shirts vs. skins

you never really feel skin so nicely
until it's not your own.

Judgement Day

I want to wake up in his arms. 

I want to fall asleep like that, too. 

Sometimes it isn't comfortable to fall asleep in someone's arms. 

It feels good,

but I hate it. 

Hey, We Tried

I tried to write the perfect words for you,

but there are none.

Not perfect or imperfect.

Just maybe not even a word at all.

Should I try it would be this,

“The saddest moment is when you’ve given your heart

to someone who didn’t want it.”

And then I realize..

My heart is still here-

Beating as such

Loving as such.

Just not for you.

Absolutely Fabulous

I think owning a shopping cart could change my life.

For Mum

Today I was doing a lot of writing.

I wrote this sentence,

"If there's one thing I'm certain of in my life,

it's that my mother deserves to be happy." 

Stuff Your Sorrys In A Sack

Once I read a Rilke poem.

Then I read another.

I read all of the Rilke poems in the whole book.

I read them all out loud.

I thought I was reading them to you,

but you were sleeping.

Thee Odor

I had a sick friend.

He would poo in the shower.

He would push the poo through the drain of the shower with his toes.

Then he would brag about it.

(for Theodore Mark, wherever he is.)

Innocence Mission

I was younger once.

I had an idea of what it was like to get older.

Boy, was I wrong.

Flower Shop Blues

I traveled through a tunnel once.

It was in a dream.

I was an old man

running through a tunnel, in a dream.

All I kept thinking was,

“How the Hell do I get out of here?”

Sometimes The Moon Looks Fake

Sometimes the moon looks fake.

So I look at it and say,

“Hey, why are you doing this to me?”

little gestures

As we drove up the hill into the parking lot, I could tell something was different. I had sworn the parking lot was not in a parking garage the last time I was here. It seemed more lit up last time, partially from the moon. It’s not like city workers are commissioned to go around fooling the common folk. I turned to the driver of the vehicle, my friend Clyde. He didn’t seem to notice a difference, so I just kept my eyes wandering as they do.

Clyde had a name too stoic for himself. I thought him to be immature, really. He was a stunted youth in the body of a man named Clyde. He didn’t often escape himself, & I felt I was counted on for a friend at his convenience only. He played his music loud in his car stereo, & he never gave me the option to choose a listen. Maybe he just never noticed either way what the parking lot at the mall was like before this evening. Maybe he paid no attention now.

We parked alongside the outermost wall of the first floor of the garage. The moon did light the inside of the lot after all. I stepped outside of the passenger side door, and we walked to the front of his car, where we met each other.

“Are you doing alright?” he asked me.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

We began walking toward the entrance, when a presence was suddenly felt between us both. We both turned our heads slowly to the left, down the aisle of cars. There were three men slowly dancing in circles. The light of the entrance to the mall appeared brighter as men neared us. They were dancing so silently & so slowly.  They came very close to us, & I noticed each of the three men was severely burned. The significance of the burn was portrayed upon their faces and heads in a way I was having trouble recognizing. The faces of the men were identical to one another. Triplets, no doubt. How could it be that they were all burned so badly & so identically? Their faces each seemed to show signs of down syndrome. Their heads were each bald with amazing tattoos printed on their bald heads. The tattoo covered the beans of the men all cartoon-like. It was the same tattoo per head, a cartoonish tattoo of flames in the brightest yellow and darkest black outline.

Clyde and I were so enamored, we just watched the men. Quietly. Everyone of us was silent. I realized then that the men were all mute. Three identical brothers, all severely burned & mute, with the same tattoo on their heads, representing their badly burned bodies.

As Clyde & I stood and watched the men dance slowly, they came closer to us. They began circling around us. Dancing quietly, still.

It isn’t that I was afraid, per se. I knew fear wasn’t what these men were trying to instill in me. I just couldn’t tell their reasoning at all. I barely felt uncomfortable, but I was intrigued, no doubt.

The men gathered hands with one another and formed a circle before us. Each man then began to pull from his pocket small white felt circles, no more than a foot in diameter. The men began throwing the circles in the air, and as they would fall back from the air above them, the circles began to collect with one another until a hat was formed, still afloat above these three tattooed heads. It fell, quietly, on their heads, connecting the men even more now than before. It was a jester hat of sorts. The only thing to be heard was barely the scuffling of their feet along the asphalt as they danced.

They danced together right into the malls entrance.

I could hear Clyde take a deep breath, & we walked together into the entrance of the mall. We certainly weren’t following these men, nor did we want to. We just happened to enter the building after them.

The doors opened to what I had thought was a mall, but now appeared to be a Farmer’s Market. An indoor Farmer’s Market, with fruits and vegetables scattered throughout the big open room. People were piled in so crowded for such a beautiful evening. Perhaps the point was to purchase the food stuffs to be brought home & enjoyed under the bright moonlit sky.

Clyde walked ahead of me, as usual. He had this way about him that sort of took the lead, often. I didn’t mind following. I knew who I was anyway. I didn’t need to force the issue.

“Hey,” I said while picking up an apple. “There is a tongue in this apple.”

Clyde grabbed the piece of fruit from my hand and then quickly dropped it back in its bin. We looked at each other, then we looked around the Market. Every piece of fruit seemed to be alive. Not just alive, as it were, as fruit does grow, living. Alive with the features of animals. There were arms attached to some, eyes on others. The oddities were outnumbering us. We made a nod at each other, & began to head toward the exit.

The men in the jester hat were nearing us again, still silently dancing in their circle; still sharing their hat. Except now, there were bells on the edges. The hat as white & green & very large. The skin on their faces, clearer now, was more obviously burned. I could see scars on their down syndrome, quiet expressions.

The crowd began to clap for the men, which had them smiling, as well as the audience members.

Clyde & I continued toward the exit. The door opened automatically, and we entered back into the garage. We started walking toward the wall there his car was parked when I felt something on my leg. I looked down & saw a cockroach. A slight gag & a quick flinch later, I was in the clear.

Or was I?

Clyde had reached his car & turned to me before opening the door. I stood, still as I could, noticing the garage floor filling with cockroaches. I was wearing a pair of platform sandals, so my movement was not natural. My mouth began watering & my heart as beating extra fast.

Clyde ran to me, picked me up, & carried me to his car. Once we arrived at his car, we looked back in awe & disbelief. He reached over me to unlock his door. We got in & drove away.

for Chauncey Gardner

I only ever feared regret, because humiliation is scarier.

I woke up again today

I am trying to figure out how day and night can be compared to a half husked cob of corn.

All of this energy, all for naught. 

Sometimes I just can't stop thinking about the things that make me feel good. I wander deeply into the most amazing moments that never really happen. 

Today, everything will be different. 

ode to vegetarians

Love is rare like an under-cooked steak. 

It seems scary, but it's actually quite delicious.

33 & counting

I used to keep a 'journal',
I suppose you'd call it, 
full of one single subject- 
this being suicide letters. 
I used to frequent this journal quite often. 
Sometimes they'd be addressed sort of universally,
sometimes more direct & personal. 
Many of the letters started as 
"Dear Amanda,"
... 
Toward the end of my 22nd year, 
in 2002, 
I realised that the desperation was useless. 
I put that book in a fire one night, 
& I've never written such a letter since.