swallow

All attempts at sleep last night wound up pretty futile. I laid in bed under a makeshift pile of blankets with flannel pants, socks, a t-shirt, and a hoodie on and was still shivering. I watched Wall-E with the covers over my head. That movie makes me cry. the relationship between Wall-e and Eve is sweet and inexplicable. He adores her. And she let him past her shell. Aw, tender. Typical, tender, sometimes trite, but still touching.

Blargh. It's freezing cold today! I don't want to be at work, I don't want to do work-type things. This is also trite and typical.

"Define 'hoe-down.'" "Hoe-down. A social gathering in which lively dancing would take place." "Psst. Computer! Define 'dancing.'"

I want a directive, one that means something; I want someone to bring along. Ah well, lots of life left to live. Not like it's never gonna happen. Just have to get going places. I can do that.

"Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark." - Amiel

Just gotta find and then follow that thing that is more red, more here. A wanting. A directive.

I can't write what I'm thinking or feeling at the moment. Wordless, wafting. Too little sleep, too much thinking.

snifter

wanting out again. hard to stop this time. keep swilling reasons around and around slowly in my head. there are always so many more reasons FOR than AGAINST.

i am only withholding because you told me not to.

i would do lots of things, if you told me to.

for free

we're paralyzed, we apologize;
our hell is a good life.

last went wrong, but where's my prize?
under the lights?
can we call it in?

we'll be on the road.

what i thought it was, it isn't... now.

all we know is to forget how to do right.
coloring in the black hole.

there's a pattern in the system.

that's why i tried to save you.

when we stop, my hands will shake.
my eyes will burn.
my throat will ache.

watching you turn from me toward your friends.

my baby's got the
lonesome lows
don't quite go
away overnight,

just prescribe the blue ones.

if the dizzying highs don't
subside overnight,

just prescribe the red ones.

in hindsight, with primetime talk,
all your pain will end here.

i'd rather give the world away than wake up lonely.

crowd surf off to sea,
float toward the beach.

if you find me, hide me.

i don't know where i've been.


all the babies are tucked away in their beds.
we're out here screaming.

the life that you thought through is gone,
can't want out.
the ending outlasting the mood.

i wake up lonely.

if i'm sorry you lost me,
you better make it quick.

because this call costs a fortune
and it's late where
you live.

please don't be me.
there are so many skirts under the table

none of these long legs are mine.

faces afalling and all i desire is to never be waiting.

if that's a crime,
let's commit it.

it's pathetic, it's impossible
like girls in stilettos,
like girls in stilettos running to run.

bros before hos disagree
on the sidelines
bros before hos is a rule read
the guidelines.
you trouble me.

your breasts heave when you sing.

your mouth should be working for me,
for free.

would you put on the fire for me?
draw me a bath, remind me to eat?
you don't need a real job.

you won't need a real job,

because i would love to pay for you.

done, thought, as i was.
don't elaborate like that.
you'll frighten off the frat boys.

put on your baby talk.

get the line down.

Monday, Mundane

There is a slight possibility of taking a walk this day. But I most likely will avoid it, because of inclement weather.

What do you write about when your days are empty before they're even over? And the progress of the day is only draining further a thing completely drained. I will pour cupfuls from this empty cup and start again tomorrow.

I haven't found a song for today yet. It's on my list of things to do, after the important things like putting on makeup even though no one is going to see me or care. Fixing my hair, even though I'll just have my hood up all day. It's easier to work in the cold. I'd rather be freezing than sweaty.

I want a baby. I want one so much it hurts; so much that I spend the days sometimes thinking of wholly implausible ways to accomplish this inordinate wanting. I should probably want a husband first, something sensible like that. But I could take care of a baby. I don't know if I could take care of a husband. Dear natural order of things, why must you torment me so? Love, is a big fat joke.

Yesterday night, I thought, I want a baby now because if I don't have one now, then my children will only know their grandparents AFTER they've gotten old and weird. And I want my children to know their grandparents. And I want them to call them grandma and grandpa and not some weird other name that it seems like everyone else has their kids call their parents. Nana and Papa? No. Gangee and PopPop? Lame. If you going to have a made-up grandma/pa name, it should be something totally crazy like Sparkles and Colonel. But those also sound like pet names. In other news, I digress.

I let you in, but every facet is a funhouse mirror that makes you pull strange faces and wonder what the hell you're really looking at. It is acceptable, as a metaphor, or a comparison, or something to show you what I really mean without saying what I really mean.

I'm reading poetry again. Good poetry. The vintage book of contemporary world poetry. It was a mistake to put the French poets smack in between the Spanish and the Italian once. French poets are boring. Boring people like French poets. Boring people like French. It's overrated, overdone, overhyped. I would have liked Amelie better if it were in Icelandic, or Welsh. Maybe that means I have no taste.

Perhaps it does. But perhaps it doesn't. Perhaps we don't ever really have a choice.

Cancel the car to number ten. Such a thick fog rolling in. I played my cards on unreal glass. I left the party next to last. Friday night to Sunday morning I go on. I don't know if I am really here at all. Monday down to Friday night I work all day. Move emptily, so emptily through Holloway. Forget my face, I won't be back. I hear your friends have turned their backs. When summer comes where Rose Street winds, the longing makes you close your eyes. It's unreal, so unreal to walk along these streets. It's unreal, so unreal, to close your eyes and breathe. When I left you at The Coronet this morning, you said that your happiness was gone. But the hum of voices somehow brings me back here, though there's no happiness and there's no love. Mid-afternoon. Lincoln's Inn. Terraces through crying wind before the night I disappear. What else can I do around here?

Shuffleupagus: The Clientele - Emptily Through Holloway

a bar to hide in a bike to ride north

I will type in red because it looks ashamed, and today is a day for shamefulness, for shy slyhanded lilting, the ease of alt-tab and yes or no.


Need some mood muzak, the focus is inside the slant or nonslant of all these lines. All I want is a bar to hide in a bike to ride north and then relearn regret and disappointing strangers and I would make it all the way there and never show up at your door, you know? 


I am just like that, I guess. I would stop at a park, sit, pretend like I'm writing, or doing something that's not just sitting and being a coward. Being too pussy to be real.


And then I would turn around, and find a gas station, get a diet Dr. Pepper, chug & chuck it, and drive all the way back home. 


And no one would miss me and no one would know and I wouldn't list it as crossed off the list of places to go.