the catch-a-toy is playing biggie
this is brooklyn, i guess
i don't care
i couldn't open my heart
"give up the fight" i refused
i refused and the room went dark
she was on her moon, i thought,
you are all on the moon, but i'm
on my moon too so i presume
this may be a poor week for judgment
rolling a blanket fattie because my
joints are sore
stole three bars from charity because i
am hungry
then i won a free lunch and i ate
a salad
i refused her call to open my heart
because i am on my moon too
the catch-a-toy is playing biggie
this is brooklyn, i guess
i don't know
26 June 2009
who will remain whole?
there are trucks that sing
wrong ways of fostering
and my open window is playing devil to
two pillars
when i look out my devil
i see barbed wire and warehouses
whorehouses
a cat on my back an
immeasurable gap and
not to worry because
i am not alone
if i fall through this hole
will it be light or heavy, hot or cold
blessed with soul
or depraved
she held my hand and
said i look like my girl and
not to worry because
we are halfway home
wrong ways of fostering
and my open window is playing devil to
two pillars
when i look out my devil
i see barbed wire and warehouses
whorehouses
a cat on my back an
immeasurable gap and
not to worry because
i am not alone
if i fall through this hole
will it be light or heavy, hot or cold
blessed with soul
or depraved
she held my hand and
said i look like my girl and
not to worry because
we are halfway home
voice imitator imitator
I visited Austria at twelve years old. Late one night, in a Viennese
hotel lobby, I met an Irish woman whose sister was (and presumably
still is) married to a jockey. This woman's sister's husband had a
colleague who had severe burns on most of his legs and torso from
taking baths filled with boiling water for the purpose of melting body
fat to lighten himself for races. Needless to say, I wasn't interested
in where or how this stranger's sister's husband's colleague ended up,
and I attempted his method. I have consequently twice burned my right
hand severely with a total loss of three month's pay even though I
obtained both injuries at the workplace. The jockey is in a home for the mentally impaired. But I am now one of my
craft's elite.
hotel lobby, I met an Irish woman whose sister was (and presumably
still is) married to a jockey. This woman's sister's husband had a
colleague who had severe burns on most of his legs and torso from
taking baths filled with boiling water for the purpose of melting body
fat to lighten himself for races. Needless to say, I wasn't interested
in where or how this stranger's sister's husband's colleague ended up,
and I attempted his method. I have consequently twice burned my right
hand severely with a total loss of three month's pay even though I
obtained both injuries at the workplace. The jockey is in a home for the mentally impaired. But I am now one of my
craft's elite.
18 May 2009
09 April 2009
500 Words 06 08 09
Hello,
I am writing to inform you that I, unfortunately, am fit for this world. If it could be possible to retract my previous statement, I would do so gladly, but regretfully there are some things that, once said, one is unable to take back. Suffice it to say that this is where I am, not necessarily where I should be, but if I AM at all, I am here, which is therefore where I belong. The location is at once completely relevant and entirely irrelevant - you see, I am not home, and I can not find one. It is true, however, that home is a place within one's self, and though I cannot locate it, I contain it and therefore am responsible for it, whether it is accessible or not.
Please accept my sincerest apologies for my absence, although I am unable to tell you when it will be possible for me to return. When it does happen, it will happen organically, that is to say I may not realize when I have arrived and it will take a natural period of reflection to surface before I will be able to notify you of my whereabouts.
Allow me to illustrate my point: my once dear friend came to my door with an armful of dresses for me to have. She had originally purchased them for herself, but after a phone call we shared she no longer felt that she deserved them so she showed up at my apartment with a bag full of beautiful (if not conservatively provocative) dresses for me to try on, exhibit for her, and then own as long as I promised to wear them on a night out where we would dress as out-of-character as possible and go out to some bars pretending to be someone else. On that night, not only did we have different names, phone numbers, and marital statuses (solely for the sake of deception; we were to lie for the sake of lying, but never act on anything that would damage our real lives or loved ones. In short, we were going to give fake numbers but accepting drinks or going home with a strange man was entirely out of the question). She believed that experiencing New York as our own alter-egos would provoke feelings of guilt, which we could then absolve by the irrelevance of it all, but that same guilt would bring us closer inside of ourselves.
She stopped talking to me shortly after this idea was proposed. It was her idea, her idea that never materialized, that I was never comfortable with. So it sensible to conclude that my expulsion from her life had more to do with her than it did me. (At least, that's what I'm trying to believe).
I have spent my time evenly distributed between Boston, Kensington (Brooklyn), and Bushwick (Brooklyn). About half of the time I am lucky enough to have the company of an animal. I can't sleep nor can I stay awake. No matter which house or apartment I am at the time, I am always looking for an object I can't identify, but I can't forget its relevance, so I search and search until I find something that sets me on the trail. It is absurd to arbitrarily assign a point in time as a "beginning" and just the same to determine an "end." Time is only an excuse to understand the nature of change, to be able to believe in something called "cause and effect." Either that, or I am merely trying to justify my inability to determine one day from the next. As a child, I realized that every calendar day would occur only once, ever, in my lifetime or in eternity, and I was haunted by the importance of that July 7, 1996 and was determined to sprinkle as much fairy dust around the yard as thoroughly as possible in the event that July 7, 1996 never happened again not covering every inch of my parents' yard with large chunks of glitter could kill the fairies forever in the event that July 7, 1996 was the day all the fairies died if they didn't get their dust. I knew it was unlikely, but in the event that I was right it would save them. I also knew that no one would tell me if they knew that to be true, as not to worry me. And I was concerned that the fairies would have no way of asking for help from people because of a language or dimension barrier. I was very aware about what no one would, or could, tell me.
Again, I beg your forgiveness. When I am able to accept it, I promise to contact you.
795 words
Hello,
I am writing to inform you that I, unfortunately, am fit for this world. If it could be possible to retract my previous statement, I would do so gladly, but regretfully there are some things that, once said, one is unable to take back. Suffice it to say that this is where I am, not necessarily where I should be, but if I AM at all, I am here, which is therefore where I belong. The location is at once completely relevant and entirely irrelevant - you see, I am not home, and I can not find one. It is true, however, that home is a place within one's self, and though I cannot locate it, I contain it and therefore am responsible for it, whether it is accessible or not.
Please accept my sincerest apologies for my absence, although I am unable to tell you when it will be possible for me to return. When it does happen, it will happen organically, that is to say I may not realize when I have arrived and it will take a natural period of reflection to surface before I will be able to notify you of my whereabouts.
Allow me to illustrate my point: my once dear friend came to my door with an armful of dresses for me to have. She had originally purchased them for herself, but after a phone call we shared she no longer felt that she deserved them so she showed up at my apartment with a bag full of beautiful (if not conservatively provocative) dresses for me to try on, exhibit for her, and then own as long as I promised to wear them on a night out where we would dress as out-of-character as possible and go out to some bars pretending to be someone else. On that night, not only did we have different names, phone numbers, and marital statuses (solely for the sake of deception; we were to lie for the sake of lying, but never act on anything that would damage our real lives or loved ones. In short, we were going to give fake numbers but accepting drinks or going home with a strange man was entirely out of the question). She believed that experiencing New York as our own alter-egos would provoke feelings of guilt, which we could then absolve by the irrelevance of it all, but that same guilt would bring us closer inside of ourselves.
She stopped talking to me shortly after this idea was proposed. It was her idea, her idea that never materialized, that I was never comfortable with. So it sensible to conclude that my expulsion from her life had more to do with her than it did me. (At least, that's what I'm trying to believe).
I have spent my time evenly distributed between Boston, Kensington (Brooklyn), and Bushwick (Brooklyn). About half of the time I am lucky enough to have the company of an animal. I can't sleep nor can I stay awake. No matter which house or apartment I am at the time, I am always looking for an object I can't identify, but I can't forget its relevance, so I search and search until I find something that sets me on the trail. It is absurd to arbitrarily assign a point in time as a "beginning" and just the same to determine an "end." Time is only an excuse to understand the nature of change, to be able to believe in something called "cause and effect." Either that, or I am merely trying to justify my inability to determine one day from the next. As a child, I realized that every calendar day would occur only once, ever, in my lifetime or in eternity, and I was haunted by the importance of that July 7, 1996 and was determined to sprinkle as much fairy dust around the yard as thoroughly as possible in the event that July 7, 1996 never happened again not covering every inch of my parents' yard with large chunks of glitter could kill the fairies forever in the event that July 7, 1996 was the day all the fairies died if they didn't get their dust. I knew it was unlikely, but in the event that I was right it would save them. I also knew that no one would tell me if they knew that to be true, as not to worry me. And I was concerned that the fairies would have no way of asking for help from people because of a language or dimension barrier. I was very aware about what no one would, or could, tell me.
Again, I beg your forgiveness. When I am able to accept it, I promise to contact you.
795 words
11 December 2008
edits 1
White Side Black Side
ate dirt tuesday
it was always tuesday
noise
floor
turned off my head
sea cuke
barbiturates on a bedside table i
smiled my buckle broke
white side to the black side inside no fire
five six you weren't worth it
fucked up tricks pick up sticks
comfort didn't win a war
kissing didn't wreck a bank
slipping in through the back door
he repeated
watch the tickclocktockticktock til the
knockringknockknock
who's there?
tomorrowing
i lost nights in shallow waters
boxed knights in small quarters
work will become a dream
when you cease to be a queen
ate dirt tuesday
it was always tuesday
noise
floor
turned off my head
sea cuke
barbiturates on a bedside table i
smiled my buckle broke
white side to the black side inside no fire
five six you weren't worth it
fucked up tricks pick up sticks
comfort didn't win a war
kissing didn't wreck a bank
slipping in through the back door
he repeated
watch the tickclocktockticktock til the
knockringknockknock
who's there?
tomorrowing
i lost nights in shallow waters
boxed knights in small quarters
work will become a dream
when you cease to be a queen
new
if you want to see me try, you know i will
you know if i want it, i want it for you
if you want to see me cry, you know i will
you know if i need it, i need it for glue
if you look me in the eye, you know i kill
you know if i see it, i will always be new
you know if i want it, i want it for you
if you want to see me cry, you know i will
you know if i need it, i need it for glue
if you look me in the eye, you know i kill
you know if i see it, i will always be new
13 May 2008
over it & under it, neither are true
i just keep freezing!
i've never been this "over it." the more i realize how much i'd rather be under it - to have some shelter, (an awning, green and striped, that sounds like a cat's claws on tile when the rain hits it. to protect from the storm and block out the sun.
there are certain things i should scare from. one of them, my dear, should be trying to get as far away from this as i can.
more than anything in the world, i'm scared of abandoning myself.
what am i thinking? what am i doing? what are the odds that i'm just lying to myself, anyway?
sometimes, i work and work to develop discipline. then the discipline becomes a curse, so i act as though i don't care about it. then the apathy becomes a reality, and i become unaffected by strength or integrity.
the cycle ends with a pat on a back from those i love, for being smart and responsible (it is nuts), and then i stop respecting the ones i love (and who seem to love me back) because they weren't smart enough to see through my dumb guise.
i must be really bored. this reminds me of snood.
...if snood made me puke!
i've never been this "over it." the more i realize how much i'd rather be under it - to have some shelter, (an awning, green and striped, that sounds like a cat's claws on tile when the rain hits it. to protect from the storm and block out the sun.
there are certain things i should scare from. one of them, my dear, should be trying to get as far away from this as i can.
more than anything in the world, i'm scared of abandoning myself.
what am i thinking? what am i doing? what are the odds that i'm just lying to myself, anyway?
sometimes, i work and work to develop discipline. then the discipline becomes a curse, so i act as though i don't care about it. then the apathy becomes a reality, and i become unaffected by strength or integrity.
the cycle ends with a pat on a back from those i love, for being smart and responsible (it is nuts), and then i stop respecting the ones i love (and who seem to love me back) because they weren't smart enough to see through my dumb guise.
i must be really bored. this reminds me of snood.
...if snood made me puke!
10 April 2008
not quite the still of the night - 01/08/08
not quite the still of the night,
at a vacant engagement,
i drank a gin and tonic
and hit the noise floor.
in not quite the dark,
in my own heavy closet,
i did nothing not enough
and wrapped my brain in fur.
when not quite a phone rang,
in an empty calorie kitchen,
i stuffed some icing in my pocket
and sold my soul to her.
at a vacant engagement,
i drank a gin and tonic
and hit the noise floor.
in not quite the dark,
in my own heavy closet,
i did nothing not enough
and wrapped my brain in fur.
when not quite a phone rang,
in an empty calorie kitchen,
i stuffed some icing in my pocket
and sold my soul to her.
12 December 2007
Excerpts from Record Fair
There's no beginning to this story.
All apartments in Allston must be this cold, I doubt this shithole is special. There's no insulation or heat and these pseudo-intellectual faux-political Mass. Art kids think it makes them punk to suffer. They come into Record Fair and try to steal buttons that say things like "Fame may be fleeting, but obscurity is forever," and "Sit on my face, Stevie Nicks!"
Olive disappeared almost a month ago. James and I had our fight the night she left. He had said he's sick of making my vegan food and picking Jenn up drunk in Somerville, I said that's the least he can do. I told him, "my body's not your personal dumping ground, and if my needs mean nothing to you -- if you have no respect for me at all -- the least you can do is pick up my drunk sister.”
“I don’t want to love someone who is trying to die,” he said, defeated.
“I’m not a killer,” I retorted.
James's argument was that if I don't take care of myself, why should he?
Mine was if he didn't take care of me, why should I.
On my way home from work I’d worry that Erica would be dead before I got there. That I’d open the door, see her lying on the yoga mat, eyes open. Biting the arm that held her phone. Spilled coffee. Wearing two pairs of socks and my Slayer t-shirt. Olive pawing at her shoulder. I tried to prepare myself for it, the taking the phone out of her clutched fist and dialing an ambulance, calling her mother, kneeling next to her, checking for a pulse just in case. A part of me is still surprised that that never happened.
Erica liked to do things alone, which is all fine and good, but she used to want to be together. I’d drive her to work just for the hell of it. Every once in a while we’d call in sick together and stay in bed all day.
“I told you that I don’t like it when you touch me there.”
“But I like touching you there, honey, I think it’s beautiful.”
“It’s not, I can’t stand it, it makes me anxious.”
“How could it make you anxious?”
“Stop it.” Erica pulled a sweatshirt off of the floor and over her head. There was nothing I could say. She turned her back and slunk beneath the covers. He went to the bathroom and locked the door.
I noticed a thin, speckled red stain down the outside of the toilet, towards the back. It looked like a drop of something – shampoo? Period blood?
“Erica,” I spoke through the door, “is it your time of the month?”
“That’s what you think? I must be on my period?”
“No, no, I just couldn’t remember the last time you had one.” I sighed heavily and went back to bed.
“I can’t sleep.” I touched her shoulder. “I’ve been having nightmares.”
“All that caffeine causes bad dreams, maybe you should cut back a bit.”
All apartments in Allston must be this cold, I doubt this shithole is special. There's no insulation or heat and these pseudo-intellectual faux-political Mass. Art kids think it makes them punk to suffer. They come into Record Fair and try to steal buttons that say things like "Fame may be fleeting, but obscurity is forever," and "Sit on my face, Stevie Nicks!"
Olive disappeared almost a month ago. James and I had our fight the night she left. He had said he's sick of making my vegan food and picking Jenn up drunk in Somerville, I said that's the least he can do. I told him, "my body's not your personal dumping ground, and if my needs mean nothing to you -- if you have no respect for me at all -- the least you can do is pick up my drunk sister.”
“I don’t want to love someone who is trying to die,” he said, defeated.
“I’m not a killer,” I retorted.
James's argument was that if I don't take care of myself, why should he?
Mine was if he didn't take care of me, why should I.
On my way home from work I’d worry that Erica would be dead before I got there. That I’d open the door, see her lying on the yoga mat, eyes open. Biting the arm that held her phone. Spilled coffee. Wearing two pairs of socks and my Slayer t-shirt. Olive pawing at her shoulder. I tried to prepare myself for it, the taking the phone out of her clutched fist and dialing an ambulance, calling her mother, kneeling next to her, checking for a pulse just in case. A part of me is still surprised that that never happened.
Erica liked to do things alone, which is all fine and good, but she used to want to be together. I’d drive her to work just for the hell of it. Every once in a while we’d call in sick together and stay in bed all day.
“I told you that I don’t like it when you touch me there.”
“But I like touching you there, honey, I think it’s beautiful.”
“It’s not, I can’t stand it, it makes me anxious.”
“How could it make you anxious?”
“Stop it.” Erica pulled a sweatshirt off of the floor and over her head. There was nothing I could say. She turned her back and slunk beneath the covers. He went to the bathroom and locked the door.
I noticed a thin, speckled red stain down the outside of the toilet, towards the back. It looked like a drop of something – shampoo? Period blood?
“Erica,” I spoke through the door, “is it your time of the month?”
“That’s what you think? I must be on my period?”
“No, no, I just couldn’t remember the last time you had one.” I sighed heavily and went back to bed.
“I can’t sleep.” I touched her shoulder. “I’ve been having nightmares.”
“All that caffeine causes bad dreams, maybe you should cut back a bit.”
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