When you are sad and strange for whatever reason you turn tricks on yourself and act hard. As if any body could truly handle what self hatred is evident by how terrible one can be to her own vessel fishing infinitely for the morsel of elation that you just know is in there with the boots and old tires. Scratch tickets-I know I may win a dollar or so but the pain of dumping money into a scrap of paper shouldn’t be worth it. Ponder the prize, ponder the prize.
existential agony brought to you by the letter "O"
"you have two different colored eyes" he or she said at this or that place. I stumble into a bus from out of the rain, going somewhere. The basic 3-6 thoughts in my head keep me from painting a realistic picture of my day to day but I know it was raining and there was a bus involved. She was sitting this way, he was sitting that way. All the while I was thinking about-
sex and books and food and money and scars and balloons and birthdays and babies, work and not working, being and not being into something or another thing. I need to do these things and those. I am surprised that I escape waking up in a panic when there’s when it hit me that I almost always hate or love all of these things everyday at least once I was writing this passage. Two things is constant on those moments where it’s raining and I get on a bus.
1. It is raining.
2. I am on a bus.
Suddenly things have gotten clearer. Take care of yourself little one
aim high, dream dangerously, don’t be afraid of the dark and especially don’t be afraid of the lack there of. It is not that I don’t want to be happy as one subpar want to be beatnik implied but that hot damn it’s sweltering and sexy on that line between lights on and lights off. The most imperfect storm in my head is when it rains while the sun is out and how funny I am not to be confused by the pitter patter over a sunburn- this is what one comes to expect in these oh-so certainly uncertain times of ours. I would make a painting about it but where’s the fun in physical form?
even when I crash and burn promise you wont stop loving who I was before the fall the reckless exchange of misinformation drunken sidestepping kicking and flailing my way into your hearts I am afraid of so much and show so little affection to those i lean on the very most and when I cry I cry rivers, mountain gorges with shiny rocks and complicated turns over and over like a dream and nightmare I will never awake from stumbling and tumbling my way into a warm arms and a smile like a child so lost and frayed beneath and above the hayday of my existence, where a womb was the next big thing and my heart didn’t know what it was like to flutter to the loud thump of my brain firing of synapses to tell you that every plan and every direction is the best, the worst, the first, the last-before the medicine and fist fights am I still the girl people can see things in or am I the remnants of a plane crash scattered like when the music might have died?
tell where my happy dies and i’ll point to you two blue eyes and let you know how no one knows who drew first blood but the red is sticky on fingers and we don’t know whose wounds wound up there first police visits and scandal and I am the one who breaks hearts and hurts feelings even when I’m being used to mop up the skeletons in your closet hardly common barely there I saw you first and I just stared how ruined could my life be when I have finally begun to climb my own tree and taste the top where wood is sweet and everyone I love loves me when I’m on my own two feet a create kisses and chaos you make lies and hurt I hope they ask you a lot of questions on your way to heavens gates, loose lips sink ships but I’m the kind of lady who would rather swim than keep my pretty mouth shut you never liked that about me but you never corrected me only brought it up when it could hurt the most like a game-it was always, always like a game and now that I know people I respect I hope they can look past that dark speck of my life which i affectionately call “you”.
sweet baby beatnik boy your head spins so softy your sweaty palms beat the keys like a prayer wheel- when does baby beatnik boy get that whiskey and a broken heart can only write you so many tales of woe? You ain’t a nihilist and I’m sorry I broke that heart so long ago but boy you are still the mess i fell in like with and the tale on the tip of my tongue. Get a life before a wife, ya dig?
“The great enemy of clear language is insincerity. When there is a gap between one’s real and one’s declared aims, one turns, as it were, instinctively to long words and exhausted idioms, like a cuttlefish squirting out ink.”—George Orwell
Some bitter shit I'm reposting because I like this better.
I am painting a picture of America where big-wig intellectuals fantasize about a revolution they will never get their hands wet with. An entire generation of stuffy well-off white boys with one hand on their wallet and the other on the communist manifesto. Brother McDonald, I believe you had your hand up. Sister Wal-Mart wants to speak next. I am painting with different colors that won’t be liberated, just talked about and gawked at and pitied by the men with their pressed-shirts and books who will cry for revolution so long as their bank accounts don’t get hacked. I see people who are swayed out by words and back in by fear of losing their privilege. I see stacks of neat white typed papers with names and dates and hot-air opinions with pretentious conclusions. I see them burning in a trash can to heat the homeless. One contribution and you never have to give again right? Keep marching and praying with the same choir you’ve always had-where is your outreach? Who have you been a person to? If theory is required for a revolution, and your only theory is akin to manifest destiny, where will we go but backwards? See what you want, not what is said, not what is real, not what has happened, not what may happen if we keep on shutting ourselves in and reading the words of dead men who have no vested interest in the progress of humanity as their lives are over and done with. You aren’t a communist; you’re a fluffy liberal with a pocket full of insurance options.
I’m scanning the ground i’m scanning the ground dying to find a slip of paper or an eraser a pencil just a thing, anything I’m avoiding eye contact I know I am I know it too well i’m dragging my eyes down there were no computers open none open i had to keep looking up at people and faces and i saw them and them saw me and i kept looking and i found an open computer and gravitated toward it like it was on fire and it glowed too just so i could write this the beat generation sucked the tit of misogyny dry and it’s hanging but what whats left after we drove you to write about how annoying we are so annoying and now you have poems and unwanted attention and you are all dead and i wish i said this when you were alive because you could see the flesh around the bones and you have books in my backpack about sexual history deviance not that the history deviates from the sexual but that deviants were supposed to be in the sexual part it referred to a deviant sexual behavior now skewed statistics if i sent that in somewhere it would get pulled apart like wet meat.
Spin Spin Spin that prayer wheel you call the internet like a wheel of fortune misguided distrust and inaccurate recollection spit out to the universe off of a tongue that never learned to say it’s first words and nevermind them last words they never mean a thing if there’s no period to stop the bleeding sentences from going on and on they escape and the universe finds them fixes them sends them back just so you can put your head down to sleep very late at night when the comments slow down and you find yourself alone at the wheel again and again like it’s always been like it will be like it never really was anything you enjoyed was enjoyed by someone else I reckon that feels awesome like crawling into a used condom every time you bought a new record or watched a new movie it was like the last guys spunk was still oozing out the end like a sewage pipe and you ate it up because it makes you stronger makes you look more awake less unhappy more cool to the temp and hot to the brain you’d love to have the stones to let someone know about something cool that they haven’t heard about and are genuinely interested in but it never happens because you will never be the cool kid the admired the charming everyone who was ever worth the effort figured you out already didn’t they didn’t they?