I feel the sheets when I hear your voice.

Soft, pleasantly warm,

perfectly content upon my skin,

under my skin.

When you call my name,

fragments of lost nouns are stories, novels,

and classics.

Like childhood,

you've passed through unnoticed and uncelebrated,

but I can still smell the fresh laundry you wear.

I would put candle smoke together

back into the wick and the wax.

I can bring you back.

Hold me a little harder,

and wait for anguish to escape into words.

 

---

 

Thoughts of you graffiti my empty bed.

The shutters protect my room from light,

and the windows protect me from air.

Everything is thick and soupy,

even my hands are stiff

searching for the right thoughts, the right pictures,

the right words

to turn vandalism into art.

Muscles, lung, stomach, heart,
everything shrinks inside me.
I remain inflated,
but the real withdraws and sinks.
Finally, truth from you,
and truth from me--this shrinking, dense reality.
Hands did not squeeze balloons into flesh,
although I delight too much in doing so.
Pop it.
Don't let it deflate so miserably.

 

Fuck, I suck at poetry.
It's so disgustingly sappy,
sappy sappy fappy...
Fuck, that's what you want to do.
I can only see you
for who you really are.
You don't understand?
Reality is a relief.
After living a dream for two years, too long,
even a dark Monday morning will get you up.

 

Reflect, reflect, that's for show.
I want to live, to be as we are.
Don't stop.
Keep digging.
It's dirty, it's foul, but
it smells so good.
It smells
like cherished diaries of thick, expensive paper,
like humiliation in the gymnasium courts,
like love,
like late, giggly sleepovers,
like famine,
like chocolate wrappers that fill trash bags,
like thousands of facts worth thousands of dollars,
like pain,
like ashes of a finished fireplace,
like tv and solitude,
like sweet corn ripening,
like lust topped with love,
like compost of manure and waste,
like sweat and vomit,
like porn behind locked doors,
like beauty,
like fire burning in jeers,
don't stop digging,
it's what I crave.

 

One day, I'll make my body reflect the soul. I've never done anything but try to be truthful.

 

You were supposed to be my man while I was yours. I was not yours (completely) and you were not mine, but I obviously am yours, and you were supposed to be mine.

Meditation

Weights connected to my body float and sink in this pool of gravity. At the same time? Not bobbing not moving like plastic bags like boiling potatoes. Like water, like air, like the effortless breath, sinking and floating, at the same time.
I don't move. Gravity is pulling me up into the flow. The air absorbs me into its continuity and wipes me clean of flesh and bone and weight that keeps me down. The past doesn't matter. The future doesn't matter. The present doesn't matter. The color is black. The sound is peace. All part of one space without weight.

 

Loud Noises

She likes to make loud noises.
Her high nose and golden hair entitle us to her opinions.
Of course.
She's so insightful.
With questioning inflections at the end of every sentence,
we're all amused.
Cue laugh.

I'm so hyper! I wonder why people don't like feeling jittery. I love energy! I feel like Allie Brosh with ADD. MWEE! If I was with some people who would not be weirded out by strange behavior, I would totally run in circles right now. I just feels like the right thing to do when you have energy, ya know, USE IT.

Aaanyway, I've been trying to be more social and make more friends, and IT'S WORKING. It's amazing. I just have to keep in mind that I am a cool person and so far nobody hates me and that I just need to give people a chance to get to know me, and viola! I feel like I'm more social. It doesn't even bother me as much that my grades are not stupendous anymore. Oh no! My poor laptop keys. Do they break if you press them too hard? Am I going to get Carpel Tunnel syndrome if I'm typing too forcefully? Can I count this as exercise? TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP!

Buuut, I have to figure out how to quit Neopets. It's such a stupid game, and yet I'm hooked. I'm like, Omg, look at me! I'm a millionaire! I collect over 1000 neopoints a day in interest! And I just want to keep getting richer. And then there's solitaire. It taunts me by never letting me win, so I rebel. I MUST pwn that muthafwka even if it takes all day!

I should do work, but really, I just want to find someone and tell him/her my life story. I'm conceited and excited about myself like that mwadafakka! Really, I should use my energy in some productive way, but if I try to write my paper, I'll probably inadvertently interject some form of mudafooka into it and cap stuff I get excited about, like, OMG STOP CAUSING MILLIONS OF BUTTHURT BY JUST IGNORING THOSE INTEREST GROUP MOTHAFUKAS AND PASS THE GOSHDARN LAW AND SAVE THIS COUNTRY FROM CERTAIN DESTRUCTION! ALL IS DOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! OMG! Maybe?

I hate the stock market. Yes, I've invested in the stock market and it's so annoying. It's like, Wow! You're earning money by investing in a solid company that provides useful services for society! NOPE. Someone said something bad about the economy so now investors are going to abandon their securities and devalue my securities. Goshdarn. I'm supposed to cut my losses. Okay. I guess it's better to lose 20% vs 50%. GOTCHA. Tomorrow, some company is going to report good earnings and the stock market will be happy again! I just lost even MORE money! Yay for the highly sensitive fluctuations that feed off of my savings! Doesn't it seem like exclamation points fit just about every sentence?!

If you want to try fantasy trading for free while earning real money for good performance, sign up for WallStreetSurvivor here and help me make $3 for referring you. I can buy cereal with $3. I LOVE playing with money. ZOMG. Why is there a Z in front of omg sometimes? Does it make it scarier because Godzilla has a Z in it too? ZOMG are people still using Xanga? If you do use Xanga and just read this, I'm sorry for wasting your life. ZOMG I LOVE XANGA =D

1 cup of coffee=love. Next stop, ecstasy! JK! ZOMG!

5/15/10

I wish I was skinny. I feel my stomach bulging and it bothers me but I'm too drunk and my stomach is too full to bother. I wonder what it's like to write poetry while drunk.

 

I sit next to you

but I hate feeling your heat invading my space.

I wish I could cut arms from your body

without hurting you.

I love you, but

I don't want this.

I know I can be much more miserable

without you.

 

Retreat into the soil

but my dreams are but dandelions

blown away by someone else's wish.

 

You can keep the pants.

they are in mens' fashion.

I'll keep the stained sheet

and clean up the mess.

Thanks for the memories.

We drank my wine

and there's still plenty left for me.

 

Crawl to sleep in the back, in the back

where I can watch the fire

and cheer on the smoke

going for heaven.

 

A bed made for one squeaked with two

but now it holds up the weight of three.

Nobody belongs here.

Nobody deserves this.

You who I love

You want to be somewhere farther up ahead.

I want to be alone and

miserable.

He wants to be home with the ones he understands

the ones who drink the same brand of beer.

 

Greetings toilet.

Thanks for flushing that shit away

but honestly

I do not appreciate you.

I wouldn't care if I had to fucking shit on the world.

Blossoms eat that shit

so don't call me shit.

Something beautiful always grows out of poop.

Stinky vomit inducing shit.

I can smear it all over my body because I don't care

and won't be able to smell it.

Gravity pulls me in the same direction

that shit falls.

Fall, fall, fall into this old, old life of been there's and done that's.

 

I fucking love music

emotion.

I can probably suffocate myself in this comforter.

I love to snuggle into it every morning

while the alarm clock snoozes.

Let me draw a portrait of you with my fountain pen.

I'm not good at drawing but you have a perfectly handsome face

only because other people think so,

but I agree.

I accidentally drew a lne on my own bed.

Fuck.

Where did he go?

Where has he gone?

Maybe he's taking a dump in the bathroom, or

maybe he wanted to run away like I've always wanted to.

I wait to fill my body with vodka and collapse in a vacant lot dark and deserted.

I want to play a game

I've torn way too much of my life off this lifespan already

too much

way too much

too much to bear and accept as a blip in the experiencemeter.

It's pathetic.

It's me.

I'm too used to focusing on the near

and dear

It's all I see.

It's too blurry and nauseating to look afar

look at the world as if it doesn't affect me directly.

God I love the action of writing with a very inky pen.

I just move and get a response a pleasant and highly predictable response.

She says, "write," and all I can do is think.

I think of the words that shape into moments that move me. I want to obey and to write, so I try to find my own moments, but my mind immediately lapses into the ones that have already been claimed with written words. I refuse to believe that there is nothing unique my existence has to share, but I fear it with my life. Should I find myself unable to write, unable to produce as an individual as opposed to reformatting the contents of my education, then the solution is simple. I have no reason to think. Someone else has already taken care of being for me.

This fear rushes blood to my muscles, and my eyes begin to flick around, searching. I focus on the nominal objects and images before me. Everything is new now. Everything is something that everyone else has missed. The frenzied scattering of dust from a hi, from a sigh, the secret topography growing gentle creases through the skin on my hand, the stray pen marks on a desk tallying the focused minds that once studied here, the weeds flourishing in the sidewalk cracks, knowing nothing except a purpose to survive. I try to notice the blank sheet of paper, brimming with possibilities, begging for wisdom and glory, but I am too incompetent.

I go back to thinking, this time of those universally perplexing concepts of happiness, purpose, love, politics and the like. I freely judge and criticize other people's ideas if they resemble my own. It should have been me. I lament people's wasted potential when their weaknesses are a reflection of myself. They can find their own problems. I find it amusing that for all the beliefs, dogmas, stereotypes, and differences, everyone is the same, so how am I supposed to be better? A basketweaver's love is just as moving as a fisherman's love. A single father's love is just as heartbreaking as a single mother's love. A wealthy white homosexual's heartbreak is just as devastating as my heartbreak. Nature likes to break even. I fantasize about writing about that truth, but in reality I can depict truth no better than fairy tales can.

Now I draw a blank and pause, because silence is meaningful. Everything and nothing is meaningful if you ponder it, but I am done pondering and musing, because I have nothing to show for all the thought invested. I need something to show (for reasons too pretentiously philosophical to explain), so I am going to have to settle and just write. Respecting my self-serving human nature, I will explore love and what it has meant to me. The hard part is over, but the decisive part is next: how?

I could open my mind to assume a child's poetic brilliance. Love will not be a sweet poison, irresistible pleasure in pain. Love will be cotton candy--fluffy, light, piercing with sugar's sweetness, but dissipative as winter's breath. Love will not be the sadistic whip of pleasant dreams. Love will be a tug on the ponytail, a kick under the table--hurt me because you don't know how to love me.

Is that what I want? Should I aim to catch my audience's emotions at just the right mood and bounce words off them at just the right angle? Perhaps I should try to write descriptive imagery that mesmerizes you softly like wispy strands of steam twirling up from a teacup. Perhaps love can be described as chocolate painting your senses with richness that turns your tongue, your whole mouth and then even your gaze into cream. But, anyone can write down what she sees or feels with pretty language; I want to make others understand.

I imagine that is accomplished by writing a fiction piece heavy with an unquantifiable weight so that readers know the piece is trying to speak. The storyline would seem incomplete in order to force readers to dig deeper. Then, I have no control over if my treasure can be found. Forcing the readers to do so much work may not make me the best writer, but readers are always so proud to have found the moral from their hard work that they cry "genius." Only a genius can find genius treasure. Such a story goes something like this: a boy hates everyone because they are all phonies and he asks a cab driver where the ducks go when the lagoon in Central Park freezes but receives no answer, so he gives a nun ten dollars and finds a girl and watches her ride a carousel. One could drown in the depths of this storyline without hope of ever reaching the bottom.

Writing is too tiring, too draining. I could write out every possible combination of letters and words while adhering to grammar rules, but would that be brilliant? I don't want my writing to be an interesting way to pass the time. I want my writing to change the way people think, to clarify abstractions, to add an extra color to the rainbow. There does not exist a cowardly writer. Each act of writing runs the risk of failing to accomplish what absolutely must be accomplished. Each finished piece defines the writer into either something more or something less. I am stuck dreaming of becoming more while gambling precious language away for less.

"Write," she says.

"What is the point of trying?" I ask myself.

"Write," she says, "because you can."

All the cool words/combos are mine.  Ex) oft between jokes and joint, primality, and fat between ready and primality, bro on top of reads and coral, and OVUM!
I could've won the game with SITE and SAD on top of ad and primality. Grr. Tied! I coulda spelled that one too!

So this place likes to eat.
Like a bullfrog it sits, snatches, swallows,
and croaks.
Niagra tries to drip to the floor,
but the vacuum overcomes
and eats.
Your plans, determination,
and titanium resolution
turn to slush slurped through a straw.

Eat eat eat.
Die die die.
Eat eat eat.

Lips chapped
and curled at the ends like withering leaves

Hairs frayed
reaching out every which way,
trying to escape

Finally, a kiss
but an inch of imaginary space
separates the lips from touching.

Eager eyes flick to the edge,
hoping to catch a...
but it has run out of the mirror already.

I say Goodbye
and watch

       wait.

Time slumps deeper, collapsing
over and over again
into the roars of the silence
wearing my name tag.

I saw her again last night. This time, we didn't do anything. We just sat on a tree, she on a higher branch, and I at a place closer to the base looking up at her dangling legs. I watched those soft pale pendulums swinging eternity away with a fluttering skirt blossom. Happiness slays time.

In some nights, we would dance on top of the moon held by water until we melted into each other's skin. Other nights, I would chase her through a blurred out crowd, through an ivy maze, or across the field. No other emotion crept around in the air, just pure bliss that could mindwash a person into forgetting the reality of sickness, death--or loneliness.

But, even eternity has to end to allow morning to begin. I drove to work and listened to the oldies station. I wondered what music she liked. Come to think of it, I don't know anything about her, but I do know everything she is. I know she always smells like flowers. I know she loves to play in the fields like a puppy. I know her favorite intimate activity is cuddling at the bottom of the lake. Most of all, I know she's mine and I love her.

I arrived at work and was able to concentrate well until noon. Some coworkers asked me to lunch with them, but I declined. I much prefer the memory of her company to the sound of real voices. Up to a certain point in time, I enjoyed dating and attractive women actually aroused me. I played along with their games and flirted back. That used to be fun. And then I met her.

When I first met her, I would daydream for hours imagining what it would be like to see her again, be with her again. I anticipated her like a raindrop anticipates the ocean. Will I join her as an endless body or will I evaporate before I can taste her? After a while, she started coming to me every night, and my days grew brighter every day. At the same time, I wanted her more than ever before. Panic seized me every so often when the thought of the possibility that I may never see her again strayed into my consciousness. Unbearable. I cannot survive the days without her nights, but I convinced myself that she would want me to continue my life as it is, even though it is not true.

She needs nothing from me. She has no material desires like the women I've dated, and yet I can give her anything she wants. We could go on a cruise around the world, perform in a stadium, fly into space--it's all possible with her. She needs nothing from me, but I need her. So why do I put myself through these motions? Life is not about blood or breathing. Life is about being--being happy.

I wrote an email to my boss. I told him that I quit and I apologize for not giving two week's notice, but he can keep my uncollected pay. Then, I left. I went to the drugstore and picked up the supplies for building myself a spaceship. I was going to fly to the moon because that's where we wanted to be.

I came home, showered, shaved, and even ate a few mints. I wanted to look and feel my best with her forever starting now. Bills, jobs, obligations, none of that mattered anymore. They could sort themselves out. They can take my house, close my accounts, whatever. Life is about being happy. I broke open the bottle's safety seal, swallowed the pills two by two, and waited for sleep to take me.