not far past midnite-

too much to say and no way to say it. i can’t need the silence to sleep on my shoulders before i spill my soul onto their expansive knowledge of gods.

Mon Jun 21st

I: definitely feel safer when i’m naked. being draped by air gives a more comfortable feel than the unnaturalness of old cotton. this cotton has been hanging too long, like the body has abused it. who really knows what fabric could say?

i realized today that i don’t have a problem, but rather i am in a rut, and a rut isn’t necessarily such a bad thing. it’s like i’m in a trench lined w/ war heroes; a battle is unfolding above us. we know there’s bleeding out there- a greater transition than any of us know. so we sit deathly still, dirt-caked and shaken, a little bit fearful of this outcome.

this battle is the transition; the trench: our intermission. give us some popcorn- this isn’t something to be upset over. it’s something to celebrate. finally, we are molting, evolving into a greater style that’s been awaiting us for a while. we partly crossed that barrier yesterday, and i’m confident that the further we tread, the closer we are getting to the army.

(lorrie moore obviously helping us along the way).

the missing children- floating up w/ helium inflated cheeks, waiting in the horizon for birds to pop them. for now, they refuse to come down.

.................

i think i have issues w/ males that are unresolved mainly because sticking my nose back in the mess will only make it worse- not make it go away. sometimes, i feel like all my family ever does is spray air-freshener to camouflage the smell. we say it’s okay, the whole time making bad actors of ourselves.

but that’s okay. it all fades away eventually to smack us in our pale faces, pen caps burst open w/ fresh ink screaming: wake up, drink more coffee.

and now i’m rambling.

but i’m being honest, i’m trusting myself (kind of). what more do you want?

brushing off insecurity like old shirts from 1995. real questions: why do i feel more comfortable in the nude, but am insecure about my breasts, my arms, and my fattened belly from hot dogs and chocolate? it’s as if my body weighs down on the words, where my stomach acts as an attic door: opening when free, locked shut when the words have tourniquets. i tell ya, when it’s hanging by the hinges things frequently fly out, incessant, like spelling has no bearing on their futures or social class. they don’t listen to stereotypes; they are secure. but when that things’ closed, it’s fucking closed man, and good luck getting that ketchup bottle open- you’ll be needing a man in no time. the best move like lightening; be the head of the household; unscrew things faster than he can screw you.

and we thought it was summer, where yellow would soften our landings; where happiness was more accessible than a naked popsicle stick.

you just got too worn out baby, you got worn out.

Thurs July 1st

haha, a year ago on this date i said something about "my past." i find that uproariously funny.

loveline is so psychologically indulgent, i’ve figured out more things from this show than anywhere else. (orgasms: shivering cherry blossoms losing their dew. a death really, in all areas).

unfortunately, i’m forgetting to care.

don’t want to see anybody (hate everyone who’s supposedly in my life anyways), left stranded like they’ve all hoped back on the tour bus of life w/out me. um... hello??? where is everyone? they’ve all found electrons- i’m just a lonely neutron. well gee whiz, what the fuck? let me feel shitty/self-depreciative/shut out in my own little pissed off world. it will give me discipline; i will (i’m supposed to) gain strength. what harm could possibly come?

(screaming, cliched teenage angst-why me? why are they paired off while i’m still wide-eyed and wonderless, aching to know what a real penis looks like?)

me- wrapping up like a potato bug, rolling into a cave to go blind or crazy w/in at least 90 days. but hey there honey! you’re fucking learning! who fucking cares about the damage done in the now? you’re going to flourish! you might even have your own TV show! pain is priceless until you’re existing in it.

daniel- i resent him for being so caring. i resent the fact that someone so wonderful and funny and sweet and intelligent and adorable could bestow this many qualities while still leaving me unattracted. that has to be the loneliest feeling in the world- it’s a lose/lose situation. in taking it, i’m unhappy; in giving it away i feel emptier than before. nope sweetheart, ya just can’t win.

had an awakening- a nagging, daydreams about caressing yellow light w/ greens in the distance, blanketed grass for padding. the sky is my plan w/ endless possibilities; the clouds are serial obstacles.

(why are hyphens taking over? is it their fucking day? their fucking time to shine?)

"i just want to scream, ‘hello...’"

....................

Saturday, July 3rd

i don’t wanna talk about it. i can’t always write; i’m not a writer. all i am is a person w/ a generic infatuation w/ pens; it’s just a hobby. this does not define who i am. i have to experience above everything else; writing comes and goes like a watery eyed puppy. i don’t crank out poems effortlessly, it takes fireworks, big leaps of faith to get me motivated. that’s not what makes me "stellar;" the fact that i can distance myself w/out guilt does.

(i’ve extracted the writer in me. she has no doubts. only i do)

i’m not a writer i’m not a writer i’m not a writer. i have pains just like everyone else (and a craft that converts them for free).

.............

Fireworks- they sound like miniature bombs going off, warning signs, bright tattoos to luminate the melanin of blue. we’re thunderous! getting attention faster than any hooker w/ a half lit cigarette dangling from her crooked mouth. we get respect for our appearances- they are minimal, they are spectacular, and because they are rare, quality exists. everydayness only tarnishes the act.

(give me Chinese Dogs, let them roam in my bed for a while. i’ll drown in their waters like my legs just wanna hang in the shallow end).

oh, i forgot, i’m not a writer. i got lost in the waves of music; radio signals and fireworks. (black sun-less skies... your flames lick too fast, i sunburn too easily).

Damnit, I am the fireworks.

Mon, July 12th

i have no desire to talk about myself- it drags me down (downward spiral) into some dark, airless abyss where i’m struggling to breathe. there is no comfort there, only black chirping crickets, sexless and hopping around in search of sugar. fuck it.

i don’t want to be a fucking writer. there’s no passion in my life anyway, so why falsify something that doesn’t exist?

(let it go, let it go the way i’ve had to let go of all my boys).

did cry today though. about muffin- seeing a cartoon about a cat dying... it triggered something i thought had already healed. felt better afterwards; exercised; spell-checked.

well, i wish i could write, but apparently i can’t (boo boo boo), so unless i have an unexpected epiphany, i doubt i’ll hear from you soon

(checking out, dropping work clothes to the floor. room: still littered w/ boxes).

12:03- poetry comes and goes babe, like little jackal’s, beady-eyed and pondering w/ adjustable saddles; condoms w/ a longer shelf life than ice cream. if only i could breathe poetry w/out the glue that holds together a sentence, the lack of staples or thread. (winds from an ambulance whir past me, lifting my shirt, revealing that sticky heart i tried to hide behind my name tag). brilliance exists in loose air; i think i shall live as a poet.

Sat, July 31st

That was the freaking scariest movie i’ve ever seen in my life ["the blair witch project"]- installing fear through the creaks in the leaves, not by manufactured, fake screams or cries. i need daniel to sleep w/ me to keep me safe, holding my scared little body, keeping it from harm. he could tell me corny jokes while pulling the hair out of my mouth, and when the limp bizcuit song comes on the radio he’ll ask: "is this the cookie song?"

i want to innocently sleep w/ him; i want to sleep w/ somebody.

the botanical center was interesting. (ha!) i was so bored i wanted to hang myself from one of those stupid plants. plus, my mom suddenly thinks she has unbreakable knowledge at gardening- an instant expert ever since we got those flowers planted in the front yard, and "june this and june that." jesus christ, how much can you really say about a bunch of plants? they’re green life- alien and oxygenated- but that’s it. artwork can’t transcend that.

oh, and i hate gift shops. mother always has to go in one (a burning passion; an addiction?), so i was left alone to park myself on some bench inscribed w/: "in loving memory of so-and-so, for being such a kind, caring person w/ a charming wit." good for you mr. so-and-so, i think i’ll sit on you. i think i’ll leave your magical garden w/ thoughts of m. and matt and ryan and daniel to float in my head- missing children- uprooted and discarded w/ limp appendages.

...............

there are definitely many sides to me, the obvious 2 being of health and of being pissed off. . it’s just that when an image of health is shown, that’s where i want to be: smiling and joking in carefree soprano tones, completely uninhibited by the world. these 2 sides will always be enemies, dueling each other w/ dull swords, conflicts mercifully eating out their insides. the war will never be fully over.

i can’t wait till i’m old so i can go write in aspen- the reclusive serenity, the simplicity of goals and thoughts. my novel: about writing in aspen, where clouds billow in front of your window and chicken fingers are good and they privacy is guaranteed.

now i will think about daniel’s arms, my bed, (his bed).

Sun, Aug 30th

found this pen in my bookbag among other things, overdue, waiting for 3 long, sweaty months to emerge. (like matthew, like the possibility of the hoe down, my babies waiting for so long they’ve outgrown their respirators in search of a humidifier).

long live the king.

..........

(.....) Poor daniel has been left in the dark, where i almost turned the light on today- overexposing film, dropping it in the canister much, much too soon.

daniel has my doubles. matt has the vulnerable negatives in hand, the ball in his court, the decision to throw them away or let them mature richly, boldly, into a color paradise of splashed hues.

i want them to turn out okay. i just don’t want to lose daniel in the process.

Sat, Sep 18th

Oh, to cry because emotion has reached such heights! the release is unimaginable... but empty, unopened, w/ matthew as a question mark for now. maybe he’s just a blank. who knows? this just needs to settle in the afterglow- a calm, a wave to wash off these grainy sands.

.......

I can remember a stillness like no other when i think of childhood: white linens, summery days splashed w/ soothing pastels, and most of all, the warmth... But also it’s clouded w/ pain, pages unable to unstick themselves, a torrential downpour that never lets up. my youth was blotchy, yes, but never lacking. when i look up at the sky it all falls back into place; the colors merge, words are resurrected, and my memories recover from their heart surgeries w/out scars.

never with them.

I remember wanting to hear "cloud on my tongue" desperately when i saw tori during the plugged tour- not hearing it- but instead playing it for us at the next tour as if it was a request destined to be fulfilled.

I remember flipping through the pages of "redbook," finding a bookmark placed sloppily between the pages of an article titled: "stop it! i hate talking about sex!" which more than proved that my mother was a goody two shoes.

But mostly i remember blood- twinkling blood; blood that was moist to the touch. the kind that squeezed out of your injuries w/ no hesitation, no fear- just redness and clumps. I remember the scabs that crusted over like a roof: a gateway from good and evil. then it would all unhinge- this trapdoor being opened to virgin skins, freshly pink in joy at being let out again- released! free! repaired from hurt once again. thicker. more hopeful that the next time- next time won’t happen. that next time, we’ll be more careful, and that we’ll never be damaged like before.

Sun, Sept 19th

Another day flown away in the rain, wanting to suck the droplets into my skin, respirating water like gills, cellulose, a comforting green to wear on apples. i can’t imagine how matt could fear the wetness; it seems as fearless as air. but enough on him, too much thoughts of anything will make me sick in overabundance.

........

No call from daniel. not surprising.

yet hunger is spreading inside me, my stomach contracting as if it’s giving birth to some new woman child who’s constructed from bread. ridiculous! she’s all fiber! she’s nutritious! staircasing words can’t provide health!

if only my pores were always accepting of poetry- these greens could grow gardens, flowers wouldn’t have to be reaped, and my matthew, my matthew could be open and loving and in love w/ the light and the wetness all at once.

we’re just not always open to poetry or this time capsule we’ve unearthed for all to see, for matt to eventually stumble upon- all veils exposed, nudity underneath.

thurs sep30th

i don’t know why i’m overly emotional, i just am, and it disrupts my entire day. situation: see ryan, see ryan talking to a blonde: want to cry, run off underneath a rock. but i digress.

pounding headache. hate waiting for rides alone, feeling like a hoodlum, an inviting rape victim- my "pathetic ex-cheerleader self."

too late for aspirin.

oh but ryan helped me w/ my math, being the greatest tutor of all time, my little mathematician and more.

loneliness is nothing. matt is nothing. matt is a wannabe Christian. at least i have the balls to be full-fledged.

Tues, Nov 30th

unsure of life and it’s tingly branches; furred, twitching- they twitch for the blood pumping in our veins. and who said it has to be made of flesh to be alive? bullshit. those quivering branches are all soul; all soul.

greg: i think of blondeness. he says, "i think of your pretty face." :) smiles usually last seconds, miniscule lapses of time that aren’t worth remembering; but this- my God it was pasted there for all lions to be jealous of! and these manes are glorious: shining reds, mahogany, fabio-like, cut out of paper plates and fastened around the necks of little boys by means of a string.

i wet kleenexes for not appreciating the colorful beauty in this world, for being so easily influenced by this cloud of depression (draping over my shoulders so slightly; a fall of smug greys, blues, blacks).

when i rip off my clothes i’m as roman as the rest of you: blaring pinks, open shoulders and tufts of green leaves: the bubbling laughter of fresh skin.

thurs, dec 30th

honestly, i can not believe that not only is the end of the millenium approaching, but this notebook- it’s also ending in this climactic draining of sand. how many hours is it? so few, and sentimentality is running her fingers through her hair and whispering in this arousing voice that’s almost overbearing. come on! this is the millenium! the lifetimes it takes to fill up the pain and coarseness and beauty and death is countless; it all stacks onto where dust can rest their memories- their soil, where fleshed-out feet once danced. and we embody the history, us. that’s what scares me the most.

the silence is coming to an end. that which scoured the earth will now be bombarded w/ all the noise and shockwaves that pens can not save. or want to even. maybe the noise showering on our necks won’t be such a hell, but a second nature, some sort of comfort that sex or drugs can’t provide.

years and years, we have lost the battle against the silence instead of willing her on our side, where there it can be domesticated, trained into our guard dogs, the visionaries. it’s so simple, no one can see it. in this drapery we discover ourselves- something the diversions of noise and other petty interactions drive away from us, smacking their lips w/ stale lip-gloss, feet stinking, swallowing into memories: flowers pushing up harmonious stillness.

1:15 a.m. ~ i was just checking to see if he was still breathing, if the jet black of him was still overpowering and bold, and that the pale of his face would lay eyes on me, just once, just one more time in the salted loneliness of nite.