| .blemish. |
[21 Aug 2007|10:16pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"multi-personality tabletop vacation" flowchart |
] |
| | i talked to skeletal girl who is looking more deflated than ever.
we crossed in the city between a row of streets i've never felt comfortable between. she and i both agreed it must have been since the party of louis & frank chris that we exchanged a round of bullshit.
she made a hollow smile and yanked on her papillon's red leather leash. designer, naturally.
and like those who know skeletal girl through a circle of a few friends and randomites, it has been concluded that she is one of the most dreadful people to be met. she is affluent and uptown. vexatious and vicious.
she may be all bones, but she can break you into quarters with her malicious and un-nutritious lies, gossip and her-say. she'll count your flaws and your calories faster than you can say two grams of neurotic!
within a few steps of this chance meeting, i was cornered between the subjects of her work, her favorite building on trumbull that had recently been restored, her loathe life, and how she agreed with all things minority.
my efforts of alluding further conversation fell unnoticed by both skeletal girl and her companion, whom I had now dubbed, skeletal dog. it was not intil after two missed phone calls and seven blocks in the wrong direction that i was able to abandon her in a brief, sweet farewell.
i took a left and found myself in front of a blistering bowl of tomato soup and rye bread which proclaimed to be a late lunch. a few sips into the soup and into a celebrity magazine, i was able to find at least five women on one page alone, all smaller than skeletal girl on a one-sweater-day.
all of them, glorified, splattered and spun in color, gaunt and bones. perfect and snack-sized.
i felt unenviable. botched. like the most unbeautiful girl in the unwide world. i let the soup cool and the bread dry out and refused to touch the desert, even if it was apple pie.
and it brought the whole day back, and it made me wonder about skeletal girl, hollywood, myself, everyone. is it ...
don't eat or be eaten? |
|
|
| .postcard. |
[12 Apr 2005|10:35am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"xo" elliott smith |
] |
hello, minnesota.
i am back.
love,
kate.
|
|
| .pour toujour. |
[19 Mar 2005|01:08pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
snow robots volume 2 / g.d. luxxe & solvent |
] |
we have kept concealed in the company of our work and our wee famile.
the new england weather is turning towards spring and we tread toward the city for only seldom social celebrations with little to say with our handshakes.
i keep quiet with the corners of the rooms and savor wine of only red and swiss and made of 52 types of grapes grown on alpine terraces.
and when i do speak -- i narrate of my visit to new delhi and the german girl i met at indira gandhi international airport whose pear shaped smile goes with her nickname of "georgina" and she asks --
"where else have you gone?"
|
|
| .past daydream forecast endeavor / phone post. |
[28 Sep 2004|10:17am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the milwaukee tapes |
] |
 | VoicePost 
300K 1:30
| (no transcription available) |
transcript-
i wish i could insert my hand into your brain and wash out everything that has tainted you. including the entirely devastating society that's prompted you to become a walking vegetable.
and, baby, i'd remedy everything-
the sheets, the ghostly fingerprints that adorn your windowpane, the burning realizations that keep you awake 90% of the night and leave you with endless bags, endless sags encircling your eyes, encompassing your reflection.
rid of the mirrors and find that .. drugs can only suffice for time because your body soon enough catches up to your pain, your abuse and your ultimately beguiling needs.
rid of desires, the thrust, the trivial possessions, and the corrupt introspective rounding of the muffins in your microwave and the blueberries that were freeze dried for you convince. {laugh}
leave it all, cast it out and join my hand and i'll lead you into europe.
lead you into a crusted life where we don't have to pine, we don't have to worry, we don't have to find a way to ensure that we have well sleep.
|
|
| .madame. |
[16 Jul 2004|09:34am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"the cigarette blouse rebellion" pas/cal |
] |
she is a shy collection of estrogen, he a polished pile of testosterone.
she reeks of unchartered land and life, he of dishonest urban lunch meetings and double-breasted suit jackets.
farmhouse innocence meet high-rise corruption.
hours later they are feverishly licking peanut butter off their fingers with exhausted tongues. expensive stitching and handy tailor-work become a designer towel for she to rest her head upon.
he decides that it is a nice night to call the wilderness his bedroom, so he does.
there are no walls walls and all skies, some furniture constructed by blades of moist grass and upholstered by an his unweathered sleeping bag.
and there is consolidation in the constellations above them. possibility is as endless as one can tolerate. gravity is merely the result of the immense weight from hardened hearts.
gloat, they do. soar, they are.
sticks are collected, but their attempt to mimic god is unsuccessful so they create light using the friction from their bodies instead.
it is warmer that way. brighter and resilient to the cool breeze that forces them to hibernate beneath that unweathered vinyl and cotton.
he has slowly begun his decent from his twenty-third floor bachelor apartment window.
be careful city boy, his subconscious lectures delicately as he stares up at her with flushed cheeks and irregular carbon dioxide disposals. ignoring whatever internal ignorance may pollute this moment, he reaches for a hand laced with peanut butter and finds opportunity in the blood pulsating the walls of flesh pressed firmly against his own.
palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip, it doesn't really matter how their hands intertwine because it is not through the use of silly extremities that two people find everlasting connections. it is during the fluid traction of human gases that the protostar of conjunction is born.
he is plummeting now.
"this is fucking magic." he whispers to the trees encircling him and his small-town heroine.
"we know." they whisper back.
astonished neurons fire signals to his jaw which drops in amazement. he tries to rouse her from her sleep, but she continues to watch dreams play upon eyelid drop screens for she is the voice that animates those trees.
and as branches reach over to tuck she and he, somewhere, over the silence the man in a double-breasted suit jacket is heard disposing of carbon dioxide for the very last time.
a jar of unopened peanut butter sits beside him.
the trees laugh.
|
|
| .advances towards a psychedelic sea life. |
[05 Jun 2004|10:28pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"b000066703001002" mull historical society |
] |
this is my last post, i've concluded.
but it will not be the last.
look for me on the front page, my friends, i will be somewhere in the text.
i lie.
|
|
| .sneaky a.m. |
[27 Apr 2004|11:57am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"beautysleep" tanya donelly |
] |
i took the knife and slid it under my bed.
i was so suprised at the joy i felt . . .
to wake up from a long night.
|
|
| .alleluia. |
[22 Apr 2004|03:03pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"come along" little wings |
] |
there she was, standing top the lunch table getting fitted for her wings.
big bangs, small shirt, and saying nasty, little things.
i thought she was an angel but it's preposterous and it's incongruous.
i said you'll hate it here because we're the only ones like us.
it's crypto-fascist mania.
it's silicon deliria.
yeah, she said, you're right, but i like the cafeteria.
hey god, we're the bad kids.
we're careless and so fucking cool.
god looks like a guidance counselor, god's got that smile.
and god says, how could this be, that's really odd.
i guess i'll have to check my records, silly me, you know, i am only god.
here the boys are either handsome or winsome and we're sleeping in the sky.
but there's got to be more to death than having elliott smith sing to us all the time.
and i know the signs of an early end so i try to stop each new kid.
don't be like me, forever young, forever stupid.
yeah, i found love here, but i'll bet you'll find it back down there.
where they don't always make the same joke ...
"gee, you make quite the heavenly pair."
|
|
| .battaglia dei fiori. |
[09 Apr 2004|11:36pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"l'nuh" national skyline |
] |
it's the final evening in italia and we're back at the finnegan pub on leonina 66 just outside of rome and you're watching the woman dancing in the back, she is drunk.
and she is smiling and falling in a slow descending funk.
"i'd say that woman has a halo," you blushed a vicious red.
and i laughed a little over my words, "yeah, or she's just really blonde."
you stood up from your seat and requested a song by spazio to keep her hips rolling and flowing and asked me, "is it how she moves, or how she looks?"
i say it's loneliness suspended to our own like grappling hooks.
and as long as she's got noise, she's fine.
but i could teach her how to dance when the music has ended.
|
|
| .the yellow tiger lemons. |
[12 Mar 2004|11:03pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"red sun" half japanese |
] |
i knocked on your door and you answered quite quickly and said i could not come in.
but we could walk around the garden together, arm in arm enjoying the weather and inspecting the crops.
we saw green beans in profusion, burdening the vine like a weeping willow.
ripe red tomatoes, soft and sweet, perched upon their furry stalk begging you to pluck.
crisp cucumbers.
proud bellpeppers.
and one plastic bucket of extra large, extra sweet strawberries.
we ate them one by one until there was just one left .. the largest, sweetest, extra fancy.
then we alternated bite by bite until it was gone.
|
|
| .end of an almost certain amnesia. |
[07 Mar 2004|03:31pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"obstacle 1" interpol |
] |
december was so long it lasted seven days into march.
and all this time i've been living in an apartment in connecticut that smells more like sage than cinnamon and a lot like home.
i am sorry that i left you, mom and minnesota, but i was too happy driving away.
and sometimes i may miss it there but it's spring everywhere.
and my old state just had a blizzard just to show she didn't care.
and the new dead leaves, they made the trees look like children with gray hair.
but i've already pushed myself through that dirt and had to shake my petals free.
i'm resolved to being born ...
and so resigned to bravery.
|
|
| .trembling. |
[27 Jul 2003|09:23am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
schlippenbach "wenn wir kehlkopfspieler uns unterhalten" |
] |
he is remembering the first time he kissed her and how he'd wake and immediately miss her like a spell with each breath he'd taste her breath like a haunting ..
as irritating as hell.
|
|
| .estrogen vs. terror. |
[22 Jul 2003|03:00am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
hella "d. elkan sings republic of r+r" |
] |
voices in my ears tell me the world is over.
repeating it in a scathing whisper that curls my hair and spine.
over and over and over.
they have said that the world is over before i've ever seen it.
and they tell me my grave will read, so simply ..
"unsatisfied".
|
|
| .juvenalia. |
[06 Jun 2003|03:00am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"only [for voice only, 1947 version]" morton feldman |
] |
i will wait for the day flight shall soar not for it's own sake up into heaven's lonely silence and become no more than merely the light profiling successful tool and playmate of winds, beguiling time there so careless and cool, only when some pure wither outweighs boyish insistence on the achieved machine with who has journed thither be in that fading distance and realizes that all flight has been.
|
|
| .princess & petros. |
[21 May 2003|12:42pm] |
| [ |
music |
| |
"reeds have parted" per mission |
] |
after he left, she wrote promises on tiny scraps of paper and kept them in labeled canisters in her kitchen cabinets beside her breakfast cereal, white rice, and jars of apple jam she canned this fall.
the papers were filled with things she swore she would do some day,
... when she considered herself worth the effort.
... when she wasn't such a bag of nothing.
... when she was beautiful again.
she wrote her promises in perfect cursive letters with tiny loops and abrupt crosses on her t's.
her words were misleading of course.
and what words aren't?
but she believed in them the way some believed in karma, in love, the sanctity of buddha, the bible, and in mirrors.
she went back and visited her high school, junior high, grade school and house she was born in just to find something in the cracks and footprints that shaped the old neighborhood.
she went back to find anything.
she went back to forget
... him.
the day she died was as sunny as any.
it was not snowing or stormy or even beautiful. in fact, that day was so average, you were not to know anything could have happen on it at all.
it was then that her body went limp the same time his dick did, in another part of the world, with a woman with that was not her.
he had another cigarette and she had a broken core.
i wonder if he knew or if the symbolism was obvious or if he'd wait for the phone call.
her pictures of the ocean were stuffed into boxes along with her mother's pennants, his letters, and her promises.
he drug them all down to the dumpster on the alley off of fifth and didn't think twice when he tossed them in.
why should he? he didn't think twice when he threw their love away before on cheap cunt.
instead, he spun around quickly and grasped the foreign girl's hand.
he thought he felt a cold wind, of course, he shook it off and went back into the apartment they had shared to set the "for rent" sign in the window over the sink.
it was her sink and her window.
or was it his?
they were so in love and it was never well discussed.
he took the last of the apple jam and the newspaper off the front step and the foreign girl took the old cat nicknamed "gus".
she would not need them now.
and he never thought of her again after he put his foot on the gas and steered the car away as her heavy heart lay stopped and shivering in his name.
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