"let's try to meditate today"
we tried to meditate today
for five minutes
thinking of nothing
concentrating on clearing away
arrays and splayed routes
like paper routes
out of there
cobwebs brushed aside
cleaned the playing field
to play and play
and play like the mind's manhattan
like the hub
the grand central
the pearly gates of the greats
are open roped in "LET EM IN!"
let in the newfound
shoes
bruised broods and
clueless fools and
impressionistic folk art
the rushing daytrotters
slowing totters
people met never met maybe will meet tomorrow
maybe have always been there
and the new ones that stay the remnants of
a
They'll find
rebellion at the root of
every eyelash,
copper streaks and
silver starbursts in
locks of lots of
ribbons of hair
and pantomime,
she does,
at the end of the hall
on the floor,
lavatory bundles
when she clutches the bowl
wondering
"am I here" at all?
They'll find
all the strange
doubled up and half-hidden
hit and run
passed, blacked, maxed
out,
and she wonders
"was I there"
in the bowels of a
forgotten night.
For my breath
contains an
unrealisticsortof
quiver,
some low thump
(baseline)
bastes breast
into a golden,
unbreathablekindof
wonderful,
never heard in nature
(particularly in tune with
acoustic guitar)
like songs played on records
played on speakers
or a
slowed
down
symphony,
listen,
the gasp of substandard perfections.
Social ease
did not come easily
I'm pleased to be the archetype "other"
undefined but by "stranger"
like I'm some home grown
some negative unknown
as if you don't see me in the halls
bathroom stalls and
the walls around my bed don't touch down
in the same landfill
yours hit
as if a bit of my existence is the "other"
and that's
it.
I'm not offended
I just wonder
if you'd say the same to a little me,
hidden in long hair, green jacket, library lunches,
when I wasn't an "other" at all,
when I was a _______ and you were still
the one casting phrases, nicknames at
bigger drifters
before I learned to speak because
see,
social
doing justice
somehow
by knowing;
what I don't remember
just became part
of the
mess
I'm
currently covered in,
wish I could do justice
through a story but
it's vaguely
thinly spread
everywhere
and everyme;
I
am history.
there's a kami
in the middle
of my choco creamy pie
and it's only that
delicious cause
her crust is never dry
she's a pastry
with a passion
in a search for resolution
she's a rainy
when it's cloudy
(just enough to let the pooch in)
see I never
liked the outer
of a pecan pumpkin cherry
and my choco-
kami covering
is cozy crumble'd dairy
the muse is
the time of reflection and
it's bought with a
waytoomuch
analysis time
I do better physically
under none o' concentration but
I also like creation
Given the proper materials
I will
carve into each curve of
spontaneous thought,
I'll
dissect a two-word exchange,
a bit lip,
a held back smile
I'll
wonder why the pigeon-toed many are
more self-conscious or
more hesitant or
ready to wage war on a unique lower leg structure,
maybe,
they're reaching destinations quicker
but I'm only after why
timely's not desired.
Given
no
proper materials,
my toes curve in at just the same angle
like the neanderthal relief
of losing the tool.
Went for a walk
with other intentions,
hopeful glances in his direction
til you reached descending
elevator,
closed doors flaw a fleeting possibility
implausible, really,
but it twittered as you twiddled down the hall
and it smothered softly between the
closing
metal
doors.
And now, you have to go on a walk.
Your jolting nausea's no way bred
from the downward pull of the box,
feet locked in gravity's grumble
then the rumble of the ground floor's approach.
It's cold.
It's self-reflection you despise but predictably it
tries your stable steps,
wondering what the walk might feel like
misted by another voice,
crisply in the
One day, in a
white-faced reflection
there might be creased features or
lines driving in between
a nose that used to be smoother,
lips that were plump,
eyelids taut and high.
Maybe the shock of a scar,
or subdued slash
where freckles once roamed,
blemishes faded,
beauty marks pocking away
to a sagging earlobe:
Once upon a time,
there was a girl who never thought she was beautiful
and she wore shorts with tank tops,
the largest earrings, and
dark eye shadow.
You don't need to curl your eyelashes when your lids are so dark,
you don't need concealer to hide invisible blemishes,
and a nose always fits the face it's on
(really
"let's try to meditate today"
we tried to meditate today
for five minutes
thinking of nothing
concentrating on clearing away
arrays and splayed routes
like paper routes
out of there
cobwebs brushed aside
cleaned the playing field
to play and play
and play like the mind's manhattan
like the hub
the grand central
the pearly gates of the greats
are open roped in "LET EM IN!"
let in the newfound
shoes
bruised broods and
clueless fools and
impressionistic folk art
the rushing daytrotters
slowing totters
people met never met maybe will meet tomorrow
maybe have always been there
and the new ones that stay the remnants of
a
They'll find
rebellion at the root of
every eyelash,
copper streaks and
silver starbursts in
locks of lots of
ribbons of hair
and pantomime,
she does,
at the end of the hall
on the floor,
lavatory bundles
when she clutches the bowl
wondering
"am I here" at all?
They'll find
all the strange
doubled up and half-hidden
hit and run
passed, blacked, maxed
out,
and she wonders
"was I there"
in the bowels of a
forgotten night.
For my breath
contains an
unrealisticsortof
quiver,
some low thump
(baseline)
bastes breast
into a golden,
unbreathablekindof
wonderful,
never heard in nature
(particularly in tune with
acoustic guitar)
like songs played on records
played on speakers
or a
slowed
down
symphony,
listen,
the gasp of substandard perfections.
Social ease
did not come easily
I'm pleased to be the archetype "other"
undefined but by "stranger"
like I'm some home grown
some negative unknown
as if you don't see me in the halls
bathroom stalls and
the walls around my bed don't touch down
in the same landfill
yours hit
as if a bit of my existence is the "other"
and that's
it.
I'm not offended
I just wonder
if you'd say the same to a little me,
hidden in long hair, green jacket, library lunches,
when I wasn't an "other" at all,
when I was a _______ and you were still
the one casting phrases, nicknames at
bigger drifters
before I learned to speak because
see,
social
doing justice
somehow
by knowing;
what I don't remember
just became part
of the
mess
I'm
currently covered in,
wish I could do justice
through a story but
it's vaguely
thinly spread
everywhere
and everyme;
I
am history.
there's a kami
in the middle
of my choco creamy pie
and it's only that
delicious cause
her crust is never dry
she's a pastry
with a passion
in a search for resolution
she's a rainy
when it's cloudy
(just enough to let the pooch in)
see I never
liked the outer
of a pecan pumpkin cherry
and my choco-
kami covering
is cozy crumble'd dairy
the muse is
the time of reflection and
it's bought with a
waytoomuch
analysis time
I do better physically
under none o' concentration but
I also like creation
Given the proper materials
I will
carve into each curve of
spontaneous thought,
I'll
dissect a two-word exchange,
a bit lip,
a held back smile
I'll
wonder why the pigeon-toed many are
more self-conscious or
more hesitant or
ready to wage war on a unique lower leg structure,
maybe,
they're reaching destinations quicker
but I'm only after why
timely's not desired.
Given
no
proper materials,
my toes curve in at just the same angle
like the neanderthal relief
of losing the tool.
Went for a walk
with other intentions,
hopeful glances in his direction
til you reached descending
elevator,
closed doors flaw a fleeting possibility
implausible, really,
but it twittered as you twiddled down the hall
and it smothered softly between the
closing
metal
doors.
And now, you have to go on a walk.
Your jolting nausea's no way bred
from the downward pull of the box,
feet locked in gravity's grumble
then the rumble of the ground floor's approach.
It's cold.
It's self-reflection you despise but predictably it
tries your stable steps,
wondering what the walk might feel like
misted by another voice,
crisply in the
One day, in a
white-faced reflection
there might be creased features or
lines driving in between
a nose that used to be smoother,
lips that were plump,
eyelids taut and high.
Maybe the shock of a scar,
or subdued slash
where freckles once roamed,
blemishes faded,
beauty marks pocking away
to a sagging earlobe:
Once upon a time,
there was a girl who never thought she was beautiful
and she wore shorts with tank tops,
the largest earrings, and
dark eye shadow.
You don't need to curl your eyelashes when your lids are so dark,
you don't need concealer to hide invisible blemishes,
and a nose always fits the face it's on
(really
now accepting applications... by YouInventedMe, literature
Literature
now accepting applications...
the smoke beneath your bed finally finds you
staring crooked in broken mirrors
searching frantically
for the fire of your former features
forever and ember
still breath and false starts
'til it whispers
sure
the universe is big business
constantly expanding
but the fact of (the) matter is
it desires you deposit d.n.a.
demanding genetic building blocks
on which to lay its foundation
and though the future of father's daughters
is
certainly uncertain
the sun set's assured
eventual
consumption
of
everything
meanwhile
I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival
of the non-linear one-liner
something like:
yes it all implodes
Current Residence: In a giant bucket. MP3 player of choice: Sir Peter (his friends call em petey) Shell of choice: turtle Wallpaper of choice: ...doctor who Favourite cartoon character: gulliver the sheepcat Personal Quote: I'm so interprangibly exscitled, I might just bloom into a bang of bamboozles.
Favourite Movies
Amelie, Big Fish, The Royal Tenenbaums, The Brothers Bloom, The Prestige, Inglorious Basterds
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
the whole range between death cab and passion pit
Favourite Writers
Neil Gaiman, Shel Silverstein, Michael Crichton, WH Auden
this year's duckstamp has been going well. what has not been going well is the camera and/or scanner that captures its image. so I've been taking shots of its progress with my cell phone and umm... well my cell phone camera doesn't have the greatest quality. mm. it's like I took a picture and threw it in the washing machine on hot-hot and when it came out proceeded to rip it into thirty thousand pieces and glue it back together. with my eyes closed. and a bomb strapped to my chest. (so I am nervous.) and then the bomb exploded and the picture disintigrated and what remained of me wobbled over to a crappy scanner and scanned the little p
remember that last journal? yeah, I don't. BECAUSE COMPUTER = FIXED! my new best friend ever fixed everything, AND he gave me the entire adobe collection. ohmuhgawd. sorry if I already posted this somewhere, but it was seriously the best thing to ever happen to me ever in life EVER. gaaahh.
also, I linked to her in one of those poemz, but here's another http://csphantoms.wordpress.com/ to my friend maggie's site. she is absolutely amazing, but doesn't think so. please tell her how amazing she is!