backblogged

Sometimes days go by before
The words rise to my gorge and
Demand spilling, you know,
It kind of depends how many
I've had to swallow,
How often I've been around you
And not said Kiss me, please,
And how often I've not yelled into
The phone, LADY LEAVE ME ALONE,
And how often I haven't said hello
To an interesting stranger, and asked
About that curious scar...
Once there's a base of
Swallowed words, they build quickly though,
It seems, rising from deep inside, until,
Here I am, purging
All I've eaten for a week.

And synchronicitously, a stranger
across the Internet is doing the same.

Bill Murray

Choose the day you'd relive.

So hard with spotty memory,
Flecked and smudged with greasy nostalgia, but I
Can remember lying on the prickly grass,
Inhaling the smell of ground and
Home through my blanket,
Warm sun orange through my closed lids,
Soft breeze rippling the pages of the book nearby.

I don't remember which book, and this
bothers me
Probably Anne of Green Gables, or Little
Women, but it could have been during my
Stephen King stage. I want it to be a Huxley
novel, or Vonnegut, but those were
later.

Smell of baby oil, and the sun toasting
me, because I didn't know it was poison.

The best part, the part that makes me want to live this day...
Listening to In Search of the Lost Chord, loud
In my headphones, feeling deepened, different,
transported. House of four doors, opening
the doors of perception in my tuned in mind, as I
settled down into the grass and became a part of
everything.
Om.
Never more present, never more distant.

I think
It was that night I felt infinity expand in my brain as
I looked up at stars forever.

Things I wish I could rip off me

My belly,

My girly need for reaction and reassurance
that makes me fuck things up;

That stupid look I wear
when I don't want what just happened
to have happened;

Two of the nights we spent together that cling to the sides of my brain
Like alcohol coats the glass

My self-conscious fear of asserting my needs,

My experience and wisdom,
so I could frolic carefree like I
never did.

deep wisdom

When I was 14 I did
yoga, I
meditated, I
studied eastern religions

When I was 16 I
salted the corners of my room,
burned candles, summoned
the Mother

At 28 I was
baptized, tried to find
the Father from
Anne of Green Gables

Now when I look inward,
All I see are reflections of
nirvana in others' eyes and
a deep
emptiness.

Plugged

I am gathering up my boredom,
My hurt,
My sticky loneliness that coats this room,
My depression,
My pride--there are still a few scattered bits around.

I am rolling it all together,
Firing it with the heat of
My anger

I will shape it as a plug, a cork to stop up
This hole in my centre.
I'm tired of my will leaking out, the wind
Blowing through.

I'm tired of bleeding.

Since your knife was the last
To reopen the hole, perhaps
I'll name the plug in your
Honour.

superheroes

We all want to
fight evil
We want our lives to be important.
So we label things
and people
evil
and slay them like dragons.

I don't have any dragons, just
Pigeons, and they are an annoyance,
sure,
but not really evil.

I have no purpose beyond ennui.

That's why I wrap my thin
layer of self around
sawdust
and dream of
fire.

tell the witch I will pay
she can have my cats, my
sister, my
prettiest beads and even
the hug my mother gives me at
bedtime, and all the golden
love that it holds

take it all

if only she will take her straw and
suck this extra flesh from my bones
like Marie Claire said she did to her

now Marie Claire is fine and
slim while I plod like a work pony
and all the boys coo
when she walks by

take my sister, witch, take
my horse, and take
my future

i want a now.