the coolest guys, around the town

I cannot handle this.  I can NOT handle this.  \
Angry beyond belief. In the worst frame of mind I've been in for a straight-up 3  months.   MY OWN FREAKING BROTHER. 


okay. enough of that.
hope you're doing well.  I am being less dramatic than I seem.  It's been a while since I got to rant on here. Besides, I deleted my whole blog almost a year ago, so those posts are gone forever.   well here ya go:

waltzing through the forest of juxtapositions

I alternate between writing these super happy nostalgic poems, and psychotic creepy ones.
this first one is going to make you sick but it was fun to write.  Also it is very inaccurate.  I was a tomboy when I was a kid. I got into fights with boys.

 example number 1

Elementary, My Dear

I am reduced
to grade-school levels of
puppy love

check yes or no
crayon hearts on the wall
no one around to
make me scrub them off

give me a dandelion and
I will write about it
in my diary,
hide the key under my mattress

let's build a blanket fort

let's climb a tree
while they chant the spelling
that makes us blush
K-I-S-S-I-N-G

let's drink milkshakes
from the same glass,
then make our parents pay for them
when they tell us we're
too young to date

---

compare that with this,

-----------------

 example number two

Manners

she has a platter

and a glint in her eye

little miss fifties housewife

little miss fanged-doily

her voice is smooth

(try my patience!

or

try my patients!)

just what or who is she

offering you?

The slice is

pepto-bismol pink

you say to yourself,

“this looks ghastly,

but I mustn’t be impolite.”

she is ready

she is smiling

she hands you a fork

--------

I had a good talk with my friend yesterday.  He's in treatment for depression in Houston, shout-out to someone he met there who supposedly reads my blog: Emily A. L.   emily? emily? are you out there???? thanks for reading :)

I was talking to my brother last night and it's kind of sad when you're surprised to see someone happy.   I haven't seen him happy since before I had my mental breakdown.

Sometimes I get these horrible flashbacks of the way his face looked when he was in absolute misery

because of me.  

That's actually the one reason I regret well... what happened last year.  All the hell it put him through.  And my parents, grandparents, and cousins.  I also regret how public, and facebook-documented it all was.

Hoedown

Madness is the

deformed cousin

of genius

I can be your deformed cousin

I can be your distasteful Halloween

costume

(too much fake blood? Too many

dead crows?)

and oh heck darlin'

life won't always be easy for us

but it sure won't be boring

you complement my brand of lunacy

delightfully well

let's go cook ourselves some unhinged

absurdity

----------

I will never never NEVER date someone as crazy as me.  That would be a horrible disaster.  It'd be fun though.

that night that night that night

I'm adding your name

to my dictionary

or

maybe

not

perhaps it is quite appropriate

for you to be underlined

in red

a memory:

dancing with you
wide-eyed and breathless
too drunk on your awkward charm
to be anything but obvious

Parvati

that night we were driving back to Fargo

not really saying much, until

“what if we just kept going?”

our bikes were already tied on the back,

our luggage in the trunk

(this could be so easy)

we stared at each-other

knowing this as true Kairos,

the opportune moment.

we could stay here, just here

or take the wild road (out)

we chose wrong, we chose easy

we chose safe and sorry

(should have taken an airplane,

turned “we probably shouldn't”

into

“screw it, let's go”)

I want I want I want

India for Holi

Rio for Carnival

Thailand for the

full-moon party

in Koh Phangan

I want to dance in Seoul

I want hostels filled with

drifters, the ones who

know eight different languages

the ones for whom life is a grand roaming

the ones so drunk on wanderlust

they can barely find their way home

So I run into my roommate's room, "Hey, which countries have you been to? " It'S LIKE SEVEN

Eight Hour Shifts

I know you don't smile

for days,

weeks,

when I'm not here

not here to sing you

Frank Sinatra songs

sugar sugar how ya

get so fly

not here to spin you around

(even in a wheelchair,

you dance beautifully

and I never won't tell you this)

you ask me

when you can leave

I tell you

“soon”

and leave the room

holding back tears

love is noise

suicideandcheese - tumblr.com

it’s the scent of fleshly
showered, fresh.
but mostly the pluck
my fruit of her hair.
it’s that good. we
pass on sidewalk
and I dawdle my step
just to refresh my
rotten self. maybe
she’s like me.
maybe she’s fleshy
too, just not mostly
core. I turn my head
and she speeds
up to likely be with
her favorite smell;
another human, or
have her dinner, or
what’s the difference?
it’s all a need.
I need little things.
I need little.
I am glad it’ll never
have to be more
from her orchard.
there was nothing
between us,
just the air.
but this is how
to smell in love
every day,
in silent passing.
this is how to
fall for a stranger.
I will shower when
I find home.
I will speed up if
I find home.

got me here, what you do now is up to you now.

I want to spin

but you keep pulling me closer

and I am powerless against your gravity

like the moon's

earth-worship,

this moment is endless

although I'm whisper-singing to you

in Spanish,

our bodies speak

a different language

entirely

and they're staring at us

like they need a 

translator 

--------------------

I don't think I have ever danced that way with anyone.  which is saying something.  so thank you.

“Will you have enough money for Korea if you go to California this Christmas?”

http://mightgetrunovermightgetshot.tumblr.com/
hit up my tumblr if ya like

I wrote this

Skinned Knees, Endless Summer

Peanut butter tastes like

grade school in autumn

my grandfather's sweater smells

of cinnamon and is the exact shade

of a man staring down an ending

The sun's amnesia made us

forget the existence of winter

and we only understood years

in terms of birthday cake

we laughed at your little brother

when he got stuck in the toddler swing

at the park

we tore off the huge plastic leaves

on my grandmother's decorative tree

and pretended we were birds

funny how even though growing up

when you're that young

is a movie on fast-forward,

we were the ones

least aware of time,

least aware of the

slow-march countdown

to the final sunset

summer's rules:

if you swing high enough

you might fly

and if you run fast enough

you might live forever.

----

and this is one of my faaaaaave songs.  emphasis on the a's.

Another Ode to Kitchen Appliances

oh!  I just realized something!  I no longer only write poems that are about boys!  *pats herself on back*  good job home-girl.

my blender does not understand

smoothies

“Accept My Gift of Pineapple

Thy Foul Beast!”

this is a blood sacrifice

and she is sadly unreceptive

I begin the main course

I have cupboards full of words

See-Jane-Runs

quick brown foxes

I have half a mind (no, three-fourths of a mind)

to sauté them

into

the golden eggs

more difficult to crack

than I had thought they would be

(forge? My stove doesn't get

hot enough,

I think)

I will spice the adjectives with

madness

I will verb these nouns

throw in a voodoo doll or

tulips! Two! Lips!

Crack open a maraca

and sell you some rhythm

Oh you will love this

you will devour this

You will get up and dance to this

I think

I do not understand

cooking

Ritual Sacrifices from the She-wolf

I hate her you said
she is awkward

you were licking off the disdain
from your dainty ringed fingers

"you've a lovely home miss...
may I address you by your real name?"

my husband you said,
will be here momentarily,
with a rub of the lamp

it's all ritual animal slaughters with you
(rabbits, pigs, giraffes)

oh god it's the lady or the tiger with you
always
(I wish I could keep both doors
shut, and you'd be both and neither;
Schrodinger's fanged kitten)

Chivalry and Kitchen Appliances

This is my assignment for poetry class:  

Write a poem in the surrealist mode. Your poem should include genuinely strange, startling, vivid and specific language, images, details, and insights. Don't confuse surrealism with formula fantasy or sci fi; you want to draw on archetypal and unconscious (not conventional or cliche) associations as bizarre as anything you've dreamed. Be weird. Be unpredictable. Allow genuine randomness into your work
So here goes
____________
___________

Chivalry and kitchen appliances

She is a brown recluse spider

with a lidless blender

a very large blender

ominous in a vague

I'm-not-quite-sure-but-this-

crab-salad-might-have-fangs

way

she resides in a yellow house

in the middle of a maze

a very large maze

laced with auditory hallucinations and

fun-house mirrors

an enormous crowd of people mill about

clutching hedge clippers and

poorly crafted love potions 

they are all searching for the correct path

they are all trying to be the first

through her labyrinth,

past the flytrap garden she's cultivated,

to open the padlocked door

this latest is

traipsing along daintily

fancying himself a knight

though his armor is unmistakably cardboard,

glue dripping out from the

hasty assemblage

he's picked her flowers (daisies)

he's written her sonnets (cliche ones)

he's doused in Armani cologne (Devoted Infatuation No. Five)

the door swings open

our hero enters, offering his gifts up,

a blood sacrifice to Parvati

Into The Blender!

His carefully chosen words mangled up

and hurled back in a puppy-love stenched tornado of

floral sentence fragments

he stands bemused, awestruck,

covered in aftermath

an insect enamored by bright lights

he will stay

and she will weave her web,

she can't help it.

(she never can)

Counting Sheep - Russell Edson

Counting Sheep

A scientist has a test tube full of sheep. He
wonders if he should try to shrink a pasture
for them.
They are like grains of rice.
He wonders if it is possible to shrink something
out of existence.
He wonders if the sheep are aware of their tininess,
if they have any sense of scale. Perhaps they think

the test tube is a glass barn ...
He wonders what he should do with them; they
certainly have less meat and wool than ordinary
sheep. Has he reduced their commercial value?
He wonders if they could be used as a substitute
for rice, a sort of wolly rice . . .
He wonders if he shouldn't rub them into a red paste
between his fingers.
He wonders if they are breeding, or if any of them
have died.
He puts them under a microscope, and falls asleep
counting them . . .

____________________________________

what a strange man! I love it

I had to write a surrealistic poem for my poetry class... It involves blenders, poisonous spiders, a knight in cardboard armor, a maze, venus fly-traps, and a Hindi goddess.  People like my other one better though, I may post it tomorrow

A Martian Sends a Postcard Home - Craig Raine

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings--

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on the ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the properites of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside --
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet, they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night, when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves --
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

I have never been in love

(unless the rain and the stars count?) I like having the experience still waiting for me, untainted by bitterness and ruined expectations.


also,  this is my new motto.  I mean... I've been living this for a while but here it is in a smashup of letters and phrases (as told to my best friend in a facebook convo):

For now, I'll do what seems best and throw myself at whatever I feel like, with the perfect blend of wild untamedness and discretion.

you'd think these would cancel each other out.  au contraire!  Discretion just keeps me protected from overdoses and STDs!  bonus!

I love being young and stupid.  I love being allowed to make terrible decisions.  I stay up too late because every single night, I forget how horrible waking up tastes on four hours of sleep.  I dance because I can't help it.  I write because I have to, and I have crushes on men like I'm a thirteen year old girl.  Once in a while I get what I want, because the universe is impressed by my audacity.    WWMBD.   this is living.

For those of us who are unabashedly weird and crazy and do not care what other people think.  I love you just for this.

Because you look like, what I feel like, when I'm with you

Some Last Questions - W.S. Merwin

What is the head
                A.  Ash
What are the eyes
               A.  The wells have fallen in and have
                     Inhabitants
What are the feet
               A.  Thumbs left after the auction
No what are the feet
               A.  Under them the impossible road is moving
                     Down which the broken necked mice push
                     Balls of blood with their noses
What is the tongue
               A.  The black coat that fell off the wall
                     With sleeves trying to say something
What are the hands
               A.  Paid
No what are the hands
               A.  Climbing back down the museum wall
                     To their ancestors the extinct shrews that will
                     Have left a message
What is the silence
                A.  As though it had a right to more
Who are the compatriots
               A.  They make the stars of bone

__________________________________________________________

I love this.  All my classes are about reading.  I love being an English major, except for all the pretentious people in my classes.  There aren't as many as I had first thought though.

beautiful earmeal for you.

live it up until you remember what living is

  I'm all out of Atmosphere lyrics so I threw a different title on here.

Salsa, Rice, Moshpits, and the Love I have for your Soundproof Basement

There is something splendid about

a Peruvian man leaving the rice to burn

because he is unable to keep himself

from dancing

when a good Salsa song comes on

there is something exquisite and wild about a woman

eyes closed

paying uncontrollable obeisance to the rhythm

thrilling to the beat

waxing and waning to the sound waves

there is something gorgeous about the

I-can't-help-it

the movements that occur in synchronization with the vibrations

the blurring of the line between sound and limb's poetry

fantasia's demise comes softly, unanticipated

followed by dazed wakefulness

surprised to see walls and ceiling

surprised to be alive in

only three dimensions
_______________________________________________________
If you haven't figured this out I love dancing more than most things.  And this is the only good thing I've written in a while.

Until I Crash Into My Fate

escape escape escape


I'm going to Korea next summer.  That is all

 goodnight, travel well  ~weebobeebo at deviantart.com

last night there was a blue moon (the 2nd full moon in one month)  and I cannot remember ever having a better one.  


One of the deepest and strangest of all human moods is the mood which will suddenly strike us perhaps in a garden at night, or deep in sloping meadows, the feeling that every flower and leaf has just uttered something stupendously direct and important, and that we have by a prodigy of imbecility not heard or understood it. There is a certain poetic value in this sense of having missed the full meaning of things. There is beauty, not only in wisdom, but in this dazed and dramatic ignorance.
-Gilbert K Chesterton