212.
I’ve stuttered, stuttered, and started over, for now what seems the final time (though I know that life’s all fits and starts; I know the foreverness of now).
I’m fresh as a daisy and sappy as a songbird, ‘cause sadness is only an old friend who comes to visit and will kindly leave after three or four hangovers worth of time.
The little girl who always wears her princess dress is wearing her princess dress.
Windows open, we air ourselves out.
I watch shadows rearrange themselves in accordance with the sun’s will and I can feel (which is my faith) the scientific fact that the sun will come again tomorrow and conduct the day again tomorrow.
The shadows move slowly to tell me that I may move slowly as well. I match them, limb for limb. I hold myself at yogic ease (the ease which deceives); the trick is that stability is resistance against oneself.
215.
Loneliness is the soul’s aphrodisiac
Can’t sleep, but I sure can eat.
Keep waking to find
lockjaw/clenched hands
Secrets are the currency of friendship and
I broke my piggy bank when I told them I was alright.
216.
I wash my hair in honey now.
I don’t yet dare to drink milk.
I want to attract the bees with their sting,
and keep away the stray cats with their mange.
Ginger snaps for dinner.
Thoughts of coffee, crumpets, tea.
Tomorrow I may surrender to the cream that’s handed me.
217.
I'm drunk again and I love you but I'll write it here instead of writing it to you because I've revoked my permission to do so.
As I tell my tiny children "are you listening to me? Don't do that. It's not good for you. It'll hurt you"
I'm working a program for my addiction to hurting. Of getting attention for being hurt. Of soothe saying myself, because there ain't no soothin’ to say if you don't pick til you get scarred.
I'm drunk again and I'm not drowning. I'm swimming, look Ma no hands!
Last week, cooking one of many meals for one that comes from a can like food for a cat I burnt myself pretty good. "God dammit shit cock motherfucking cocksucking asshole piece of shit motherfucker". I sucked my finger and ran it under the faucet. "Who designed this piece of shit!" Oh gawd, I'm turning into my Pa.
Yesterday, I had to get a background check because I work with tiny children now. I had no print on my pointer finger. I am not a person on my pointer finger. I was, once, but then I fucked it all up. "Cocksucking motherfucking asshole piece of shit god damn cunt and a half."
I'm not a person on my pointer finger and I'm drunk again and I won't text him to tell him I'm drunk again and I love him and anyways I can't type the letters to tell him that i’m drunk again and i love him because my finger’s burnt and I'm not a person according to it anyways so point is I'm drunk so the point is that I'm becoming a person again so the point is that I had to print my fingers for someone to tell me I'm (mostly) a person but not quite, not in certain spots, no the point is that I already knew that and the girl with the blue eyeshadow working at the UPS store in Shamrock Station didn't need to tell me that but the point is that I’m glad she did because that's how desperately I need validation of what degree of personhood I'm in because the point is that the answer to what will you be when you grow up still gets asked and the point is that I don't know. No, the point is that I don't want to know.
The point is that there is no point. The point is the the point eludes me.
The point is that I can't figure out the point and the further point is that I think that everyone else has.
The point is that I'm drunk and I love you and I’m drunk again because I love you and as long as I’m drunk I’ll love you and as long as I love you I’ll drink.
218.
We're at Star Bar, all 13 of us, waiting for someone to walk up to us and fulfill the promise we crossed our hearts and pursed our lips for at puberty.
The Guy Who Stands Too Close to the Stage stands too close to the stage. The Three Girls, One Fat and in the Middle, Who Huddle by the Bar are huddled by the bar, leaving room enough for the smoke of their cigarettes to plume. The Man with Special Facial Hair feels special, with his facial hair.
The On & Off Couple are off again,
He:
"I wish we had gotten married. I wish I had gotten you pregnant."
She:
"I go home and play with my kitten and love it and cuddle it and I'm excited to see it and I treat that kitten the same way I treated you"
I:
“Shut the fuck up, I’m listening to the Guy Playing the Sitar.”
As I leave and unlock my car, I know, I Know, that I am destined for Greatness.
But when the birds start to chirp at 2 AM, how am I supposed to be Certain?
My instinct is to lie down on the asphalt and press its stubble into my skin. To resent everyone who walks by. To smear blood red lipstick all over my face and scream and call it performance art. “It’s Performance Art, motherfuckers!”. To grab my crotch and sing Prince songs to the homeless.
“U don't have 2 be rich
2 be my girl
U don't have 2 be cool
2 rule my world”
Better way to spend my night than going back to the nest I’ve built of soup cans and dog hair.
But I don’t; I get in the car and preen myself in the rearview. The Girl who Grinds her Teeth at Night for all the Smiling she does During the Day smiles, then calls it a night.
I’ve stuttered, stuttered, and started over, for now what seems the final time (though I know that life’s all fits and starts; I know the foreverness of now).
I’m fresh as a daisy and sappy as a songbird, ‘cause sadness is only an old friend who comes to visit and will kindly leave after three or four hangovers worth of time.
The little girl who always wears her princess dress is wearing her princess dress.
Windows open, we air ourselves out.
I watch shadows rearrange themselves in accordance with the sun’s will and I can feel (which is my faith) the scientific fact that the sun will come again tomorrow and conduct the day again tomorrow.
The shadows move slowly to tell me that I may move slowly as well. I match them, limb for limb. I hold myself at yogic ease (the ease which deceives); the trick is that stability is resistance against oneself.
215.
Loneliness is the soul’s aphrodisiac
Can’t sleep, but I sure can eat.
Keep waking to find
lockjaw/clenched hands
Secrets are the currency of friendship and
I broke my piggy bank when I told them I was alright.
216.
I wash my hair in honey now.
I don’t yet dare to drink milk.
I want to attract the bees with their sting,
and keep away the stray cats with their mange.
Ginger snaps for dinner.
Thoughts of coffee, crumpets, tea.
Tomorrow I may surrender to the cream that’s handed me.
217.
I'm drunk again and I love you but I'll write it here instead of writing it to you because I've revoked my permission to do so.
As I tell my tiny children "are you listening to me? Don't do that. It's not good for you. It'll hurt you"
I'm working a program for my addiction to hurting. Of getting attention for being hurt. Of soothe saying myself, because there ain't no soothin’ to say if you don't pick til you get scarred.
I'm drunk again and I'm not drowning. I'm swimming, look Ma no hands!
Last week, cooking one of many meals for one that comes from a can like food for a cat I burnt myself pretty good. "God dammit shit cock motherfucking cocksucking asshole piece of shit motherfucker". I sucked my finger and ran it under the faucet. "Who designed this piece of shit!" Oh gawd, I'm turning into my Pa.
Yesterday, I had to get a background check because I work with tiny children now. I had no print on my pointer finger. I am not a person on my pointer finger. I was, once, but then I fucked it all up. "Cocksucking motherfucking asshole piece of shit god damn cunt and a half."
I'm not a person on my pointer finger and I'm drunk again and I won't text him to tell him I'm drunk again and I love him and anyways I can't type the letters to tell him that i’m drunk again and i love him because my finger’s burnt and I'm not a person according to it anyways so point is I'm drunk so the point is that I'm becoming a person again so the point is that I had to print my fingers for someone to tell me I'm (mostly) a person but not quite, not in certain spots, no the point is that I already knew that and the girl with the blue eyeshadow working at the UPS store in Shamrock Station didn't need to tell me that but the point is that I’m glad she did because that's how desperately I need validation of what degree of personhood I'm in because the point is that the answer to what will you be when you grow up still gets asked and the point is that I don't know. No, the point is that I don't want to know.
The point is that there is no point. The point is the the point eludes me.
The point is that I can't figure out the point and the further point is that I think that everyone else has.
The point is that I'm drunk and I love you and I’m drunk again because I love you and as long as I’m drunk I’ll love you and as long as I love you I’ll drink.
218.
We're at Star Bar, all 13 of us, waiting for someone to walk up to us and fulfill the promise we crossed our hearts and pursed our lips for at puberty.
The Guy Who Stands Too Close to the Stage stands too close to the stage. The Three Girls, One Fat and in the Middle, Who Huddle by the Bar are huddled by the bar, leaving room enough for the smoke of their cigarettes to plume. The Man with Special Facial Hair feels special, with his facial hair.
The On & Off Couple are off again,
He:
"I wish we had gotten married. I wish I had gotten you pregnant."
She:
"I go home and play with my kitten and love it and cuddle it and I'm excited to see it and I treat that kitten the same way I treated you"
I:
“Shut the fuck up, I’m listening to the Guy Playing the Sitar.”
As I leave and unlock my car, I know, I Know, that I am destined for Greatness.
But when the birds start to chirp at 2 AM, how am I supposed to be Certain?
My instinct is to lie down on the asphalt and press its stubble into my skin. To resent everyone who walks by. To smear blood red lipstick all over my face and scream and call it performance art. “It’s Performance Art, motherfuckers!”. To grab my crotch and sing Prince songs to the homeless.
“U don't have 2 be rich
2 be my girl
U don't have 2 be cool
2 rule my world”
Better way to spend my night than going back to the nest I’ve built of soup cans and dog hair.
But I don’t; I get in the car and preen myself in the rearview. The Girl who Grinds her Teeth at Night for all the Smiling she does During the Day smiles, then calls it a night.