wasted concept

 

 

I dove into them. A circus of  howling voices, splattered into existence by the assistance of the ol piss water and the set sun. It was the sip of the fizz that bathed my gums, tounge glurping, my lips startled and yet so requesting for just one more. Gulp, sip, long draw, ttttt-aste. The curvature of the glass bottle, fit just so, sweating, cold against my pressed palm. The draw, the suction, the swallow down to liver. Delivering inTo brain loose, sway- arcing tides that break in the form of instrumental beats.

To giggle, to mingle, to wink then run. To shake and glide upon linoleum roads, laid down between bar stools and close eared-close breasted conversations.  Lips dripping coos, body bouncing- flailing to internal rhythms. Action-oriented, night delight, time a wasted concept, chasing moment. Inbetween alleys up streets and onto doorsteps, a parade of laughter. We find ourselves saying it all but saying nothing it all, and in turn forget it all.

ring out freedom.

 

 

Blast from the past-raw & unfinished

o not need to catch my breath anymore. Define it dream it but so soon i
forget it and leave it. This morning i forgot to pray and carelessly left my
shoes on while entering the house. Threw myself on this artificial couch and
stared at my laces which yearned to be double knotted. Waiting/wishing for a
cough to rise and explode through my lungs. I plotted and diagrammed my
escape fingering the seams that ran the length of my soiled limbs. The ideas
disintegrated between the tips of my hands and i was lead defeated into a
tapestry of conversation. Can’t say i prefer it this way but it seems that i
have tumbled onto my own foreign doorstep. Scraping away the mold on my mind
which has rooted its self too tightly. All this chatter becomes a layer of
discontent, rearranging myself between the flat screen computer and wasteful
amounts of food. If i was rich i would tear it all up just to feel how
worthless it will become. embarrassed to admit that i am embarrassed of my
surrounding. once i tried to kick my shoes off at the door but i felt the
house slither into my veins and run to my spine. i slid to the tile but the
cold crept to my throat and i blank stared the refrigerator for fifteen
minutes. it all felt ugly and square and bleak like rained in fog. now i
never forget the double knot so i will be ready to run.

my purse smells like stale weed
every time I dig for change
the past has been consumed into the inner threads
it just won’t go away

“I just tapped my foot along and closed my eyes
to make believe I still belonged in the moment”

this hurt is sticky
I don’t know what to say, to write, to think…I want to take comfort in silence that hasn’t yet existed. I’m searching for a reason to cry, but self pity doesn’t look too pretty today. Maybe I’ll try something else on. Maybe a nice purple shade of regret.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate. I can admit it though with lowered eyes. The sort of thing you tell yourself while taking a shower, only you’re whispering so the sound of the water hitting the tub drowns everything out.

This house with old forgotten things. Reminiscent of distance memories, like cobwebs in my mind. Faded, scared, insignificant, capturing an image displaced so far that i strain to feel it again. Disconnected from this space and the objects that fill it. Home consists of a connection of relationships. Underneath every off hand comment, every small gesture, every raised voice, is a foundation I’ve never been able to see. Love, there is love, safe and secure never to deteriorate, never to be forgotten-like these things.  We fit together in oddity, in difference, there is a familiarity. With different perspective of a similar start, how can any one understand me more? There is tranquility in the clockwork routine of patterns, repeated for years. Imprinted, inbeded, unphased, yet now attempting a new reaction after all these years. Love.

sing fear, sing.

Inner perplexion,

hotwire my phobia,

place it on pins and needles,

elevated above 500 staring eyes,

dissecting innards.

Leave me hog tied

a sorry joke,

caught in buffoonery,

While I bellow

8 trembling stanzas,

17 sour notes,

one crasing song

That went on 3:54 seconds too long.

Fight or Flight

head under covers,

accumulating air,

bent, fetal

holdign arm’s arm

aware,

keen to echos

house sighs,

murmurs of voices a far off.

Vunerable,

rearranging memories,

watching scaling shadows crawl

engulfing heart, squeeze.

Reality check, imagination, please.

Insomniatic night dream,

pistols,

trigger hand, palm place, perfect fit

scheming puzzling

clever,

hiding places.

playing out scenario

1.

2.

3.

Rollover.

Soothing rational self sweet talk,

Moments pass.

Unconciously unconvinced,

wisely pace the house on tiptoe.

timidly approaching foreign corners of the house,

jiggling deadbolts,

freezing in window reflections,

Jack rabbit heart.

Writing prompt

What its like to be a military mental health technician:

I try to make each person I meet with feel comfortable. Slouching low in my chair with a casual tone, like two friends conversing, I put them at ease. I even put the pen down when emotion rises and let empathy flood into my eyes. Questions drum off my tongue with quick succession, “ How old were you when your mother left?”, “Have you ever been abused?”, “ Are you having any thoughts of suicide?”. The words flow, floating their way into the atmosphere to meet a patient‘s thinking pause. And no matter the content, no matter my heart wrenched surprise, no answer ever gets an eyebrow raise.

I walk the chow hall with a bucket full of others’ secrets. As I wait in line I watch Smith seated amongst chattering friends, absentmindedly stirring the mash potatoes on his plate. He relapsed last week, and I wonder if his lunching buddies have noticed his recent introversion. When it’s my turn in line, Davies, who’s going through a grueling divorce, serves me my order of pork chops dispassionately and forgets to offer an “Have a nice day” as I take the plate. Seems things have taken a turn for the worse, he’s been shuffling around like this: blood shot eyes, sagging expression, and wrinkled uniform for the last week. At least Callaway is doing well today. I spot her near by lightheartedly joking with her boyfriend. I had a feeling Lieutenant’s counseling style would work well with her, I‘m glad I put them together. The cashier rings up my meal and Callaway catches my prolonged glance and quickly averts her eyes.

I push through the 11 am lunch crowd, a field of camouflage, loud voices, and brief “hello/goodbyes“. I pass familiar face after familiar face which brightens in recognition. Yet, shortly brightness collapses to quiet shame, exposed, as their recognition leads to a memory connection. Their story falls off the book shelf of my mind, revealing sour tidbits. Raped when he was 10, diagnosed with bipolar disorder, on 24 hour watch. I can barely see their eyes looking at mine, just labels in Times New Roman font under SOAP note: Diagnoses: Axis I. II. III. I quickly look away, out of respect. Our exchanges are a silent unwanted acknowledgment, that holds too many seconds, and I breathe better as I exit. Yet as the distance between us grows, foot propelling foot, I am left rereading the opened story in my mind. I just don’t forget.

colorless glasses.

Mirror reflection,

Day in day out,

Same sort of thing,

Different taste.

Melancholy.

The music is the same,

Colors, stereotypes,

Ramble on.

Yet today it sits,

Like silt,

Like residue,

Like filth.

Sliding in sliding out,

Of an all too

Obvious reality.

Fight as we might,

We are stared down,

By the same weary concepts,

Faith vs. death- money vs. love- right vs. wrong

Tick tock,

Mind clock.

Awakes my sense of lingering time.

Weighing,

Balance.

Scribble Scrabble

In love with love

meters-the distance between me and actuality

the longing for a story to shake history books

to leave my children wide eyed

a serendiptous fairy tale

that invovles at least one sword fight, an angry diralect fool, and two tons of glitter.

Yet I march amonst clovers, yawning under the barrel chested sky as it bellows, awakening soldiers from their graves with claps so loud you’d think a toddler has converted pans to drums in the kitchen. Lindel is swaggering behind me, a far of, as if unaware of the unruley chaos ringing in our ear drums. It all makes me quite anxious.

We whispered, giggling in gasped breaths, envied and loved one another. Then we broke up, estranged, we judged one another, to think I ever let her come to me house.

A dress for school, for work, for car rides, for dates, for dancing. Slips memories with free legs and tattered patterns. Only faint glimemrs, the fabric brushing against my finger tips, umbrella spins. Garmet gone, event captured.

Condeleza, arroz con dulce, early mornings with your tounge hanging out trying to snatch snowflakes.

prickled tastedbuds dance figuratively, tracing generations with a back sliding gulp.

I feel like I’m making less sense the more I try to make beautiful sense.

You are welcome my unwelcomed,

to the platter of my carved watermelon

tap dance your spindly toes

plunge in your orfice when no one is looking

drink deeply

get your fill

force seconds and haul the rest on your back.

You with an armor of black diamond glaze,

 I never sent an invite but still you came,

with your nephews, nieces, and third cousins.

Your rudeness, a truly offensive impingement,

left me with mere morsels of my decadent treat.

sprouted dreams

Oh that big bad world. With all its chemistry and sites, o passion and envy. And here I stand like a firm little oak tree in a vast forest forcing my branches to the Sun. Sun shine on me. And I stretch and wait. Try not to get distracted by the glow of the beetles exploring my length, or shiver when a man comes by to look me once over- to see if I’m worth slaying. But I desire to play, I want to have legs, not roots. I see all the animals in the forest roam, I see what they bring back, and the glint in their eye like they’ve been transformed. But I’ve only changed from fall to spring to summer to winter and back- the excitement has become dull. I want to know what it looks like above the tree tops, I want to feel the wind without all the rest of the forest crowding in. I want to sprout feet and roam continent after continent! Broaden my horizons on the east the west the north the south! Callous my toes twist my tongue to new sounds etch an epic story into my spine! I want to sit quietly and watch, experiencing the world in motion, then get up and play along. I want to be transformed! Don’t get me wrong, standing here, very stilly, has made me stronger, taught me that all nourishment is offered from the Sun. Sun rays have endowed me with a new skin, given me vibrant life beyond my power. But yet here I‘m rooted, standing like a triumphant piece in a garden, and I can’t help but look around and notice that the landscape has become quite dry. For months now, I find myself watching the gravity of the ground, the wind rocking my turning leaves, dreaming by day, scheming by night. All the while, praying for a sizable hurricane-what a sure liftoff it would bring!

crossroad angst

Tender look, her hair waves like angel creases. Stand taller, I tell myself, I could be eight years old right now. Clutching on to her two fingers, basking in her expression. Teacher, talk soft- show me the world. Orbs reflect lightening, stricken by their familiarity, I am greeted by wonder. I follow her, questions pour selfishly, I gather her answers like jelly beans and stuff them into my pockets- gorge. I find myself looking both ways- but watch her move first. Yet I’m stuck looking left, right. What is right? She shifts. Conflict- fretting her small steps that are gaps of distance- street light-street sign- my heavy hands. She’s farther away, her heart a reflection in the corner of a rained out puddle. I fumble, flustered, cumbersome hands anxiously grip the nape of my neck, finger the locks of my hair. Looking over- pulled- I yearn to walk behind her swaying hips- her eloquent tongue. She gracefully fingers the chain lace fence, countenance brightening at the one way sign she’s walking against. I yell to warn her-scream myself hoarse. I even follow her for a while, begging her to safety-but she just looks over her shoulder and reassuringly smiles back. Go Left? Go Right? Green light. Time to go my own way.