Monday, December 27, 2010

The Truth About Sylvia

When I said that my wonky penmanship drove me crazy, I wasn't speaking literally.
I just meant that it really fucking got on my nerves.

No. What really drove me crazy was my inability to orgasm.

It was a bitch, yaknow. You have three kids and
you've never once achieved the big "O."

When I stuck my head in the oven that night, a miracle happened.

Ya see, I took the silver whisks out of my eggbeater
and turned it on "low..."

Just after my moment of climax, I decided I wanted to live.

Just before I tried to pull my face out, I lost
consciousness.

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Tantalus

I want to hang above you.
Breasts out.
Shoulders back.
You reach out and a rope pulls me away,
pulled by an invisible
rope-puller.

I want you to watch as others touch me.
Bare neck.
Smooth thighs.
The jealousy and desire unbearable,
you writhe in eternal
torture.

Wrongs needn't be righted,
shouldn't need to be righted.

It's in my head,
but it's no use.
I want vengeance.


No matter how much I love you,

I want to hurt you

so badly

just once

to even

the score.

Monday, December 20, 2010

Thanks, Elly.

My teeth had been grinding furiously for the past who-knows-how-long?
Minutes?
Hours?
I became absolutely still and focused on feeling my body, but everything was numb and buzzing slightly.
I was vaguely aware that my left leg was crossed over my right, but I felt as if I were suspended in a vat of jello or floating in a dark pool of water at exactly my body temperature.
Something felt so wrong.
I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I thought about a lot of things in that who-knows-how-long?, like,
“How can other people even exist?”
and,
“Can anyone ever get me but myself?”
I felt crazy.
My mind was racing, but my body and face were calm. Anyone who looked at me would think I was simply tired or uninterested.
What went on inside my head was a milling factory or a crowd rushing toward the last scrap of food on the earth; it switched between the two, as the first was structured and productive, and the latter was maniacal and primitive.
I thought about how I simply did not care about anyone else. I thought about how I hated everyone else.
I spent thirty minutes trying to think of a word.
I read a book and decided that people just let themselves think that they’re crazy when they’re really not, all the while doing that very thing myself.
I remembered all the times I’ve tried to get across the point that the limits of language make it impossible to really get a point across.
I thought about how I’d never express anything exactly as I meant to.

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but thoughts of death and forever crept in through my nostrils and eye-slits and traveled up to my brain which sent messengers carrying feelings of fear and desperation to my heart and my fingertips, who received them gladly and made me a writhing nutcase in my bed.

I wrote about it all before all of it even happened, and I mixed up the order so I could pretend that none of it was real.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

911

I know that lovers always lie, no matter how hard they try, and no matter how convinced they are that their words are truths.
You can't please someone always, and you will always sometimes hurt them in theory or in your head. That's where the fibs come in.

I thought that I heard a hijacked aeroplane headed straight for my skull.
It crashed through my eyeball and into the office room where my brain stores my truths and my lies and this song and that scene and his sentence and her face when she cried;
it stores them all in neat little files in neat little cabinets in neat little ways
so it can neatly pull them out and give them to me on demand.
The plane crashed in through the window and into those cabinets,
and the files went flying.
And the filers also went flying, down down to the gravel below, where their own
brain-files smashed and flew and the world was a mess of floating information for awhile.
When everyone picked up the papers and folders and put them back neatly into their slots in the cabinet drawers, a few things happened.
1) Some of the truths were filed in the lies files, and some of the lies were filed into the truths files.
2) A song with 6 billion copies was filed into the file of every person on the planet, and we all hummed the same tune.
3) His memories got mixed up with her memories, and soon everyone had some memories that weren't their own, they belonged to someone else, and we all felt connected in a strange way that seemed real but wasn't at all.

I look at you and you think you see a glimmer in my eye; remind yourself that you're wrong.

We're all just victims of disorganization.

Sunday, October 24, 2010

"Dude, did you see that banana just walk by?"

"No, there isn't one. Shut the fuck up."

"Oh, haha, right. I'm just way too stoned."

"You're on weed, not LSD. Quit being a faggot."

"Hey, don't use that word. Gay people are cool."

"I'm not talking about homosexuals; I'm talking about you. You're being a faggot. I'm never smoking with you again."

"Sorry..."

"Yeah, you'd better be. You're acting like an eighth grade girl on cough syrup."

"Really?"

"Yeah...just stop talking. Try to move with time. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, time's like, breathing. It's so cool."

"No, time is not fucking breathing. Stop with your fake tripping. Weed is chill."

"Okay..."

"Do you feel giddy?"

"YEAH!"

"No, you don't. Shut the fuck up. I was testing you. You're a goddamn phony."

"I'm sorry."

Saturday, October 23, 2010

When there are things that are going to hurt you forever

and can't be fixed

what the HELL are you supposed to do?


_______________________________________________


Midas' touch was cold,
but you're a piece, dear,
aren't you now?
Lustrous...
lustre...
lusty...
lust.
I run my fingertips
over your smooth breast,
then knock with my four knuckles
and it hurts.
Don't mind it, dear;
you look good, anyway.
It only matters how you appear
from far away.
As long as no one touches, it's okay.
You'll be my
trophy love.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Take It Upon Yourself

Trees don't have mouths, and
ten seconds is much less than an hour.
The more you take in, the more you lose
(of yourself, in this case, anyway).
One million pieces, not shattered but
torn and squished by malicious fingers.
You can put them back into a pressure-mold
but nothing will ever
be
the
same.
Boys become men belatedly,
so maybe you ought to figure it all out
instead of twiddling your thumbs
while you wait.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Still, She Haunts Me

Death sleeps by greenish glow of hazy nights.
A mist lay over finely chiseled stone.
The howling of the dogs at soft moonlight
could never leave my mem'ry on its own.
A simple whisper cut through droning sound;
a tale of lovers torn apart by sea.
The girl who retches, grasping at the ground;
the boy who waves goodbye on his right knee.
I never heard a sound so sad as this.
Wind-whispered stories masked for death's cold kiss.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

You've Sat Yourself Upon My Shelf

I miss you. I really miss you. Why do I still fucking miss you?

Ashes to ashes to
dust
makes me sneeze
makes me feel...things

like the memories
in your memory
cells
on the cells in my
nose

sniffing your finger
nails
snorting your eye
lashes

sprinkle your ashes to ashes
on top of my
cereal.
mix up the oats
and the strawberries;
bananas and
lips;
yes, your lips.

you may be gone,
but this way
you are inside of me

...for the first
time

Friday, August 13, 2010

It was like a bizarre dream; you wish you could tell it to someone, but no words or descriptions could ever coherently translate what you saw. Your mind cannot grasp in your waking moments that which it can see when you're asleep.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Why?

Wisdom is a woman, to the classics. Personified in Athena, wisdom is the disheveled war-goddess. She is the Proverbial virgin bride, more precious than jewels. I don't feel the same about wisdom as Solomon or Homer seem to. I don't envision wisdom a gentle, earthy goddess. I don't see a quiet, nurturing woman. I see the old, wrinkled man with long, frizzy white hair and a lengthy beard. His forehead is furrowed; he wobbles on a wooden stick. He is Gandalf the Gray; he is Dumbledore. He is Merlin in his forest cabin, with thousands of books lining his shelves, readily available to be pulled out when an eager pupil seeks the knowledge he possesses. He is The Giver, who holds every truth, every memory, and with the pressing of his fingertips to my temples he can share it all with me. It's a whimsical view of wisdom, a sort of magical, maybe childish view. but while the idea of this wise man evokes warm, hearty feelings, the idea of a wise woman makes me cringe.

Monday, July 26, 2010

This...is a Story. Finish it.

That motherfucker is staring at me.

There he was. An ogre. Sitting across the room, alone in a booth. What sort of creepy fuck eats at restaurant alone...in a goddamn booth? And he's staring at me; he has been staring at me for the last five minutes. Every time I look up...those eyes. Those fucking disgusting furrowing bushy whacked out eyebrows. That fucking mustache looks like someone shit and smeared it in splotchy patches above his lip. He's so fucking fat, too. God. I know I'm attractive or whatever, but does he have to be so goddamn obvious?

A friend joins him. Equally as creepy-looking. Thin, frail, glasses, a goatee. Fatass nudges Skins and they both look at me. They're smiling. Oh, god, I cannot even look at them. I can't make eye contact. They're fucking raping me in their minds right now. Thinking the most horridly vulgar, nasty things about me. I know I'm hot, but can't they control themselves? I give them the finger. They raise their eyebrows but continue looking. God, the nerve...

More people are staring, Kass.

Nearly every man in the room is staring. I'm not used to so much attention, yet. They should give me a break. Ease me into this whole, "every-man-who-looks-at-you-wants-to-ravage-you" thing. It makes me so uncomfortable, damn. My skin is crawling; I feel so fucking invaded. Why are men such creepy fucks? Why are they such assholes--such dogs?

Something flashes behind me. What the FUCK? Is someone taking a goddamn picture of me? I turn to tell off the motherfucker who thinks he can get off taking a picture of me without my consent.

A football player is sitting at a table in the court. A famous football player...I've seen him before...he's signing photographs, footballs, and jerseys at a table in the court. Dads are bringing their kids; everyone is crowded around. Guys in the mall from every direction are staring. Guys in this restaurant are staring out the window directly behind me...at a football player.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

We sat there in silence; you stroked my fingers with your fingertips.
You pulled my hand up to your mouth and kissed it softly once, twice, three times.

I thought, "Why the hell be so nice when you're doing the shittiest thing in the world?"

You thought, "I want to cushion the hurt just a little..."

A whole mess of things ran through my head. Maybe this wouldn't last long; maybe I could hate you. Maybe we really could be the best of friends; maybe our friendship really could be stronger.

Perhaps I'd find someone to make me feel good about myself.

I bawled into your shoulder a bit and you kissed my neck; probably the most sensitive kiss I have ever experienced in my life (funny, coming from you).

I wish I could have known what you were thinking.

I suddenly felt as though I was in the presence of a stranger. The feeling hasn't gone away.

I never cried after that.

...until right now.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Kevin Costner

Running water terrifies me;
can't sleep,
can't think long enough
to be worthwhile.
Not a drip, but a flow
rushing
like
the white-water
with leeches
sucking at my leg.

I am scared
of open water
but in awe of
its apparent infinity;
reminds me of
something...