feeling it bubbling
I think it's angry
tell me I'm stupid
tell me I'm randy
tell me I'm orange
tell me I'm blue
black in a trench coat
here's lookin at you
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
The world that smiles
My eyes are dead
but my mouth still speaks
my mouth is living
my death is beginning
and here I am
Lynette
Lynette
Lynette
and when I smiled
and lived my life
but my mouth still speaks
my mouth is living
my death is beginning
and here I am
Lynette
Lynette
Lynette
and when I smiled
and lived my life
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I drove around today
I had nothing to say
the radio the radio the radio said it for me
and I spoke and I screamed
and you knew
and I knew too
and I quietly waited
and I knew I was belated
but I was here
and I was there
and I was showing up perfectly on time.
Thanks giving
moving moving'
breathing breathing
speaking speaking
I knew what I wanted
I knew how I wanted
and I was young and stupid
and foolish and like cupid
pushing together all of the stupid
and here I was all along
one of the better ones, one of the strong.
He has come!
He has come! He has come!
The sun has begun!
The shining has won!
The world has rung!
And rung,
and rung,
like a telephone hung,
and you think they're stalking us
and it rained and rained
and we shamed and shamed,
but she won.
She won.
She rode her bike and had fun.
While we all shamed and fell and had run.
We were done.
We were done.
We were done.
1971.
The sun has begun!
The shining has won!
The world has rung!
And rung,
and rung,
like a telephone hung,
and you think they're stalking us
and it rained and rained
and we shamed and shamed,
but she won.
She won.
She rode her bike and had fun.
While we all shamed and fell and had run.
We were done.
We were done.
We were done.
1971.
The Interesting Night
Saturday at 2am I wake to the sound of screaming.
The television chatters, my parents scream and whisper.
A horrible ghost shudders and moans and tells me that I am the last one.
The last one.
I baptised a thousand times, and shuddered and sweat. Bled and moaned and loved and lost.
The songs that I hear, the people that I speak to.
It's getting a little tough to bear this right now.
It's always been too hard for me.
Perhaps I lived a little too much,
perhaps I smiled a little too hard.
I lived when people died all around me,
and all I can say is good job, Lynette.
You killed everyone with your laughter.
The television chatters, my parents scream and whisper.
A horrible ghost shudders and moans and tells me that I am the last one.
The last one.
I baptised a thousand times, and shuddered and sweat. Bled and moaned and loved and lost.
The songs that I hear, the people that I speak to.
It's getting a little tough to bear this right now.
It's always been too hard for me.
Perhaps I lived a little too much,
perhaps I smiled a little too hard.
I lived when people died all around me,
and all I can say is good job, Lynette.
You killed everyone with your laughter.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Blinding
sudden
are you an alien?
Questions,
answers,
are you an alien?
I remember you
I heard a few
they told me you would come
they said that they were done
they said that there were some
they said that they were young
young forever young forever.
Listening to the soundwaves
hearing what they say
they know what they mean
they know what they think
but the world isn't round
it's a triangle and it goes around and around
and I paint the sun and I paint the ground
round and round and round and round.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Irritation
I get irritated a lot. I feel like I'm constantly being judged based on appearances, people look at me an think "Oh that girl, she's useless. She has no faith. She's got to be some kind of heathen, some kind of wiccan or witch or something." If I were a witch, it's only because I were born that way. I'm Roman Catholic, and I've stayed that way all my life. Perhaps I strayed from church, but not forever. Today I'm going to go to church. I think it's important to repent for all of my sins.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
While I Wait
God has a plan for me
waiting in a wind breeze somewhere
another day passes and I feel the significance
"Sleep." He tells me.
Sleep. So hard for me to close my eyes,
so hard for me to fall asleep at night.
But I force myself.
Sleep.
waiting in a wind breeze somewhere
another day passes and I feel the significance
"Sleep." He tells me.
Sleep. So hard for me to close my eyes,
so hard for me to fall asleep at night.
But I force myself.
Sleep.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Who am I?
I know my name, but I don't know my purpose. Selected for something, used and abused since I was a child. Like having a mother who's the devil and a father who is a saint. It angers me, more than anyone will ever know. I had to rebuild this earth from the ground up and not a single person gave me credit. Not a single person.
Remembering Things That Maybe Didn't Happen.
It's strange sometimes, the ideas that get into your head. You think you're somewhere safe when you aren't, you think you're alive when you're dead, and people are in denial so much that there's not much you can do but think and be afraid. I think that's what I was put on this earth for-- rejection. I don't even try to get to that but it happens anyway. I'm nice to everyone I meet, and because of that I suffer. I like to think my suffering isn't any worse than the assholes of the earth though. I'd like to think that.
Starbucks.
Starbucks.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Dear Sharpie Stain: A letter I'll never send.
No regrets. Its a motto I imagine you keep trying to live by but fail at every time you have to take a chance. I've watched you shrug all your responsibilities off like a winter jacket. You try half heartedly, fail, then justify. Over and over this happens to you, like you're stuck in some kind of never ending loop de loop. I used to be sitting in the passenger's seat on that plane with you--we'd go down then up then over and one day I just let go. I let go because you weren't holding onto me at all. Don't think it was easy for me either--I loved you so much just thinking of you would give me a head rush. I'd have dreams of you, finally we were together, finally we were! Then I would wake up, and the ghost of you would linger in the room. I think if I saw you tomorrow it'd all come rushing back. Its a good thing you left, although I made the effort to try and get on good terms with you again, and although it seemed like you forgave me at the time. A good thing. I won't even have the remote chance of running into you somewhere, like an art store. What were you doing there? I saw your mother driving by me the other day. Looked away and prayed that she didn't see me or recognize me. If she were to look into my eyes she might have seen a little fragment of you in there, and I don't want that. I want to take a pair of tweezers and pull you out of my brain like a glass shard. I think you might be dug in there too deep to reach.
-Lynette
-Lynette
His Nilla Wafers Tasted Like Tobacco: A death, a fire, and a funeral.
I have to say I remember pretty clearly when I found out my grandfather had died. It was Valentines Day '95 and I remember I was staring at the designs printed on a chocolate heart I had been given at the annual Valentines Day party at my elementary school. It was on a stick. I wanted to eat it and stare at it forever at the same time. An announcement came over the loud speaker that I was to come to the front office to be picked up by my parents. I was in second grade at the time and I'm pretty sure I was delightfully surprised that I would get to go home. Either Mom or Dad told me that Grandpa had passed away, and I was pretty bummed. I was however a bit more bummed that the chocolate heart didn't taste very good. Grandpa lived on a farm in a small town in the middle of Texas. I still can't remember the name. I was always too busy watching hypnotised as the black tar lines on the road weaved and danced for miles on the cement. The town had a Texas Burger restaurant in it.
When I think of the times I actually spent with O.C. Lewis I have about three distinct memories:
-I remember having a conversation with him in the kitchen at night once. I recall the conversation mainly including a very little me talking to him nonstop while he sat there and listened to me patiently. He had a stroke that reduced his speech to an unintelligible mumble a number of years ago, so he preferred not to talk at all. The moon was shining into the kitchen window, and I sat on the floor in the dark just chatting away.
-I remember he had a driveway that was made of lots of various stones of different sizes. I used to pick up the prettiest rock I could find and chuck it as far as I could.
-My favorite memory was of him taking me on a ride in his green army jeep down to feed the catfish in his pond. We'd load up the bags of little brown food pebbles in the back of the vehicle, go riding down a bumpy trail to the pond, and he'd watch as I threw handful after handful of catfish feed into the pond. It was delightful to watch them go up to eat the food, their little heads bobbing up and down in the water and their fish whiskers twitching. I can still remember the smell of the fish food. It would pierce the air and stay on your hands even after you washed them.
About a year or so after the burial when someone bought the ranch property from my father I was secretly angry over it. I felt the pond and its hungry catfish wouldn't be appreciated by whoever owned the place next. I imagined that the fish would all die, and their bodies would all float to the top of the pond, and then the new owners would fry them up and eat them.
Most of my memories of my Grandfather are of him after he died. I still don't know very much about him or his life, but I know how he died, the names of both of his ex-wives, and how bad a father he was. I never felt the need to know anymore about him. He had a best friend who also had a stroke, and he was the one who found him dead on his bed after having a heart attack. I recall him being a slightly pudgy man of a short stature who seemed very sad about the turn of events. I felt as much sympathy for him as a 6 year old possibly could--his guilt radiated off of him in nearly visible waves.
People tend to assume that a child doesn't understand death, that its true meaning is far too complicated or abstract for someone under 4 feet tall to truly grasp. I don't think that was true for me-- I understood what had happened from the get go: at one time my Grandpa was in the middle of Texas feeding his catfish and smoking cigarettes and the next day he was gone. I didn't really question it. I think children understand death better than adults do in a lot of ways.
Tip: If you burn trash in a large metal bin do not let a burning can fall out and land on dead wheatgrass. Fires start and do not stop. The entire field was angry and black with smoke, and my mother screamed at me to call 911. I flat out refused because I did not know the address. Second grade does not teach you that 911 has caller ID. The fire department came and put out the fire. I helped by stomping on some small grass fires that popped up around me with my brand new tan Hushpuppies. I thought it was cool that the entire field was now black when it was once a blondish yellow. I believe I was the only one. That night I slept in his living room on a fold out bed, listening to the grandfather clock chime in the middle of the night. I didn't get any rest.
I don't really remember the funeral. Funerals for old people aren't generally very memorable. I do remember that my grandfather's step-daughter stroked his hair and adjusted his hankerchief when she went to view his body. I thought that was pretty damn creepy. Later my father showed me the obituary. I was proud of my grandfather for getting in the small town's local newspaper. I wanted to be in the paper too.
When I think of the times I actually spent with O.C. Lewis I have about three distinct memories:
-I remember having a conversation with him in the kitchen at night once. I recall the conversation mainly including a very little me talking to him nonstop while he sat there and listened to me patiently. He had a stroke that reduced his speech to an unintelligible mumble a number of years ago, so he preferred not to talk at all. The moon was shining into the kitchen window, and I sat on the floor in the dark just chatting away.
-I remember he had a driveway that was made of lots of various stones of different sizes. I used to pick up the prettiest rock I could find and chuck it as far as I could.
-My favorite memory was of him taking me on a ride in his green army jeep down to feed the catfish in his pond. We'd load up the bags of little brown food pebbles in the back of the vehicle, go riding down a bumpy trail to the pond, and he'd watch as I threw handful after handful of catfish feed into the pond. It was delightful to watch them go up to eat the food, their little heads bobbing up and down in the water and their fish whiskers twitching. I can still remember the smell of the fish food. It would pierce the air and stay on your hands even after you washed them.
About a year or so after the burial when someone bought the ranch property from my father I was secretly angry over it. I felt the pond and its hungry catfish wouldn't be appreciated by whoever owned the place next. I imagined that the fish would all die, and their bodies would all float to the top of the pond, and then the new owners would fry them up and eat them.
Most of my memories of my Grandfather are of him after he died. I still don't know very much about him or his life, but I know how he died, the names of both of his ex-wives, and how bad a father he was. I never felt the need to know anymore about him. He had a best friend who also had a stroke, and he was the one who found him dead on his bed after having a heart attack. I recall him being a slightly pudgy man of a short stature who seemed very sad about the turn of events. I felt as much sympathy for him as a 6 year old possibly could--his guilt radiated off of him in nearly visible waves.
People tend to assume that a child doesn't understand death, that its true meaning is far too complicated or abstract for someone under 4 feet tall to truly grasp. I don't think that was true for me-- I understood what had happened from the get go: at one time my Grandpa was in the middle of Texas feeding his catfish and smoking cigarettes and the next day he was gone. I didn't really question it. I think children understand death better than adults do in a lot of ways.
Tip: If you burn trash in a large metal bin do not let a burning can fall out and land on dead wheatgrass. Fires start and do not stop. The entire field was angry and black with smoke, and my mother screamed at me to call 911. I flat out refused because I did not know the address. Second grade does not teach you that 911 has caller ID. The fire department came and put out the fire. I helped by stomping on some small grass fires that popped up around me with my brand new tan Hushpuppies. I thought it was cool that the entire field was now black when it was once a blondish yellow. I believe I was the only one. That night I slept in his living room on a fold out bed, listening to the grandfather clock chime in the middle of the night. I didn't get any rest.
I don't really remember the funeral. Funerals for old people aren't generally very memorable. I do remember that my grandfather's step-daughter stroked his hair and adjusted his hankerchief when she went to view his body. I thought that was pretty damn creepy. Later my father showed me the obituary. I was proud of my grandfather for getting in the small town's local newspaper. I wanted to be in the paper too.