Sunday, September 4, 2011

Drunken Paper Airplane

Self-loathing outpouring into nothingness.


Craving, but never satisfied.
I craving and (s)He refusing
to satisfy.

I see two standing,
talking, no

I've nothing to offer now but
some shallow self-hate,
and not many are in the market
for that
these days.

I'm eating away at myself from the inside out.
I'm hungry...starving...for myself.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Spend just a small amount of time in solitude,
and you'll forget that anyone else exists.
You start doing things you don't normally do,
like making weird mouth-noises
and having conversations with yourself.

Spend enough time alone and you'll feel
like you'll never see another face again.
Maybe your heart will race, or
your legs will get restless,
but you'll definitely be afraid.

Spend time with yourself--lots of it--
and you'll have three paintings
laying across your floor.
You'll have a notebook full of music,
and you'll have knit five scarves.

Spend too much time with nobody around,
and everything you see will be
some sort of weapon.
Every sharp edge or corner
stands out unmistakably.

Monday, May 30, 2011

I am a shape-shifter
my face changes
in form, in color, in elasticity
my face sags
my neck sags
my eyes sag
my eyelids are heavy
there are lines around my mouth
my blemishes are red
and I am ugly
when I'm alone.

When I'm with them
I am young
I have bright eyes
a nice mouth
radiant skin
I never see it, but I feel it
at times
when they tell me that I look good

My face when I am alone
is that of a woman aged 50 years
aged by bitterness,
by apathy,
and I am ugly.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Seeing people fills me with some kind of wretched anxiety—
no, terror—
and I get dizzy,
and my breathing becomes sharp,
and I watch the woman engulfed in blubber
sitting on the bench with her five children,
playing paddy-cake or

The fat disgusts me; why?
The swollen neck,
and the stomach that falls over the thighs
like a sack,
like a fanny-pack:
it makes me vomit.
I think about the fact that humans shit,
and I vomit twice.

I see an old man walking not two feet in front of me,
and my heart races,
and my muscle stiffen.
I blink five times and my eyes start to roll back into my head.
He has a hole in his back pocket,
and I think of all the things that may have fallen out.
He turns around,
and I think that he is going to speak to me,
but he simply bends down to pick up a half-smoked cigarette;
he finishes it.

The couple holds hands and a baby.
The man has a mullet.
The woman has a butterfly tattoo.
The baby is naked, save a diaper.
I want to murder them.
I want to drown them in a river.
I want to carve out the woman's tattoo.
I want to drag the man by his hair and
scrape his face across the asphalt.

I know what is going to happen.
It's only a matter of time.

Thursday, May 19, 2011

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

Purge every anxiety, every moment of overwhelming sadness, every betrayal, every disgusting thing I've ever done and seen done, every short-lived depression, every day without affection, every shitty thing they've said about me, every shitty thing I've said about everyone, every time they've touched me, every humoring comment, every text message, every hit of that, every fucked up dirty thought, every sob, every sense of extreme guilt, every shameful act, every thoughtless word, every fight.

I want to take a scalding hot shower and burn it all off of me.

I want to go to the river and throw it all in with a thousand-pound weight attached.

I want to pour gasoline over it and set it on fire.

I want to chop it up and make soup out of it.

I want to wrap it up in garbage bags and send it out to sea.

I want to bury it twelve-thousand feet deep.

I want it out of me and away from me and I want to be able to go more than a day without it rising to the top of my throat and being swallowed back down. I'm metabolizing it, slowly; it's going to run through my veins. It's going to be an inextricable part of me and I'm going to become the shit that I hate.

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

I want to taste the good again.

Monday, May 16, 2011

I wrote this while high, Okay?

There was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

He cried, because he thought that his idea was so brilliant yet unwritable,
and while he was crying, a bird flew into his room through a window.

"Birds have to be in stories; they're really cool and stuff," the bird said.

"No, silly bird. Birds are often in stories, but they don't HAVE to be in stories. I could name at least 100 stories in which there aren't birds," said the story-writer.

"Go ahead, then, do it," challenged the bird.

The story-writer couldn't think of a single story without a bird.
In fact, the only stories he could think of were stories that specifically mentioned birds:
Cinderella...well, okay, Cinderella was the only story he could think of at all.

The story-writer ignored the bird and continued brainstorming ideas for a story.

"I know!" exclaimed the story-writer. "I will write about a girl who has a wicked step-mother and wicked step-sisters and has to clean the house all day long!"

The bird chimed in, "Oh, no, that story has already been written. It's called Cinderella."

"Shit," said the story-writer. He couldn't get Cinderella off the brain.

He sat, and he thought.
He watched the clock for thirteen hours straight.
He sipped on some whiskey.
He read books and watched films and drew pictures and went fishing.
He did everything EXCEPT write stories.

"Say, now, why exactly do you call yourself a story-writer?" asked the bird, snarkily. "Have you ever even written a book?"

"I believe you meant to ask, 'Have you ever even written a story?' dear bird. And the answer is 'no,'" replied the story-writer.

"Then how do you get off calling yourself a story-writer?" demanded the bird.

"Well, I certainly am in the process of story-writing. Therefore, I am a story writer."

"I see."

The story-writer decided that his original story idea could be plausible with a bit of modification.
He would write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story...and it would end there.
Then, there could be some realization of plot and perhaps even a climax.
Maybe the innermost story-writer would realize that he was part of a story being written by a story-writer, and his universe would implode.
In fact, a resolution to the problem of the infinite story-within-a-story could be that you have to begin with the infinitely innermost story and work your way backward, to infinity, of course.
The idea was a little scattered, but he decided that he would run with it and see where it went.

Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, a woman entered the room.

"Now, woman, what on earth are you doing in my room?" chastised the story-writer.

"I was written into this room by the story-writer who is writing a story about us.
In fact, I am here to deliver that very news to you: you are part of a story being written by a story-writer who is part of a story being written by a story writer who is...well, I think you get the idea.
To infinity, and stuff."

"Well, I'll be."


The story-writer realized that the reason his ideas were scattered was because they were fragments of the ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him, and the ideas of that story-writer were fragments of ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him...and so on, to infinity, and stuff.

"Your universe will implode when I shut the door on my way out," the woman warned.

"Yes, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing my story will implode after that, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing his story will implode after that...and so on, to infinity, and stuff. Right?"

"Wrong," said the woman, just before slamming the door.

As she did, an infinite number of universes simultaneously imploded. The timing of the women's entries in each of the universes was so perfect as to cause a simultaneous implosion so impressive that the result was an explosion which birthed an infinite number of universes.

And in the innermost of those universes...

...there was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

So, instead, he wrote about a baboon that danced to "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole to earn money for his dying owner's chemotherapy.

It was a best-seller, especially in the cancer-having, baboon-owning demographic, and the story-writer lived extravagantly until the day that he died.

Friday, May 13, 2011

to be continued indefinitely

I can finally write my masterpiece.

Words are spewing out of my mouth and it doesn't make sense and I can't stop them I'm in a haze. My head is buzzing the words are echoing but I can't stop they just keep coming. 'You know, you know, you know, you know, you know, you know...' I see that face from the corner of my eye just stop it just stop talking why can't I and bullshit seeps between my lips and i'm talking in circles with too many 'um's.

the slide is the boat and you're on top and you're holding my arm and i'm hanging. i don't think that i will really die but i do and i don't want you to let go. you do and my heart jumps into my throat but it lasts less than two seconds and i'm in the grass and you say 'let's do it again.'

the bed is bigger than mine and the tv is in front of me and everything makes me think of sex. the bed post is a giant phallus and i rub myself up against it. i kiss it now it's a man and we're kissing; the tv is on and he has just flung a meatball down her dress. the bedpost has my bite marks in it. a statue of mary sits on the end table. mary watches me rub myself against the phallic bedpost and my grandparents are in the living room.

the crows are on the fence and i run back and forth along it with my dogs and i think of 'the raven' and edgar allen poe even though i don't know what or who that is but i've heard it. the crows scare me as i think that they are going to peck my eyes out and i hope that they do. i look at the sun for too long and i want to go blind because i want to know what it's like.

my baby brother sits on me and i hate myself but i'm only a child
the guilt and the shame ruins me

we sit on the bed and i'm scared because you tell me that you want to go to hell because you know that your mom will be there. you don't want to be without your mom and i write you a song as if i know so much. my grandma hates me and she always has but she loves you and so does my mom and that is why i have my scar on my knee.

that boy kissed that girl and i'm angry and i hide in the tunnel and throw rocks at the inside and it makes such a nice clang but i know that i'm making a fool of myself but i don't care.

french fries taste good when you're eight and find out that your best friend got killed by his dad. but he wasn't your best friend but you tell everyone that he was and you've convinced yourself that he was too. the play place isn't good on a day like this because you always hole yourself up in there and don't come out and your mom worries so much and today you would really hole yourself up in there. the second half of this memory is a lie.

squeeze my hand baby, please, squeeze it quit being so unresponsive quit being so stiff i see that look in your eyes please squeeze it don't take it away before you squeeze it because i'm going to have to do it if you do because i promised myself this is the test just squeeze I feel you flinch please.

the pillow feels good between my thighs and i don't ever want to look another person in the eyes again and I want to sink into the bed and never leave

we race on stick horses around derby time and i can't think about anything but sex even though i don't know what it is but it's all that i've thought about since we watched fly away home and you knew what i was doing there in the sleeping bag

but i hated that blue puppet and it scared me so much that i wished that you would have left it at the church but i didn't want to take it off of my bed because i felt bad for it. i hid under the blankets while you were in my room and played with myself and i knew that you knew but i fell asleep before i could care and i dreamed about the giant blue puppet and it terrified me but i told it that i loved it when i told my bears and dolls because i thought that it would kill me if i didn't

dad took me to see a man all the time and he traded baseball cards and had a big white beard but i don't know his name and dad doesn't remember doing this and i wonder why I do. i remember the castle and the bag of chips that i ate there but i will never know what it was or who that man was or why my dad never made me do schoolwork.

the babysitter called me a pig and i sobbed as i shoveled down my cottage cheese and choked on the curds and felt myself balloon and heard myself oink.

you wrote me a note 'if i'm dead tomorrow it's all your fault' and i didn't know what to do so i told on you. we're not friends anymore and i'm sorry but i think that you're a bitch.

'times of sex 1000000000000' 'kassandra what is this?' 'micah wrote it i don't know what sex is'

the commercial is anti-abortion and I say 'that's terrible' and you reprimand me for knowing what sex is and you get mad at me when i talk about gay week at disney because i'm not supposed to know what that is either because i'm in third grade

surfin' USA on my swing and so many times we sat in the chair swing and talked about nothing i miss the sun and i miss my back yard and i miss lauren and britney and michael and chad sams and feeding britney feces on a stick because she thought it was chocolate. her house smelled like ramen noodles and i hear that she has a baby now. the roly polies were so fun to play with after a game of tornado.

you sat on my bed and we wrote in my diary together and i write something but you scribble it out, laughing. i remember it but i won't tell because i know that you wouldn't want me to. you can still see it underneath the scribble marks.

i've always hated my ga-ga and she has always hated me but i don't know why but she did something to me and i know this because of how much i hate her and never want to see her evil face again.

"she's helped me more than you ever could hope to, and in ways that you could never comprehend."

this isn't over just wait it will last forever it cannot end.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

If you want everyone to love you,
then you need to be mysterious.

The trick is making people believe that you're showing yourself to them and ONLY them...

They want to feel special, as though they've found a secret treasure-

-but they can never know your face.

If they're allowed to know your face at all, then it can only be a silhouette,
or a hand-covered profile,
or a shot with red highlights and blue shadows and no green
and no face.

(for no one is as beautiful when fully exposed)

Your name might be an alias,
but it has to be interesting.

(but probably not alabaster; it's a bit too overt)

You should speak in riddles,
and you should make them try to
figure you out,
all the while laughing at the fact that
you never actually say anything.

You should be separated from them by a glass screen.

They should never hear your voice; if they do, then it should be low,
and distorted by eerie tones
and music box melodies.

Because the truth of the matter is this:
the more you know of someone, the less you can love them.

This is because we are all

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Everything is all up inside me
If bloodletting were an option for the psyche,
then I'd run with it.

I think thousands of things that I never say.
I may mean to,
but they won't come out.

...there's just so much that you don't know.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011


I'm surrounded by a wall
with an electric field, and
so many barbs,
and lots of nasty prickly things.

The littlest things make me scared.
I run to the corner like a child,
and I shudder.

Feelings wrench your gut,
but you can't distinguish between
legitimacy and

The more often those feelings
prove themselves to be valid,
the harder it gets to
shake them off.

A constant state of heart-in-throat
is likely quite unhealthy.

An incessant tingling of nerves
probably means something bad.

Monday, April 18, 2011

The music swam through the room;
we were in a fishbowl,
and everyone gurgled
and everyone “bloop bloop bloop”-ed.
The strumming fucked the plucking
and the drumming fucked the plinking
and it was one giant orgy
that moaned
into my ears.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

the only word I am able to think is



being in a perpetual state of screaming FUCK would be really satisfying.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

It's Called an Extended Metaphor, Fuckass. Read-Along

A little girl took a walk
to see her new neighborhood
for the first time.
She immediately noticed that everything was ugly.
No matter how newly-painted the houses were,
or how clean the cars were,
they were ugly underneath their fixings.

A little boy saw her walking
and decided to scare her silly.
He got some mud on his hands
and walked up behind her with it.
He rubbed and rubbed her hair with it;
he waved his muddy fingers through it.
The girl was not scared at all,
but she faked surprise
and faked her scared screams,
and this happened every day
again and again,
and she got tired of it.


She walked out of her neighborhood,
and down to the lake,
where there were flowers everywhere:
pretty flowers, gorgeous flowers,
and they whispered, "Darling, you're beautiful.
You deserve flowers as beautiful as we
to fashion into a necklace
and drape over your shoulders."
She remembered her dandelion
sitting in her cup at home,
and these flowers did seem much prettier.
She did agree that maybe she needed
these flowers
to complement her beauty.

The little girl saw an old, log house
and it looked so interesting.
She saw a window that she could peek through,
and she knew that she shouldn't spy,
but she was too curious not to.
She looked through that window
and saw nothing worth looking at,
but she returned every day,
assuming that there must be something
neat in there
if she looked at just the right time.

She went to her best friend's house
(she loved her best friend very much)
and they sat and played with bugs
for a little while,
not doing much,
when a pretty girl with a rich daddy
and a big house with lots of toys
asked her to go to her house and play.
The little girl told her best friend
that her mom called her home,
but it was a lie.
She went to the rich girl's house
and played with so many toys,
but it wasn't fun anyway.

The little girl had a diary,
and she named it Janie.
She wanted to tell Janie everything in the world,
but she was afraid that Janie would be mad,
so the little girl only told Janie what she wanted to hear
and kept everything else locked up inside her head-box,
which was the little girl's way of saying "self."

Friday, February 18, 2011


A mind reels with nowhere to go.
It winds and winds and
but produces nothing.
A problem.
I see it, but I will never know
how to fix it.

I’ve always wanted to invent something.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


My fingers tear through a snag and all I can think about is the fact that my face may be pretty, but it is framed by a torn-up bird's nest. After that, all I can think about is how insignificant hair is. I want it gone.
My lips are dry and flaky, my skin is rough and red and bumpy, and my eyes are chocolate-rimmed and smudgy. Nothing about today feels good, and by “feels good” I mean “looks good.”
My mood is set, and based on what?
Nothing too important.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I hope someone writes a song about me someday
I hope I can be a pervasive thought
that nags and nags all day.
Maybe I am.
I hope to hear that line that
speaks to me,
tells me, "you know what this one is about,"
when I'm sipping tea in my room or
gripping my steering wheel too tight.

I am selfish, but I want to have to tell someone
that I'm not everything, that it's unhealthy to feel that way,
all the while cherishing the sentiment
in the dark corner of my bed,
where I grip my pillow as tight as the steering wheel,
and sip dopamine
and lavender extract
from my teddy's hands

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

one word; 60 seconds

sitting alone in a darkroom
is much different from sitting alone in a dark room.
darkrooms aren’t that dark;
they’re very red
very sensual
i would touch myself in a darkroom,
but not a dark room.
i would eat a crimson apple in a darkroom and feel evil,
but in a dark room i would only feel

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Be as cryptic as can be,
because you have no privacy;
there is no room for the honesty
of a bound book of secrets
locked and stashed beneath your mattress.

The honesty to the self is healthy
and necessary,
but your brain is not a tablet and
its storage space is only room enough for bits and
pieces of your whole.

You are trapped inside of y-o-u,
and everything is a blur,
and everything is falsified,
and you don't remember the last time you
had a conversation with yourself.

You cannot trust yourself.
You cannot spill your secrets to y-o-u,
because she never keeps them,
and she would judge you for them anyway.

Lie, lie, lie,
and forget that you want to be "good"
forget that y-o-u stifles you and
forget that you haven't spoken
in a while.

Monday, January 24, 2011

The Flaws of Relating

Words won’t ever fully get at what I’m getting at here:
a casually-tossed opinion mistaken for judgment,
an observation interpreted as vanity,
a spectacular theory on the whole of life,
never to be quite understood.

I know
you think
I mean
that thing
you hear,

But the pictures in my brain are nothing like
the words I spew in half-assed explanation.

You don’t get me;
that doesn’t mean that I’m special.

I am like you are like he is like she is like they are like we.

Not one of us gets the other,
because our minds are transcendent,
but communication isn't.