(no subject)
Im tired of people thinking im ignorant.
Though maybe its my ignorance that causes me to beleive I am so much smarter and understand so much more about these people.
I love it when my boyfriend calls me dumb.
Some "poems"
Really just ramblings.
Untitled:
The car’s running,
too loudly,
with the radio playing,
too loudly,
content in clothes
that are not made of hemp,
that were probably
made in China -
don’t misunderstand,
I’m sorry for that.
And I wish
I had a pocket full of change
to fill the expired meters,
even those
that belong to someone else’s car;
I wish I had a velveteen rabbit
if only to remember child stories,
and that I’m lucky
to feel in this skin:
lucky for scars
and scrapes and burns,
shoulder indentations
that grandma always said
were wing buds;
funny
that she’s now my angel,
and maybe
I’ll be the one
to fly away.
Regardless,
I’m not religious
yet tempted
by stained glass.
But I am not stained glass,
(although
I may be multi-hued and shiny,
although I may shimmer,)
I can stretch my glass limbs
and walk away.
And I may shatter
some day,
as maybe I’m not made
for climbing mountaintops
with my eyes closed
and wearing green.
But I will risk those limbs
to see the sun.
And the car is still running,
squealing -
I heard it’s bad
to leave it running like this,
but if it’s meant for running
(like I’m meant for running)
I can’t imagine
it much likes standing still.
Untitled:
I’d like to know
when sex became a stage in this dating game,
like I’m a sexaholic,
nymphomaniac,
sexaholics anonymous for this girl
with the disheveled hair
and wet panties
and seductive blue-grey eyes.
And maybe
we can learn a lot about people
through sex,
you know,
like how they touch
and how they think
and…
sometimes
you can really catch a glimpse of someone
without all the masks
of this scene or that,
you know,
the wild child with the mild demeanor
and the gently twinkling
feminine voice.
But no
there’s HIV on the walls
and there’s syphilis in the halls,
and somehow
we’ve all gotten caught up
in this pseudo-newage free love,
and dammit,
what if it does mean a thing?
Sometimes we’re just
ugly-inside pretty-outside
little whores,
little selfish children
thriving on base desires
that are truly Freudian.
But
what about those times
when you get a fish
and you catch it
and you fuck it
and you don’t want
to throw it back.
Mixing up metaphors and reality,
always a dangerous thing,
always always.
And I have no plans
to fuck a fish.
Untitled:
There are empty pages scattered across tables and floors,
but you got the answer
so that’s all that matters in the end.
We shove the rule books
under bedposts
so they’re four-point even and unwobbly,
and three-point-one-four blueberry pie.
The crumbs get caught in the pages
and bookmark the places
that are important enough to stop and go back to
to nibble on the blueberry-fractions
and poke at the blueberry ink.
And we’ll find genius in the forgotten highlights,
the words that will make us paint symphonies
on charcoal-smudged paper,
the infinite shades of black and gray,
the colors that scream
that they are red green and blue
from unseen mouths
beneath pencil sketches
that are merely contours of the designated rules.
And the numbers will swim sideways
and triangles will scoff
at astronomers calculating and cataloguing the stars
and how far to the moon,
and they will say things
about the nature of shining and the movement of feet,
and proclaim themselves the greatest triangles,
verbalizing the wishes
of all polygons without mouths.
(And Triangle One will state the fact
that triangles were given angles for calculation
far before Christ,
and it’s a fact
and so Triangle Two cannot dispute it.
But Triangle Seven balks at the idea of God
and did you know that he is Dead:
said some German philosopher,
son of a Lutheran pastor,
a man prone to emotion fits
that died an uneventful death.
And Triangle Two argues that Triangle Seven
is avoiding the issue,
and back and forth
and God-this and Death-that,
and then some unidentified polygon
screams out from the crowd
- For all your God hating
you sure talk about him enough! -
And everyone turns to gawk at the stranger,
Octagon One with her blue-flower hat
and red rain slicker boots.
And the air fills up with déjà vu,
while all the Triangles stare at their naked skin
and this unTriangle intruder
with her color and her clothes.
Silence rings solemn until Triangle Five shrieks
and then it’s:
"Blasphemy, off with her head!")
But the candle falls over
and the book snaps closed on the floor.
And all the Triangles suffocate
between the pages
and the carpet’s a little burnt
but our toes are okay.
And the pages are still number-blank
but now completely filled,
and I find it a wonder
that we can just play at playing by the rules.
Though maybe its my ignorance that causes me to beleive I am so much smarter and understand so much more about these people.
I love it when my boyfriend calls me dumb.
Some "poems"
Really just ramblings.
Untitled:
The car’s running,
too loudly,
with the radio playing,
too loudly,
content in clothes
that are not made of hemp,
that were probably
made in China -
don’t misunderstand,
I’m sorry for that.
And I wish
I had a pocket full of change
to fill the expired meters,
even those
that belong to someone else’s car;
I wish I had a velveteen rabbit
if only to remember child stories,
and that I’m lucky
to feel in this skin:
lucky for scars
and scrapes and burns,
shoulder indentations
that grandma always said
were wing buds;
funny
that she’s now my angel,
and maybe
I’ll be the one
to fly away.
Regardless,
I’m not religious
yet tempted
by stained glass.
But I am not stained glass,
(although
I may be multi-hued and shiny,
although I may shimmer,)
I can stretch my glass limbs
and walk away.
And I may shatter
some day,
as maybe I’m not made
for climbing mountaintops
with my eyes closed
and wearing green.
But I will risk those limbs
to see the sun.
And the car is still running,
squealing -
I heard it’s bad
to leave it running like this,
but if it’s meant for running
(like I’m meant for running)
I can’t imagine
it much likes standing still.
Untitled:
I’d like to know
when sex became a stage in this dating game,
like I’m a sexaholic,
nymphomaniac,
sexaholics anonymous for this girl
with the disheveled hair
and wet panties
and seductive blue-grey eyes.
And maybe
we can learn a lot about people
through sex,
you know,
like how they touch
and how they think
and…
sometimes
you can really catch a glimpse of someone
without all the masks
of this scene or that,
you know,
the wild child with the mild demeanor
and the gently twinkling
feminine voice.
But no
there’s HIV on the walls
and there’s syphilis in the halls,
and somehow
we’ve all gotten caught up
in this pseudo-newage free love,
and dammit,
what if it does mean a thing?
Sometimes we’re just
ugly-inside pretty-outside
little whores,
little selfish children
thriving on base desires
that are truly Freudian.
But
what about those times
when you get a fish
and you catch it
and you fuck it
and you don’t want
to throw it back.
Mixing up metaphors and reality,
always a dangerous thing,
always always.
And I have no plans
to fuck a fish.
Untitled:
There are empty pages scattered across tables and floors,
but you got the answer
so that’s all that matters in the end.
We shove the rule books
under bedposts
so they’re four-point even and unwobbly,
and three-point-one-four blueberry pie.
The crumbs get caught in the pages
and bookmark the places
that are important enough to stop and go back to
to nibble on the blueberry-fractions
and poke at the blueberry ink.
And we’ll find genius in the forgotten highlights,
the words that will make us paint symphonies
on charcoal-smudged paper,
the infinite shades of black and gray,
the colors that scream
that they are red green and blue
from unseen mouths
beneath pencil sketches
that are merely contours of the designated rules.
And the numbers will swim sideways
and triangles will scoff
at astronomers calculating and cataloguing the stars
and how far to the moon,
and they will say things
about the nature of shining and the movement of feet,
and proclaim themselves the greatest triangles,
verbalizing the wishes
of all polygons without mouths.
(And Triangle One will state the fact
that triangles were given angles for calculation
far before Christ,
and it’s a fact
and so Triangle Two cannot dispute it.
But Triangle Seven balks at the idea of God
and did you know that he is Dead:
said some German philosopher,
son of a Lutheran pastor,
a man prone to emotion fits
that died an uneventful death.
And Triangle Two argues that Triangle Seven
is avoiding the issue,
and back and forth
and God-this and Death-that,
and then some unidentified polygon
screams out from the crowd
- For all your God hating
you sure talk about him enough! -
And everyone turns to gawk at the stranger,
Octagon One with her blue-flower hat
and red rain slicker boots.
And the air fills up with déjà vu,
while all the Triangles stare at their naked skin
and this unTriangle intruder
with her color and her clothes.
Silence rings solemn until Triangle Five shrieks
and then it’s:
"Blasphemy, off with her head!")
But the candle falls over
and the book snaps closed on the floor.
And all the Triangles suffocate
between the pages
and the carpet’s a little burnt
but our toes are okay.
And the pages are still number-blank
but now completely filled,
and I find it a wonder
that we can just play at playing by the rules.