The Waiting

The train never comes. The whole idea that trains operate on schedules and arrive at designated times (or even eventually) is a myth.

The other train comes. The one going in the direction opposite of your intent arrives and subsequently departs every five minutes. And if that train comes then your train MUST come. After all, there ARE trains. Trains exist... and come.

But your train never comes.

Still, you sit in the station and wait, while a dirty man retches enthusiastically in a corner. Happy Fucking New Year.

Explosion

Some explosion
Some creative explosion
Something
Something
When I trust myself
Destroying
Something will happen
Maybe next time
But no, right now!
It's happening now!
But for these walls
I can jump to see over
I can press my ear to hear…
Something
What is it?
What IS it?
There on the other side
It's mine
Like the walls
Destroy them!
I want fresh breeze and freedom
I want the horizon
But I'm safe
What good is safe?
What good?
No good
Good for hiding
Good for dying
Good for nothing
But I'm so angry!
Angry and afraid
More angry than afraid
Bored and fed up
Manic
Unfocused
Wasteful
Frustrated
Frustrated
Frustrated
Something will give
Something will change
Is changing
Is happening now
Will happen
There's more on that horizon
And beyond it
It stretches on forever
There's good and awe to fill a whole life
A million lives
All lives forever and always
Find it
Find it
Find it
Find it
Find it
Always

Stop killing yourself
Stop killing yourself
Wake up
Aware
Here
Now
Life is now
This is the edge of existence
Hold on!
And let go
Let go
Fall
Fly
Fall
Live
Die
There is nothing else

Princess Normal

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess... well, she was mostly beautiful anyway... I mean, most people thought she was reasonably attractive... she certainly wasn't UGLY. But she was definitely human.

Anyway, once upon a time there was this princess. Sometime... well, ok, it was pretty much now... I mean the present. And she wasn't really a princess, she was just... her. Princesses are mostly out of date these days, especially in America (well, they were always out of date in America... real princesses anyway). But she wasn't the princess-y type either. She was far to practical.

But for all her practicality she had a romantic imagination that sometimes (often) got her into trouble. Not serious trouble... not REAL trouble... but trouble in her mind and in her heart. Despite her dedication to keeping a level head, she was most practiced at having a broken heart.

But she was not to be pitied! No, sir! With the aid of time, determination, and discipline, the heart will indeed respond to the mind! Practice makes perfect, she would practice bliss! She would practice bliss or she would die.

Not to be dramatic or anything. But when life becomes truly unbearable, the only reasonable choice is to die. Life had never become truly unbearable, but had come close enough to be quite legitimately terrifying.

But we digress.

She bared her shoulders on sunny days, but wore sunscreen to avoid the cancer. Today was not sunny. It was snowing. Rather, it had been snowing a few minutes ago, but had stopped. It was the day after the end of the world, and everything continued as normal...

As normal...

As normal...

As normal...

As normal as could be... as normal as ever was... which is to say, not very normal at all...
She was in a coffee shop. Someone was singing and playing piano. She had ordered beer. She drained her glass and put on her coat. She drained her glass, set it down, put on her hat, covered her bare shoulders with a linen scarf, and put her coat on one arm at a time... no, both arms together, and zip.

She walked to work. Even fairytale princesses have to work... if they want to pay the rent. It was too cold to risk not paying the rent. There was too much snow. End of the world snow.

What a beautiful apocalypse.

1, 2, 3 poetry

1, 2, 3 look at me

2, 3, 4 I want more
I always want more
Living is wanting more

3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
Doing this and thinking this and feeling this again again again again

8, 9, 10 again again

This isn't poetry, this isn't fiction, this isn't a song... obviously not a drawing.

I have so much to say and nothing to say and everything in the world to say... to you.

I can't be your friend.

But I don't want to go.

I had this crazy dream. There were so many people in your house. I felt out of place, but so welcomed at the same time. You showed me a picture of this crazy asteroid that had hit England thousands of years ago. They used it to build the foundations of a church. But it wasn't really an asteroid, it was a spaceship. And it had come from the creators of this universe. But as far as anybody knew, there was never anyone on it. Just a ridiculously advanced inter-universal spaceship that looked mostly like a big ol' rock with some little lights on it. The picture you had was huge and heavy. You needed help rolling it up in your bedroom rug (you had a bedroom rug, your apartment was huge and AMAZING and had this incredible balcony with an incredible view). I cautioned against using the rug, as people would think you were hiding a body. That's how heavy this picture was. I felt like I had tricked you somehow, but not about the rug...

I'm tired of wondering. I'm tired of the emotional drama and the intense complicated-ness. I'm tired of the imbalance, and I'm tired of how much energy it takes for me to manage these feelings. One way or another, it's time for this to end.

Sensual Daydreams and Erotic Nightmares

I dreamt a dream, asleep this morn

And from another dream 'twas torn

The dream was good, the waking bad

Within this dream-within I had

I dreamt of you, dreamed half-awake

There blissful pleasure's form did take

I dreamt of you, that dream I'd keep

But woke while I was still asleep

There, someone else was touching me

Discovered most alarmingly

There, while I slept, there, in my room

A stranger, an unknown for whom

I felt no love and no desire

He was no man, he had no fire

Just grabby, slimy, childish lust

Groping hands, unwelcome thrust

A pleading, sycophantic air

With clammy skin and greasy hair

Limp and colorless and soft

Unclean odors float and waft

Grubby hands caressing me

Weak but clinging desperately

Invaded through my bolted door

Strength, only in wanting more

And though I scratched and kicked and fought

Escape was only gained in thought

Until my eyes again I ope'd

Still I am not as free as hoped

I feel his hands, I cannot move

Though wakefulness is real and proved

True senses penetrate this theme

The layers of dream-within and dream

And so it clings to waking light

The sense that something is not right

Meat

i am flesh

you are teeth

and in my hunger to be

devoured

i must accept my status as

meat in your mouth

chew slowly

swallow

or spit