"Biscayne"
This morning, pacing,
I understood the importance
of basic things.
If there was nothing
to distract us we'd all
be taken by a
rapid darkness.
The fact is that each second
has in it the potential
for death's arrival.
Earlier,
I made a few phone calls.
I was in a state of panic
because there was a man,
a savage vigilante, chasing me
with his machete.
The truth is,
he's always chasing me
but I only let others
know occasionally.
Please, do not contact the authorities.
I should use this time
to apologize to anyone
still waiting for me
to call them. I'm sorry
for hiding, it's only a
defense mechanism.
I would go outside
but
trees and water and
the intricacy of nature
remind me only of a
beautiful girl
who is incapable of
loving you back.
Here, in the back,
I can see the driver
dozing. Maybe he's on
too much of something.
Either way, he's forgotten
where we're going
and I'm not compelled
to tell him. He swerves
right, corrects himself,
then swerves left.
Half of me knows
that when we crash
we will land unsuccessfully
and be eaten alive by vultures.
In the morning, rotting,
we will understand the importance
of much more than
basic things,
and maybe then,
under the wreckage,
I'll be over it.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
new poem
"December 11th, 3:55 am"
I stood by the door, half-open,
trembling, listening to
you make noise in there
with him.
I knew you better when
your hair was shorter and
a different color, when
your head was full of smoke
and my belly full
of downers.
I often wonder why I
feel pain in both of
my shoulders, but then
I remember
that my body is full of poison
and that I fell off the sofa.
Sophia, I am withered and
beaten by your infernal wisdom.
These frostbitten urchins
are all my children, and I
have been hiding in my room
for as long
as time has bloodied them.
There is also a painting
of birds behind the desk
of Dr. Richardson.
My poor mother sent me
to him
because she thought I
was going to kill myself.
Dr. Richardson says that
every person is like a puzzle
with missing pieces, and that
some people are missing too
many pieces
and it's his job
to find those pieces and
help his patients put
together their own unique
puzzle.
Being with Dr. Richardson
makes me want to
swallow all of my
mother's klonopin
and wake up in a
foggy heaven
with all of my dead dogs.
I stood by the door, half-open,
trembling, listening to
you make noise in there
with him.
I knew you better when
your hair was shorter and
a different color, when
your head was full of smoke
and my belly full
of downers.
I often wonder why I
feel pain in both of
my shoulders, but then
I remember
that my body is full of poison
and that I fell off the sofa.
Sophia, I am withered and
beaten by your infernal wisdom.
These frostbitten urchins
are all my children, and I
have been hiding in my room
for as long
as time has bloodied them.
There is also a painting
of birds behind the desk
of Dr. Richardson.
My poor mother sent me
to him
because she thought I
was going to kill myself.
Dr. Richardson says that
every person is like a puzzle
with missing pieces, and that
some people are missing too
many pieces
and it's his job
to find those pieces and
help his patients put
together their own unique
puzzle.
Being with Dr. Richardson
makes me want to
swallow all of my
mother's klonopin
and wake up in a
foggy heaven
with all of my dead dogs.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
ten favorite albums of 2009 (no order)
Top To Bottom:
Necrophobic - Death To All
Nudge - As Good As Gone
Blut Aus Nord - Memoria Vetusta ii: Dialogue With The Stars
To Kill A Petty Bourgeoisie - Marlone
Fever Ray - S/T
The Ruins Of Beverast - Foulest Semen Of A Sheltered Elite
Katharsis - Fourth Reich
Bloody Panda - Summon
Zola Jesus - The Spoils
Glorior Belli - Meet Us At The Southern Sign
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
new poem
Residential Doubles
we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was
summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us
passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time
I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,
I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she
tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.
we woke to shrill lashes
of parental static and stayed still
until I crept into your mother's
pharmaceutical pantry for a few
more handfuls. It was
summer when the walls were
too thin to not spy on eachother, when
her pleasure arrived in sharp cries
through the hall and into my room and
into my arsenal. They found us
passed out at the
Shiloh Recreation Center, and
according to mirrors, we were older,
still skating the broken diameter of
a non-city spent under
spells of syrup and ether, past
echoes of other nights, names
not remembered, plaza to plaza
before cutting through the Health Park
on the way to your house. By the time
I zeroed out in Osprey,
you'd already forgotten me, and
life became a series of
unanswered phone-calls, some of
which make some of me still
feel guilty for forgetting you
not entirely. For weeks,
I hid in garbage bins and crashed
through fences, into backyards where
stepdads scrambled for reefer,
shirtless and full of anger, outside,
where we would duck in through the back
and watch
sisters act like sisters
before settling on poppers,
and later, again, I became
your shoulder until it was
time to go, until she
tripped over an uncoiled hose
and hurt her skull and hated me
for the rest of her life.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Sara
Part One.
I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.
I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.
Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.
My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.
When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.
The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.
I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.
I am fifteen years old. More people than ever now know how old I am because my face is plastered on the sides of buildings and streetlights.
I have been gone for nine months, the time it takes for a baby to come out of someone’s vagina. Last year, when I was 14, I became pregnant. A baby was put inside of me by a boy I do no much care for. The baby never came out of me and it is probably in a dumpster somewhere with a bunch of others just like it.
Last night I met a man named Charly. He was black, or a nigger, as my dad would say. Charly asked why someone like me would be prowling through the city streets without company. He said I was beautiful, that I deserved better. Then he tried to rape me in an alley so I stabbed him in the throat with a letter-opener I took from my mother’s work-desk shortly before I left home. I have never murdered anyone before. I’m not even sure If I killed Charly, I just know there was a lot of blood spewing from his neck and down into the rainy gutter.
My name is Sara. I am attempting to document my life up to this moment. I was considering not telling you my name, but what difference does it really make? If I could know your name, I promise I would remember it for the rest of my life.
When I was six my father read me many stories. I do not remember any of the stories specifically, just his voice and how it made me feel safe. When I am without sleep, without a place to lie down unless it is in some sleezoids bed after we fuck dissapointingly, I think of my father’s voice, of the stories I cannot remember, then I fall asleep, at least usually.
The other night, I stayed at this ratty house full of other kids like me, and there I met a girl two years older named Kelley. We had what some would call chemistry. Kelley had a tattoo of Orion’s belt above her pussy.
I am not scared of anything, really. Just boredom. When I used to get bored at my old house, I would drink lots of my parent’s liquor and go outside and watch the stars. Sometimes I would see Orion's Belt. Kelley has a tattoo of that. She rules.
Monday, March 9, 2009
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