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.