I’m pretty. OK. I’m nice. True. I’ll listen. And answer. And maybe I’ll put your dick in my mouth. If you pay for drinks. And tell me I’m pretty. And respond to my provocative and desperate texts. I’m a mess. and mislead. I believe what I want. And believe what I don’t see. I’m free to be ignorant and shallow and what I want to be.
Free to decide if this is OK. or right. or second best. or meaningless. or impulsive. and stupid. and let’s forget it even happened. It didn’t. it’s all. cotton candy. constructed and molded in a hot metal bowl. A sugar toupée that can be forgotten because it’s sweet. and pink. and blue. a sugary goo when it hits your tongue. when you commit to the plastic ridiculousness of webbed hair on a stick. edible. forgettable.
Written Sunday, November 4th, 2012 @ Smith.
Photo taken Thursday, April 15th, 201o, in the U District, Seattle, WA.
Perhaps my attraction,
my desire to learn to play
is because it sings so beautiful
and so sad, so sad.
Bow across meaty strings,
it surfaces vulnerability
warming my ears
warmth in my gut,
it widens emotional pores.
I want to jump between the strings,
into its wooden body
feel it reverberate with each pull;
hairs across the strings,
and with eyes closed,
melt into the grain.
Written and edited between June 16th, 2011 and January 5th, 2012.
emotional flat line.
pump my stomach for smiles that make sense
the growth process seems past tense
I’ve fallen off the fence
to pandemonium again.
Written Sunday, August 25th, 2002 @ The Blue Star.
I feel like I’m working overtime
and every minute depends on
whether I’m smiling
It’s not easy being happy all the time
It’s not easy being responsible all the time
I can’t always be easy to be around
I don’t always know what to say
or how to say it
I just want to pull out my hair,
put a gun to my head.
Scream, bite, run.
I’d rather be following my dreams
than trying to catch butterflies
with bare hands.
I’m sorry, but
How much should I kick and scream
before I’m heard
Compromise can be such a burden
and sacrifice degenerates sometimes.
It’s like I have to set time aside
to find time.
And I just don’t have it.
Because the alarm always rings past snooze.
Written Friday, June 27, 2003.
I’m developing an anxious tick
I find myself waiting
a lot of the time
feeling fine overall
so scared I’ll fall
back into the barrel
and have to wrestle with monkeys
bad purple monkeys
with a wicked sense of humor.