the moon itself climbed on
the grief of concise weeping men
to journey over cups of wine
I thought invasions were begun for crows
to pick at a skeleton
dynasties sown and spent
to serve the language of a fine lament
I thought governors ended their lives
as sweetly drunken monks
telling time by rain and candles
instructed by an insect's pilgrimage
across the page - all this
so one might send an exile's perfect letter
to an ancient hometown friend

I chose a lonely country
broke from love
scorned the eternity of war
I polished my tongue against the pumice moon
floated my soul in cherry wine
a perfumed barge for Lords of Memory
to languish on to drink to whisper out
their store of strength
as if beyond the mist along the shore
their girls their power still obeyed
like clocks wound for a thousand years
I waited until my tongue was sore

Brown petals wind like fire around my poems
I aimed them at the stars but
like rainbows they were bent
before they sawed the world in half
Who can trace the canyoned paths
cattle have carved out of time
wandering from meadowlands to feasts
Layer after layer of autumn leaves
are swept away
Something forgets us perfectly

(i personally hope every day that highschool is not just a string of girls i do not really know and boys i do not really love)

the wrong kind

i'm laughing because of the touch of melodrama that accompanies everything we do together and say to each other, and because of how i'm willing to just laugh it off.

nothing makes you appreciate warm people more than cold weather

today, i walked outside the school and everything about outside whispered bits of you! the sky was foggy with invisible snow and my own breath, and blended into the sky, along with the houses and hills and streets. the trees all seemed very starkly black. it wasn't exactly beautiful, but it was very realistic and so it made me stop for a moment. i'm not sure if this reminded me of you because there was so much of you there, or because there was none of you at all.

sweeeepiiinnngggg

WHO AM I KIDDING:
two princes is just about the greatest song ever written. at least... right now it is. (subliminalmessagegodownloaditnowsubliminalmessage
you just don't get songs like you did in the 90's anymore. whatever happened to that song with the girl in the bumblebee suit?

all of tomorrow is shaping up to be AWESOME. every little bit from 9.30 a.m. to who knows when. that's how i like my days- ridiculously extended. every day. like this one, right now.
even work should be fun, since it's only 2 hours. there won't even be time to be bored!
(noted delcaration of love for morgan here)

i'll go anyway

they won't refund the ticket!
how i remember you:
'how will you remember me?
digging ditches out of boredom?
said you would never leave
now you're never going to be here again.'
things are... going well?

fuck that

i am an introspect!
that's okay!
sorry i'm not friendly and happy with strangers like my sister, it's just not me!

hmm

i feel really gross right now. but at least i clean up nicely.

it's a monday that's a sunday

i visit my blog every day and post only once a week, and that's the way i like it.
i feel very tentative. i don't so much know what i'm doing as i am aware of the effects of my actions. so you just don't worry about it; i'm not worried at all. just very tentative and a bit apprehensive, you know?
people lie so much. how are you supposed to make an informed decision when people are constantly trying to protect you with untruths?

to write

i'm sweeping up the glass, now:
when i wake up
it's noon
on sunday
my hair is uncurled
i'm wearing my own clothes
the alley and the bleachers are full of snow.
cars are speeding down Crowchild-
I took a picture
to show you later
what a good job they did of
sweeping
up.

instant gratification

naive but uptight.

'Tom Verlaine was a very bright boy, very learned, but there was some tightness within him. He was just so tightly wound. He was always concerned about men coming on to him. I mean, he was pretty, but I think he didn't really know what life was all about. He hadjust accrued experience from books- it was all read, and not lived. He was very naive in a lot of ways. As opposed to Richard Hell, who had both feet in the ooze.
Hell was definitely the one thinking in subversive terms. Hell was the one who always had the most awareness of what the text was trying to denote. Hell was a boulevard surrealist, groping for the breakthrough, the one grasping for liberation.'

florence

i want so much to write! i feel like i'm floating around in bits of imagery and verse with no way of communicating what they mean. i'm swimming around in other people's poetry and more or less failing at writing it myself.
i would so much like to make art. i can't believe i have to wait almost an entire year before i can stop thinking about things like math and chemistry and just start existing in clouds of imagery and symbolism and interpretation and new mediums. i suppose there are always pre-college programs... in italy?
you: i feel like dirt. no, actually, you feel like dirt. your profundity is dirt and talking with you is EXACTLY like throwing stones into a shallow pool. for once, i actually said precisely what i wanted to say. it's like throwing stones and expecting the satisfaction of them sinking, but instead only getting noise and superficial splashes of water. don't give yourself so much credit.

jane vain and sunday nights

'everything that i say to you
will be forgotten by tomorrow
so why do i try to lend you ideas
that you aren't even able to borrow?'

my name is potato - RITA PAVONE -