|
|
Ice goes BANG with liquid singles
|
|
|
| FOR EVERY SEASON, A HANDSHAKE |
[16 Oct 2006|09:40pm] |
Walk it, talk it, chill with Davy Crockett
Lump it, bump it, munch upon a crumpet
Love it, shove it, gotta be above it
Rank it, spank it, be a gent n' thank it
Steal it, feel it, let another deal it
Buff it, snuff it, be a man and tough it
Slip it, dip it, hope it doesn't ribbit
Grab it, slab it, put it in the cab'net
Take it, break it, fry it up with bacon
Shoot it, boot it, yo somebody pooted
Rock it, lock it, put it in your pocket
Land's End, Godsend, do it like a girlfriend
Funk it, punk it, attend a press junket
Cuff it, fluff it, stick it in a muffin
Wrist it, twist it, don't get a blister
Chuck it, fuck it, visit Nantucket
|
( throw a wrench in )
|
| Halloween in Queens, NY |
[07 Oct 2006|12:15pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Castle on The Hill |
] |
It was a quaint little place, and not a little bit cheesey. The only Diner-Bowling Alley-Fifties Themed Eatery this side of The Hudson. I took my grilled cheese and cole slaw from the pick-up counter back to our area near the alleys and sat waiting for Margaret ro finish up her turn. Lauren and I laughed at something, and then we were all together, sitting and eating and laughing.
My phone rang, I think. I feel stupid to check while I'm sitting with this beautiful girl, she looks adorable in this outfit and I can't seem to stop smiling. I'll excuse myself outside for just a moment, I have an odd feeling of importance thrust upon me suddenly and as soon as I'm out the doors and in the cool street air, I look around, rest on the wall of the restaurant and pull my cell phone out of it's home in my back pocket. It's a text message I can't understand, it hurts my head to look at it. Frowning, I return my phone to it's denim cave and, standing up tall, breathe in the air around me. It tastes different from the air back home.
I walk, it's pleasant out. I turn the corner and think "There's no way to get lost here." No sooner have I turned the corner than do voices waft from a ways in front of me, I can't make out what they're saying...two words reach my ears. Hester House. The rest of what I hear intrigues me and I walk on. Past the gas station and people setting up for the Halloween parade, I see a rather lamentably ignored block of old housing. Directly in the middle of which is a towering old Victorian. It looks like a pregnant Homecoming queen, beautiful but laden with nothing but sorrow, and maybe a slight sparkle in the eye, a reminder of days past.
Hanging reluctantly on the grizzled front lawn is a worn sign that reads Hester. My stomach goes giddy and can't seem to tell my legs which way to go. I start up the stairs, folding my collar up around my neck out of necessity. The atmosphere around this house is chilled.
The front door opens by itself and soon I'm inside. Nobody's been here for years. What were those locals talking about --
An enormous, slack, monstrous visage passes by one of the large bay windows on the side of the house, startling me nearly to the ground. It fades almost as quickly as it had arrived and I stand, legs still wobbling, supporting myself on the hall table. I wait. It comes again, exactly the same. I begin to notice something behind the face and -- yes of course! This is the town's big Halloween project. They've taken the spooky old house with a troubled past and turned it into their very own novel Haunted House. I start up the stairs.
A man swings out at me from the top, nearly scaring me until I see the iron bar the propels him there.
On the second level however, I begin to see things not attatched to machinery or displaying themselves in set patterns. The voiceboxes inside the stuffing of the town's haunted dolls turn into something more real, something more palpable, something making my palms sweat. All of a sudden I'm losing count of what floor I'm on. An old Jewish prayer song floats from some unknown crevice of the folds of this old house, by way of gramaphone. Lights turn themselves on as I enter rooms, yet I'm wary to set foot any further than the base beam. Thinking I'm seeing more than I am, hearing things created by machinery and warped by my mind, I jog down the stairs (God how many I don't know) and burst out of what seemed much more like a breathing creature than a house, into the refreshing October air.
My pulse lowers as I stoop on the sad grass of Hester House, my breathing returns to me, my surroundings are familiar and much appreciated for it.
I walk down to sidewalk level again, casting one glance back over my shoulder, sure I'll find something peeking through a window or creeping around the corner of the basement window...Nothing, and I walk on.
The Gas Station doesn't seem to be coming for a while, so I look around me at this town and see things I didn't on my way to the House. An older man sits sadly and counts photographs at a table by a closed Cafe. Something about him makes me stop
"That house up there..." I cough out.
His hands stop their motion and his pictures come to rest.
I continue. "I think it's real."
He looks my way and the tragedy not only in his eyes I see, but in the wrinkles of his face and in his tightened lips, nearly overcomes me. He speaks and it seems to come and go with the stagnant breeze.
"Yes well...that's what they said about the War." I felt as though I may collapse weeping to the pavement at any moment. I can't stay near this man, and I continue.
I look behind and ahead of me and realize I don't recall from whence I came. Finally, I pass the gas station I recgonize, in front of it are half a dozen or so almost teenaged boys with not identical but strangely uniformed haircuts. They are shirtless and rifling through bags, trying on costumes.
One of them comes over to me and I ask him where the restaurant is. I've forgotten the name of it but he seems to know where it is.
"Closest Bowling Alley, well...you're talking Newark." The rest of his friends fall silent from their laughter and join behind him, staring at this man they've never seen before. Could this town be that small?
As I nod and point down the road, he laughs and gives me a tiny punch in the stomach. I barely feel it, but the oddity of the gesture stays with me as they return to their station by the costumes and I notice a cluster of elderly women at a table behind a gas tanker, sorting through Ballots for the Halloween Prince and Duchess. One of them looks as though she can't remember why she's there and I approach her, asking her the same question I posed to my friend with the quick fist. She is kind but old, and she can't use her hands all that well anymore.
She looks up at me telling me she thinks she knows what I mean and where it is. She begins to tell me and stops. Looking into my face and saying with such utter innocence I am taken aback
"Oh...I wish you would hold me."
I do.
( I wake with tender eyes wishing I could have dreamed long enough to return to that restaurant. I was worried the girl I love wouldn't know where I'd gone ♥ )
|
( throw a wrench in )
|
| An excerpt from Spoon Landing, a Novel in progress |
[18 Apr 2006|01:07am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Best of Barber Shop Quartets |
] |
Behind the wheel of the hideous bleeding-magenta Volkswagen, Arthur felt his hand throbbing and wondered if there hadn’t been something on that nail fail that had infected the wound. Trying to put it out of his mind – which was hard so hot it felt so hot was it spreading he felt the pain spreading starting to spread – he glanced over his shoulder once, as if he could see through the back seats, through the wall to the trunk compartment and check on his grave parcel. He hadn’t heard anything. Not the whole time. He was sure she wasn’t still…
He was sure.
He made one final turnoff onto State Road 23, a dingy sand-and-rubble road down which one of its forks took you to one of the biggest coves on the island, Spoon Landing. The other fork, which the Volkswagen now began trundling down, lead to a humongous floating barge, which was anchored to the ocean floor all but one day out of thirty. Every last Sunday evening of the month it was connected to a ferry and towed to the mainland. There it was emptied into a larger landfill. But for now, it was anchored strong and fast. It was only Thursday.
Arthur had just passed an all but unreadable sign, weathered by the elements and graffiti. It stood at the entrance to State Road 23 and read, in faded yellow-on-blue.
ATTENTION!
Absolutely no dumping without permit
This road closed after sunset
Violators will be prosecuted on both counts
Arthur Clare drove on. In the dim moonlight, he hadn’t even seen the sign. If he had, he would have driven down just the same. In seven minutes, Lucille would make the same choice.
The moon above the dump at Spoon Landing was nearly full and the color of butter. Along a ridge that ran ninety feet up along the shore, weeds and beach-grass blew in a tickling breeze that had swooped in from the east. Floating offshore suspended in the water by buoys was an immense steel box with no lid. It once was painted green and looked now like a dumpster from some back street, uncared for and covered in rust. The size of a large two family house, it bobbed slightly with the changes in the waves. It sat now, half full of refuse, old furniture, parts of broken down cars, bags of waste…waiting two more weeks until it was emptied on the mainland and returned for another shipment.
Beneath the butter moon, a deep, raw meat colored Volkswagen edged onward in the dark. Crunching gravel and seaweed beneath its wheels, it went slowly, for the driver couldn’t see much in front of the car. He also knew this scrubby closed-down rest stop came to a jutting cliffy precipice. But he didn’t know when.
Easing the breaks, he came to a stop a good twenty feet from the drop. He sat with his hands on the steering wheel for another two minutes, trying to collect himself but in actuality mostly unable to think of anything at all besides the trunk. Unable to think of anything but what was in the trunk. He wouldn’t let himself call it a ‘who’. What. Unable to think about anything…anything but what was in the trunk.
He couldn’t stand the silence anymore and jabbed his thumb where the radio knob was…on his dashboard. But this car didn’t belong to the driver. It belonged to the only passenger. He had to feel his way across the dashboard for a few seconds before finding the knob and pushing it in. With a decided eeriness, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot began just as he turned on the radio. There were no last words from the 24-Hour DJ; he didn’t start listening in the middle. It was as if the four men singing in harmony had been waiting for him in Radioland. He barely gave this a thought and, swinging his legs out onto the gravel and sand, entered the chill, clammy night.
He felt unable to head immediately for the trunk. This, he felt, gave too much propinquity to the deed at hand. Right now he didn’t want to think about what he had to do. The night was chilly, and he just noticed. With his injured hand nursing itself in one pocket of his coat, he used the other to gather the coat together and in front of him. He pushed his chin to his breastbone, trying to kill the cold.
Nearing the peak as close he dared, he saw the choppy water and felt the breeze that climbed the rock and dispersed over the high, flat ground up here. He saw the little while rolls of churning water break against the bottom of the rock face, could hear from ninety feet up the arguing of the water and the tall, jutting beach rocks. He saw the slapping of the water against the heavy metal of the gigantic dumpster – angry, locked out spouses, drunkenly desiring a place to sleep.
His lips locked in a half frown, his brow furrowed, his legs stiff, his tongue busying itself inside his mouth…he returned to the strange looking Volkswagen to take care of what he knew he must.
I looked over Jordan and what did I see
He about faced once he reached the back of the car, looking for strange lights, trying to open his ears to alien noises. He nearly regretted that there came none of either. He wanted away from here. He wanted done with this crazy, awful bitch. He told himself quietly that the only way he could get away, the only way to be done was to do. Do it.
He thumbed the latch and watched as the back to Adorabella’s car swung up and open. He saw the black sheen of the Glad garbage back in the lazy moonshine. He saw knees and head and elbow making their presence known through the thin plastic. He tried not to imagine what she looked like.
The car was still running.
Coming for to carry me home
He knelt and prepared to lift.
A band of angels coming after me
He walked toward the edge slowly and steadily.
Coming for to carry me home
She was draped over his shoulder like a roll of carpet.
If you get there before I do
He felt her slack heaviness. He imagined her eyes were open.
Tell all my friends that I’ll be coming too
He shifted her and felt the dead muscle in her breast press against his shoulder.
I’m sometimes up and sometimes down
He reached a close enough point and edged back a little. He strained his muscles
But still my soul feels heavenly bound
And swung forward, releasing her to first smack either her head or her feet,
Swing low
he couldn’t tell, against the uneven edge of the cliff
Sweet chariot
before flipping over it and careening downward. Arthur immediately scampered forward and grabbed hold of a rock just ahead of the drop. He looked over and watched the last seconds of her fall. He heard a low crunch as she destroyed five square feet of fast food wrappers, empty CD cases and bits of chair. He breathed once, deeply and walked quickly back to the car, his hand feeling better already. Once seated behind the wheel he spun the knob on the dashboard randomly and walked into the middle of Loudon Wainwright’s M*A*S*H theme, but felt a chill and flipped it off. The silence was welcomed.
Coming for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet chariot.
Coming for to carry me home.
|
(4 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| Telling myself it's not as late as the clocks want me to think... |
[11 Apr 2006|09:53pm] |
Whenever my constant human tendencies of impermanency sneak up on me
Whenever I feel as though there's some other side to me I don't know about
Whenever I get a sense that my unfortunate inexperience (despite my inherent maturity) may betray me
I think of you
and our restaurant
and our balcony
and our hands together
and our disregard for bus schedules
and our exactly
and our infinite understanding
and our greater than great love
and our world
And I could sleep one hundred years in assurance that my love for you would override any other thing I've known. Completely positive that it could vanquish anything that waits to spring on us in the future.
We're too perfect to be primarily accepted. I love you enough to fight for us. Through anything. To wait. Through anything.
You're always on my mind and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I need you there to make everything else that much brighter.
I could lie next to you and close my eyes...and miss you.
There's nothing I wouldn't go through
for us.
|
(2 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| I saw it in your eyes, what'll make me live |
[03 Apr 2006|07:09pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Rufus Wainwright |
] |
I want anyone who reads this to do me a favor.
Click on the UPDATE tab and write. Write what you're thinking and what you're feeling and what you want other people to know you're feeling...what you don't want other people to even think you're feeling.
As humans we're so afraid of what other people will think. We're constantly apologizing, It's such a habit.
"This sounds crazy but..." "I'm sorry but I..." "Don't hate me for this..."
People who wander outside this expected template are called insensitive pricks and loud-mouthed bitches. We need to learn not to be afraid of ourselves.
Whatever you're worrying about. Anything. Everything.
What you're afraid of
What's making you happy
What's making you weep
Who you're in love with
Just write without being so damn human
A word that has come to mean the exact opposite of it's true definition.
|
(9 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| Some of them arelies JUST LIES because I don't really live with you guys in your REAL PEOPLE WORLD |
[15 Mar 2006|11:39pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 Breaking my fa-a-a-a-a-all |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Regina - Fidelity |
] |
- list 10 things you want to say to people but know you never will.
- don't say who they are.
- disable comments.
- never discuss it again.
1. I'm not sure what to expect from you EVERY TIME we see eachother. I don't like what you expect/ed of me. Sometimes we're completely ridiculous and need to learn to really talk to eachother more instead of just talking.
2. I am completely in love with you and mean it every time I say it. It bothers me that you're so beautiful and so perfect and yet I don't ever look at you sexually or typically man-ish-ly. It's hard to verbalize, like so many things we do.
3. You're gorgeous and I have so much fun with you. I also incidentally completely love your boyfriend. We need to become really good friends.
4. Sometimes I've earnestly found myself wishing you were dead.
5. I look at you sometimes and just pure, straight hate you. You're completely ridiculous and care about nothing important. That isn't being disrespectful it's just that you care about the most pedestrian and immature things. I talk to you five minutes after feeling like you should just explode and act like we're best friends, and feel so whorish about it.
6. I don't understand how you can embrace me the way you do after what I did. Physically and mentally. You give me these hugs and you've completely accepted me and put past to past. I couldn't never do that. You're a strong and grand person.
7. There's no doubt in my mind that you are going to die young and tragic.
8. I admire half of what you do and hate the fuck out of the other half. I'm not sure how someone half full of shit and half full of beauty can co-exist with the rest of us. But I'm reminded it's true every time you walk into the room.
9. You know way too much about me and I'm often afraid you'll talk.
10. You make people feel so bad about themselves and I think you honestly have no idea. I don't know how I still love you as much as I do.
|
(11 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| PUSHPINS |
[28 Jan 2006|07:16pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 my eyes can really dance |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Sufjan Stevens - John Wayne Gacy, Jr. |
] |
Making you laugh with my stupid jokes
Sleeping with pushpins lost in the mattress
Letting you buy all my breakfast Cokes
Falling off a horse going top speed hurts less
Taking a nap with your voice in my ear
Letting your dear old dying mother down
Wondering if it’s really been a year
Watching a newborn beautiful baby girl drown
Saving your letters and keeping them neat
Enduring shock treatment in a tub full of ice cubes
Drifting off in the fireplace-heat
Just waking up as they yank out the feeding tubes
Letting you love me kills me more
Than watching you lock the thick front door
Not coming back and not calling home
Letting me hate you…All alone.
Watching your shadow keeps me cold
Smell still picks up all the cigarettes you rolled
Wishing I would rather float out with the tide
Than sit here despising you by my side.
|
( throw a wrench in )
|
| Unh! Unh! Big willy styles, all in it! |
[26 Jan 2006|08:29pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 <-yeah again your ma |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Your mother |
] |
You can tell:
From the scars on my arms
(and cracks in my hips)
and the dents in my car
(and the blisters on my lips)
that i'm not the carefullest of girls
You can tell
from the glass on the floor
--and the strings that're breaking
and i keep on breaking more--
and it looks like i am shaking
but it's just the temperature;
and then again
if it were any colder i could disengage
if i were any older i could act my age
but i dont think that youd believe me
it's not the way i'm meant to be
it's just the way the operation made me
And you can tell:
From the state of my room
That they let me out too soon
And the pills that i ate
Came a couple years too late.
And I've got some issues to work through
(There I go again pretending to be you)
Make-believing
That I have a soul beneath the surface
Trying to convince you
"It was accidentally on purpose!"
I am not so serious
this passion is a plagiarism
I might join your century
But only on a rare occasion
I was taken out
Before the labor pains set in and now
behold the world's worst accident
I am the girl anachronism.
And you can tell -
By the red in my eyes,
And the bruises on my thighs,
and the knots in my hair,
and the bathtub full of flies...
That I'm not right, now, at all
There i go again
Pretending that I'll fall
Don't call the doctors!
Cause they've seen it all before
They'll say just
"Let her crash and burn. She'll learn;
The attention just encourages her."
And you can tell!
From the full-body cast
That i'm sorry that i asked
Though you did everything you could
(...like any decent person would...)
But I might be catching so don't touch
You'll start believeing youre immune
to gravity and stuff
Don't get me wet,
because the bandages will all come off.
And you can tell:
From the smoke at the stake
That the current state is critical.
Well it is the little things, for instance:
"In the time it takes to break it she can make up ten excuses!"
"Please excuse her for the day, its just the way the medication makes her..."
I dont necessarily believe there is a cure for this
So i might join your century but only as a doubtful guest
I was too precarious removed as a Caesarian
Behold the worlds worst accident
I Am The Girl Anachronism.
|
(3 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| Nostalgia as seen in the "sent" folder |
[06 Jan 2006|07:54am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 somebody missed the bus |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ben Folds - Mess |
] |
Haha back in the day
me and Emma Juliet
we volleyed back and forth a mean survey or two
FAVORITES
>
> sexual position:
I'm more of a giver than a getter. Pretty much
anything someone gets off on is good for me. But
seeing the face is a biggie.
> dessert:
Classy-Vanilla Ice Cream
Honest-Sour candy of some kind?
Stupidly Classy-Tiramisu
> reality show:
Haha I thought whatever it was about clothes designers
picking things out of the trash and making outfits was
fun. Since it's PRETTY MUCH what happens anyway.
> child star: Macaulay Culkin. The Home Alone movies
were my bible growing up.
> female cartoon character: Daria. Daria daria all the
fucking way Daria.
> halloween costume you've had: I was a cheerleader a
few years back. And a Rocky Horror Reject two
Halloweens ago. And My mom in seventh grade. Those
were all up there.
> room in your house: The trilogy of my big-ass
bedroom, the connected shower and my kitchen. I live
in my kitchen.
> things to wear: Too-small tees, tight jeans. I
honestly care way too much. I hate looking dumpy.
>
> scents you like: Sandalwood, Coco Chanel,
Frankincense.
>
>
>
> bad movies you like anyway:
> Both Wayne's Worlds, The Mask.
>
>
> in the movie of your life, you want to be played by:
> Chronologically: The Little Boy who played Little
German Hansel in Hedwig and The Angry Inch, Cillian
Murphy, and a dying Pacino.
>
>
> FIRSTS
>
> concert: Rufus Wainwright in Central Park.
> kiss: Aged thirteen on my parent's bed with my first
girlfriend, Holly Murray, whom I met at a Christmas
cocktail mixer my parents forced me to.
> sn: MisterSpike911/PeachRalayne
> time drinking/smoking: Champagne, New Years '00/Mimi Shang's Back Porch, Summer '05
> thoughts waking up: I feel so heavy right now...the
day's too young to be vertical yet.
> words: Dig...or Dick. My parents may have edited for
me.
>
>
> biggest fears: Giant spiders, vengeful souls, being
trapped in a slow moving glass box sinking into a
dirty, cold lake.
>
>
>
>
> random things you enjoy:
>
> waking up with someone and feeling ugly but not
quite caring
being inside when it's raining
being outside when it's raining
snow
long kisses
tons of other romantic bullcrap
and a good omelette.
>
>
> -Shayneglorious
|
(2 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| I will not fail so you can be comfortable...I won't lose because you can't win. |
[02 Jan 2006|02:36am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
it's my fucking birthday |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Last 5 Years - If I Didn't Believe In You |
] |
Ground Rules: The first player of this "game" starts with the topic "5 weird habits of yours" and people who get tagged need to write an LJ entry about their 5 quirky habits as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next 5 people to be tagged and list their names.
1. I wear too much makeup.
2. I flirt with everyone.
3. Sometimes I lie to cover my own ass.
4. I say "I don't respond to haters/homophobes/threats/assaults because I'm above them" when I'm really just scared of winding up dead in some parking lot.
5. The eyeliner shavings on my sink weigh more than the collective hair on my body. If I don't shave every day )legs, underarms, anything else I'm displeased with i.e. happy trail) I get depressed.
Tag!
1. Krystal Mitchell
2. Zoe Field
3. Aidan Kennon
4. Mimi Shang
5. Samantha Lifson
|
(5 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| How could I EVEN not |
[15 Dec 2005|08:48pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
complizzly |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
take a wild fuckin guess |
] |
(So Dangerous)
(So Dangerous)
He fights the law,
But he also fights the crime-- but not as much
Dangeresque
With Renaldo at his side
--He'll have Rinaldo at his side--
Dangeresque
(Dangeresque)
He's got some Chinese stars
And he keeps them under the bed
With a length of pipe
Dangeresque
(Length of pipe)
The guy is Dangeresque!
The mighty oak has fallen--
If movies have taught me anything, he'll get the girl...
(Or maybe not)
Stick it to the man,
Stick it to the man.
(hoo hoo)
Cool glasses,
Cool glasses!
Stick it to the man!
Stick it to the man!
(hoo hoo)
Cool, cool glasses
He works alone...
Except when he works with Renaldo which is all the time
Dangeresque
He's a
-Private Eye,
-A Crooked Cop
-Secret Agent
-And a Celebrity Pharmacist!
Dangeresque
The guy is Dangeresque....
Dangeresque.....
Dangeresque.....
Dangeresque....
(Or Did I?)
|
(1 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| He wasn't warm....well not to HER...well--not to us . |
[14 Dec 2005|05:48pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
ish |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
A Chorus Line - At The Ballet |
] |
Please comment this with your name and cell phone number
My cell phone is in the snow somewhere dying/dead
I'm using my crunkass old seventh grade nokia
so not only do you need to give me all your numbers again
you need to pray for my soul. i feel like such a dork.
|
(10 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| One of my absolute favorites for this time of year |
[08 Dec 2005|08:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 happy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
khadfjklhnkjdnjl |
] |
FINE CHINA
It was one of those invisible, mauve, night-time skies
Where the clouds are probably there
But you can’t see them
A deep, hollow, bleeding-lavender sky
Above that big clock in the square that always ran slow
And now read 3:16
This is the corner where my bike got backed over
On my birthday last year
My legs are long and my shoes are comfortable
And the curb is easy to walk along
But my balance falters
and the flats of my feet
fall on thick black concrete
And I share a ruffled, self conscious, shuffling glance
With the pitch black shop windows that have been empty for hours
This is the street where I dropped my mother’s ceramic dish set
The one my father got her for Christmas
I look down at the sewer grate
and remember how I thought
the loose, new snow might save it
And how I had been proved wrong
And how my mother cried into the dish-towel that night
When she had thought no one was looking
And even though it’s only November now
I can see tiny telltale droplets of frozen cold hit the
Plexiglas storefront bay windows
One falls directly over my pupil
And sticks itself to the moisture there
Blurring my eyesight and taking me by surprise
And through the faux-tear that’s been birthed
I see one headlight breast the hill this street was lain over
And I realize
There’s no lie to my eyes
There’s a green Pontiac tearing up the asphalt at nearly 80 miles an hour
It’s swerving and bobbing two hundred yards ahead of me
Seemingly silent due to the quick business in my mind
Which blots out my ears and eyes in order to think
Faster
What to do
Faster
It clunks a streetlamp
Makes a sound like heavy steel frying pan
Being thrown right into a fast moving ceiling fan
And it falls toward the ground
With that dead metal sound
Things keep breaking on this street
But it keeps coming
I drop to my knees
(In what looks like a prayer
And what might as well be one)
In shock
And scramble toward the curb
If I can only grab hold
I’ll be out of the way
The Pontiac’s moving
-Oh god it’s so fast-
But time’s on his side
As his low-riding ride
Bumps over my calf
Outstretched and extended
And I,
Unaware that I’m screaming
Distended
Can focus only on this strange new
Hot pain
Being broadcast from everywhere
South of my knees
I don’t look
I don’t dare
If I did
I’d see there
That the leg I knew
Is gone and dead still
The bones there all have shattered
The blood that’s leaking out of me is
Dark and thick and matted
Things keep breaking on this street
And before the red rears
Come into view
The back of this car
jerks around
and my head is connected to
Metal
Cold metal
Can’t think
Can’t hurt
My lips kiss the earth and
One second
I taste for
One second
The salty gray winter on asphalt
This accident, my fault?
Out of court settlements
Surgery bills
Painful steel crutches and
Dozens of pills
In jail for ten months
With good behavior, five
Assault, grand-theft auto,
Dee Double-you I
A place
To place
This placement
Blame
Weeping over dish-sets and
Bicycle frames
Physical therapy, even with injuries
I’ll still jerk some tears out of kind-hearted juries
Neck braces, jaw wires and painted-on fractures
Dealing with honor and justice and lectures
Casts that are heavy as paper mache
Kick me and hate me but praise me today
Pay my insurance and make me alright
But leave me alone when I’m at home at night
Because still while my mother is cleaning and cooking
And still with drunk drivers receiving their bookings
Lawyers in nice suits trip, skipping and hooking
I’ll weep in the dish-towel
When nobody’s looking.
|
(1 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| isn't it funny how sometimes you just... |
[01 Dec 2005|04:20pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 last rehearsal |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
regina spektor |
] |
My rhyme ain't good just yet my brain and tongue just met and they ain't friends so far my words don't travel far
They tangle in my hair and tend to go nowhere they grow right back inside right past my brain and eyes into my stomach juice where they don't serve my juice,
All melted calories, Nutrition values
And I absorb back in The words right through my skin They sit there festering inside my bowels
Got a soundtrack in my mind,
All the time.
Kids screaming from too much beat up
(And they don't even rhyme)
They just stand there, on a street corner,
Skin tucked in
And meat side out and shot,
And I’d like to turn them down
But there ain't no knob.
Run into picket fences
Not into picket lines.
All this hippie-shit for the 60's and another cliché for our time
But a one of these days your heart
Will just stop ticking,
And they sorta just don't find you till your cubicle is reeking.
Did you know that the gravedigger's still
Gettin' stuck in the machine
Even tough it's a whole other daydream.
It's another town it's another world,
Where the kids are asleep, where the loans are paid
And the lawns are mowed.
Whad'ya think?
All the gravediggers were gone?
Just cause one song is done
There’s always another one,
Waiting right around the bend,
Till this one ends,
Then it begins
Quickly, then it starts all over again.
The weather report keeps on
Tossing and turning,
Predicting and warning,
And warning and warning of,
Possibly it could be news publications and,
Possibly it could be news TV stations. That
Very same morning right next to her coffee
She noticed some bleeding and heard hollow coughing and
National Geographic was being too graphic,
When all she had wanted to know was the traffic
“The worlds got a nosebleed” it said
“And we’re flooding but we keep on cutting
The trees and the forests!”
And we keep on paying those freaks on the TV,
Who claim they will save us but want to enslave us.
And sweating like demons they scream through our speakers
But we leave the sound on 'cause silence is harder.
And no one’s the killer and no one’s the martyr
The world that has made us can no longer contain us
And profits are silent then rotting away 'cause
My rhyme ain't good just yet, My brain and tongue just met, And they ain't friends, so far, My words don't travel far, They tangle in my hair, And tend to go nowhere, They grow right back inside, Right past my brain and eyes
Into my stomach juice, where they don't serve my juice, All melted calories, nutrition values.
And I absorb back in
The words right through my skin
They sit there festering inside my bowels
|
(1 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| such wuthering heights |
[26 Nov 2005|11:18pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 it's there...it's something |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Kate Bush |
] |
If I get over this too quickly I'm a cold disromantic feelingless nomad
If I dwell on it I'm an emo little bitch crying over spilt milk
If I write about this in my livejournal
I'm just an emo little bitch.
|
(2 wrenches// throw a wrench in )
|
| Last legs of love status |
[22 Nov 2005|10:45pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
A little like last year |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Bob Dylan |
] |
I'm at the Last Chances phase
checking to see if her away messages are for me
(checking to see if her away messages are vague song lyrics i can interpret in ways different than intended)
((checking to see if her away messages are even vaguely reminiscent of two weeks ago))
(((checking to see if i should keep caring after this weekend)))
|
( throw a wrench in )
|
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munchmarzipan's journal
quite floaty
wellish