「 Original 」 ``lethargy.``
This is for the men in my life. Ben and Jerry, whose comfort I always seek despite myself. Rod McKuen, whose poems always evoke something out of me. Sky, because even if I were blind I would find a way to smudge his glasses his every visit. Jeff, who turned fifty today. My Father ... who never fails to try. Charlie, my coworker, who pisses me off just to see if he can make me smile again. Seth, who finally asked for my number.
And, of course, all you boys on the internet, who help shape my adulthood and my womanhood from across boarders.
I am not tired of any of you, although I am exhausted with all of you.
I also believe this may have been subconsciously inspired by cordeliacs's writing, whose freeverse styles never cease to amaze me. Here's to you, love. Although you are not a man ...
i am tired of
semen-flavored tonsils
and
straw-berry flavored condoms.
i am tired of
bosses who can't spell my name right
after a year and a half and
of lovers who can only see
that i am beautiful
in the darkness with their vision in half.
i am tired of
junkies and their need for
one pill to get them off of another,
more teenagers than war veterans now.
alcoholics and their
little clear glasses,
more salt in their mouth than on the rim
(reminders not to drink water in Mornings After).
i am tired of little girls
with pretty pink ribbons and blue shoes
(don't you know only red ones will take you home?)
with technicolor prada bags and
empty, black & white dreams,
no longer about kansas or toto
but still lost in cyclones nonetheless.
... we should give the little boys a chance
with those ribbons, too.
i am tired of text messages at three a.m.,
wondering what i am up to
as if there is anything but down in mid-morning serenades.
beckoning e-mails that cannot smell of cologne
hither-to glances that will not stop
my gut from churning with one provocation
or another.
(i like the others best --
they remind me i am still alive.)
i am tired of movies full of blood
written in dusty attic bookshelf pages
that were best kept in real words;
real worlds.
your cinematography means nothing to the strong of mind,
sirs scorsese & spielberg, & bruckheimer.
if i want the smell of ozone and
white knuckles and ripped hair follicles,
i will stick to my video games.
i am tired of
slick little black things:
(monsters, too, but more importantly -- )
cell phones and iPods and
other contraptions that combine the two.
i am tired of having to teach my mother how to text
or my granny to check her bank account balance online.
it makes me feel on
the line.
i miss telephone wires and how
they look covered in snow,
if only from my window.
i am tired of the industrial hum
of a starbucks with low lighting
of missing her curly red hair and brown eyes
(she always tried to cover them in mauve),
but i am not tired of knowing she was full of shit.
tired.
so
so tired.
but i am most exhausted of
forgetting to open my mouth
and remembering to open my heart,
of symptoms of insomnia coming to me when i have
slept too much,
of controversy and conformity
that robs me blind in the scorching winter sun,
the way boots sound crunching above the ground.
i am most exhausted of
girls who let their tonsils get
smeared in cum
and boys who only have straw-berry condoms for
the rings in their pocket
and their friends' mocking laughters.
can't you get a can of skoll instead?
can't you get a piece of gum instead?
(this one is, after all, only one letter off.)
i am tired of
wanting to be wanted
and of wanting a cigarette.
i am tired of
truth.
(but i am exhausted of lies.)
perhaps, some day soon
i will wake up for, you
another curly-haired wonder
to be explored in dead of night
with my vision just fine (although in need of glasses),
and my mind not buried under a rhythm
(drugs, cheap music, it doesn't matter)
even as my body adjusts to yours.
perhaps i will no longer be sleepless for
a stupid fucking guns n' roses song played
just before the fray
and the two homages together will
not bring me to tears
maybe.
someday i will
smile at the text that came at
four a.m.
that asked me if i was all right
that asked me if i wanted the blanket pulled over my shoulders
even though it was still on my ankles
(i hate feet, you know?).
maybe someday i will
keep my eyes open when the sun is too bright
and remember when i was a kid, i would stare into it and pretend
the burning was like wires in my skull, sizzling with information.
but i'm not good at pretending any more.
and that is
perhaps
why i am tired.
(& exhausted)
And, of course, all you boys on the internet, who help shape my adulthood and my womanhood from across boarders.
I am not tired of any of you, although I am exhausted with all of you.
I also believe this may have been subconsciously inspired by cordeliacs's writing, whose freeverse styles never cease to amaze me. Here's to you, love. Although you are not a man ...
i am tired of
semen-flavored tonsils
and
straw-berry flavored condoms.
i am tired of
bosses who can't spell my name right
after a year and a half and
of lovers who can only see
that i am beautiful
in the darkness with their vision in half.
i am tired of
junkies and their need for
one pill to get them off of another,
more teenagers than war veterans now.
alcoholics and their
little clear glasses,
more salt in their mouth than on the rim
(reminders not to drink water in Mornings After).
i am tired of little girls
with pretty pink ribbons and blue shoes
(don't you know only red ones will take you home?)
with technicolor prada bags and
empty, black & white dreams,
no longer about kansas or toto
but still lost in cyclones nonetheless.
... we should give the little boys a chance
with those ribbons, too.
i am tired of text messages at three a.m.,
wondering what i am up to
as if there is anything but down in mid-morning serenades.
beckoning e-mails that cannot smell of cologne
hither-to glances that will not stop
my gut from churning with one provocation
or another.
(i like the others best --
they remind me i am still alive.)
i am tired of movies full of blood
written in dusty attic bookshelf pages
that were best kept in real words;
real worlds.
your cinematography means nothing to the strong of mind,
sirs scorsese & spielberg, & bruckheimer.
if i want the smell of ozone and
white knuckles and ripped hair follicles,
i will stick to my video games.
i am tired of
slick little black things:
(monsters, too, but more importantly -- )
cell phones and iPods and
other contraptions that combine the two.
i am tired of having to teach my mother how to text
or my granny to check her bank account balance online.
it makes me feel on
the line.
i miss telephone wires and how
they look covered in snow,
if only from my window.
i am tired of the industrial hum
of a starbucks with low lighting
of missing her curly red hair and brown eyes
(she always tried to cover them in mauve),
but i am not tired of knowing she was full of shit.
tired.
so
so tired.
but i am most exhausted of
forgetting to open my mouth
and remembering to open my heart,
of symptoms of insomnia coming to me when i have
slept too much,
of controversy and conformity
that robs me blind in the scorching winter sun,
the way boots sound crunching above the ground.
i am most exhausted of
girls who let their tonsils get
smeared in cum
and boys who only have straw-berry condoms for
the rings in their pocket
and their friends' mocking laughters.
can't you get a can of skoll instead?
can't you get a piece of gum instead?
(this one is, after all, only one letter off.)
i am tired of
wanting to be wanted
and of wanting a cigarette.
i am tired of
truth.
(but i am exhausted of lies.)
perhaps, some day soon
i will wake up for, you
another curly-haired wonder
to be explored in dead of night
with my vision just fine (although in need of glasses),
and my mind not buried under a rhythm
(drugs, cheap music, it doesn't matter)
even as my body adjusts to yours.
perhaps i will no longer be sleepless for
a stupid fucking guns n' roses song played
just before the fray
and the two homages together will
not bring me to tears
maybe.
someday i will
smile at the text that came at
four a.m.
that asked me if i was all right
that asked me if i wanted the blanket pulled over my shoulders
even though it was still on my ankles
(i hate feet, you know?).
maybe someday i will
keep my eyes open when the sun is too bright
and remember when i was a kid, i would stare into it and pretend
the burning was like wires in my skull, sizzling with information.
but i'm not good at pretending any more.
and that is
perhaps
why i am tired.
(& exhausted)