| red eye |
[08 Sep 2006|02:05pm] |
Paper;
Pen.
Screen;
Keyboard.
Put it together.
Blank. Nothing.
I turn on the TV
but the canned laughter
is derisive.
Mute.
"You know why you're not writing?"
His voice startles me.
I thought he was,
as usual,
sound asleep,
a deep-breathing corpse beside me.
"You're letting your creative juices
slack. Writers stay up
all night."
"Not when they have
two babies to get up with
at six in the morning," I grumble,
switching off the light.
"The only juices I have
to think about are
pear versus apple for the baby
and Capri Suns for preschool lunch."
He laughs kindly,
like I've made a soft little joke,
missing,
or perhaps ignoring
the bitterness of my words.
In twenty seconds
he's snoring,
dead for a solid eight hours.
I'd kill for that stillness,
that wonderland.
I roll over,
clicking my pen by the bed
like Morse code
and think of college kids
pulling all-nighters
and how I never had the chance.
(But I think,
maybe I'll give it a try-
with enough caffeine & cigarettes
-though counter-productive stimulants-
I could inhabit the red eye.)
|
|
| treated |
[06 Sep 2006|10:15pm] |
She can't stop now;
Her system is running
madly and it won't stop
until the shocks
have knocked her off
her fucking rocker.
Then she shuffles in
terrycloth slippers,
her hair fried and streaked white
from too much misplaced adrenaline.
She lethargcally smiles
now and then,
at all the wrong things.
And her record states
TREATED,
not recovered.
Never recovered, cured,
released or healed, but
treated.
She speaks in slurs,
the medications have blurred
all sense of coordination-
she might has well have had
a stroke.
"Have you spoken to my husband?
Or son? Are they coming today?
I have a grandbaby
on the way, you know."
The saddest part is
she's beaming
as she paces the window.
Sometimes
she understands much
more than they'd like her to.
But she just complies
and reitterates the lies,
making pinkish gray
clay ashtrays
in Art Therapy every day.
(because she heard
that's what true lunatics do)
She takes up smoking
so they won't go to waste.
The lounge room is like a
subway station,
only everyone is sitting,
waiting with no place to go.
She points at the rabbit-eared TV
with her unlit cigarette-
The war in Iraq.
"It's a bad one, isn't it?"
|
|
| counting |
[05 Sep 2006|12:07am] |
Three or four good days
aren't quick to forgive
7,000 bad ones.
The pills, the pills, the pills.
Not too many,
not too few;
It's all about
measuring
those
fucking pills.
I'm my own
pharmaceutical doctor
these days
and I don't know
what the fuck
I'm doing, that's for sure.
I don't understand
the science of these things,
nor do I care.
But there's something
clearly wrong
with temporarily detoxing
just so in two weeks
it'll hit me again like a
savory
ton of bricks.
The good days
want to rub the supposed
illness
in my face.
The bad ones
stumble around
blindly,
counting,
counting,
counting;
They know better.
It's all about
measuring
those
fucking
greedy pills.
They need me badly.
|
|
| survey. it's been awhile. |
[02 Sep 2006|11:09am] |
|
FAVORITE:
movies: requiem for a dream, eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, in the bedroom, homeroom.
books: smack by melvin burgess, the bell jar by sylvia plath, she's come undone by wally lamb.
colors: grays & browns.
artists: david delamare, dali, munch, my husband.
poets: nicole blackman, anne sexton, daphne gottlieb, sylvia plath.
music artists: AFI, jack johnson, death cab for cutie, augustana, dresden dolls, scarling, from autumn to ashes.
tv shows: roseanne, friends, dawson's creek, punky brewster.
songs: "round here"- counting crows, "don't fear the reaper"- blue oyster cult, "it's all understood"- jack johnson, "stars & boulevards" -augustana.
RELATIONSHIP STATUS: married to jesse.
KIDS?: yes, 2 daughters- kaylee & autumn.
HOBBIES: reading, writing, painting & photography w/my husband, sex =), playing w/my kids, scrapbooking, watching movies while jesse falls asleep, reading trashy star magazines.
CAREER: i'm a professional baby-popper & nurturer.
DO YOU...
smoke: nope. not anymore
drink: nope. ^^
know the meaning of the word PLETHORA: uh, yes actually. weird.
believe in open relationships: they're not for me.
how about god: how about him? ; ) yeah, i believe.
want children: i have them. and yes, thank you, i want them.
own a car: i don't actually OWN it, but i drive it & pay insurance. so...hm. yeah, it's mine.
dye your hair: i haven't in awhile, but i should.
have any mental illnesses: who doesn't?
wear glasses/contacts: i should, but i rarely do. i have cute little black-rimmed glasses though.
HOW TALL ARE YOU: 5'6.
DO YOU DARE ADMIT YOUR WEIGHT?: i don't even know these days. last i checked it was 108. it's probably more now.
WHAT KIND OF SHOES DO YOU WEAR?: mostly i wear slippers because i spend so much damn time at home. but i've also got adidas sneakers & a plethora of sandals. did ya catch that one? : )
WHAT'S YOUR BEST FEATURE?: i hate this question. and i am leaving it at that.
FINALLY, LEAVE US WITH A LYRIC FROM ONE OF YOUR FAVORITE SONGS: "she knows she's more than just a little misunderstood. she has trouble acting normal when she's nervous." --round here
|
|
| friends til the end...just as long as the end comes soon, right? |
[29 Aug 2006|03:06pm] |
Nothingness
is much easier to comprehend
than eternity.
We've all experienced our
similar states of blankness;
slowed hearts and still limbs,
unable to shake the dead
from our bones
we carry around like ghosts.
But forever and ever
is something we speak about
only in prayer,
when we can't
otherwise find it
anywhere.
|
|
|
[14 Aug 2006|11:41pm] |
Rehab doesn't do a damn thing
for hell-bent addicts.
|
|
| a poetry reading |
[11 Aug 2006|09:29pm] |
Do we live in art
or does the art live in us?
Your voice doesn't match
the content of your words,
so sweet and bubbly
as you read, "What a cunt
that gentleman turned out to be."
(You always speak of your men
with such disdain.)
A cocktail of charm and repulsion
can be quite an appealing
method of seduction.
I've been watching you read for weeks,
in rumpled black dresses
and four-inch heels.
I've been watching through bottomless
cups of caffeine and thick paperbacks,
heard your whispers and defiances--
Now I want to hear you moan.
You bite your pink nail stubs
between shuffling poems and
fumbling for Marlboros
and leave bits of frosted polish
stuck to your cherry red lips.
Your eyes are jubilant with madness--
it's them I want to fuck.
We share red wine and cigarettes
an hour later, comment on Jim Carroll's
poetry ("There are so few truly talented
modern male poets!" you scorn.)
but without your wrinkled notebook sheets
to speak justice for you,
your voice is just a teenage girl's
and you've lost your intrigue.
I read about you in the paper
once you became too weak
for your own words.
They said you burned everything you wrote
and then turned the match
to the gas.
|
|
| my mother's best pearls |
[10 Aug 2006|12:52am] |
I've tried gallons of perfume and alcohol,
heavy charm bracelets and thick coils of rope,
rusted razors and anything with a sharp point--
now my wrists are rubbed raw
and I can stroke the bones.
(My God,
this shouldn't feel like home.)
When I was a girl
(a daughter still- at least
I slept in the same bed every night)
I inhaled china-white powder
off of my mother's best china.
It hit me like exhaust fume
from the suicide-car in the garage
(that would someday be mine).
I wouldn't touch her jewelery though;
I had limits to my brash immorality.
After my thirteen-year old boyfriend
threw me up against
a school bathroom stall,
I blamed my father for the twin bruises
left on my shoulder blades
(a different day
and it would have been him anyway).
I had no self-defense
against 160 pounds of resentment and stress.
I was forced to clean
my own bloodstains off the carpet.
(The lowest of the fucking low-
make me sharpen the sword
in which to slit my throat,
I thought, through gritted teeth
and tears and spit.)
These days I'm dreaming
of white coats and a bubbly IV,
(pump me up with your
ten-dollar remedies.)
In my mind,
my mother's already blind
and my father's already died.
(Even though he comes around
every now and then
to check up on me.
Look in my eyes-
you created them, so
clearly, I am fine.)
But years later,
with high heels and a diamond ring
and two little girls at my feet,
I still won't wear
my mother's best pearls.
I won't wear dishonesty.
|
|
| what a shame the poor groom's bride is a whore. |
[08 Aug 2006|01:00pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 lethargic |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
i write sins not tragedies |
] |
so, slight change in wedding plans- the date we're getting married is sat. august 19th. we're doing it privately with a JP on the beach, and then having a dinner reception, just with immediate family (like literally 15 people) afterwards. my dress is pale blue with a silver rhinestone buckle type thing cinched at the cleavage (that i don't have much of, heh), and has a few sheer slanted layers at the bottom. my mom says i look like a mermaid. hmm. i'm happy though. even if i don't feel pretty =/ the dress is very beautiful. we're doing a 4-day honeymoon through the cape (4 days are as much as we could get or would want away from the girls). we're already like married though; we live together and even wear our rings already. so i'm not expecting any huge changes.
kaylee and autumn are having their portraits done this friday at jcpenney. i hope kaylee cooperates this time =/ their outfits are adorable. hopefully all works well and then i will have adorable pictures to post on photobucket =)
the kids are sleeping, it's time to get some work done. i'm such a procrastinator.
|
|
| colorblinds |
[07 Aug 2006|02:26pm] |
|
We spend our love thriftily
writing screenplays and poetry
speaking routinely in metaphors and white lies
until we can't decipher fact from fiction
and we no longer try.
We paint obscure watercolors until sunrise
and then I can't sleep
through the depth perception tricks
and technical terms you've taught me
swarming in my head like honey bees.
You sleep soundly covered in
oils and ink;
My skin has been scrubbed to no avail.
I close my eyes and think,
Colorblinds are typically male.
|
|
| red flags |
[06 Aug 2006|08:28pm] |
I wrap the cord
around my finger,
try to bite through the rubber
and taste copper wire
until this hurts
a little less.
Every effort is murmured,
hushed like a family secret.
He shifts his body weight
through the phone.
A hundred red flags
ablaze in my face
and still, all I can say
(softly, ashamed),
"Please come home."
|
|
|
[31 Jul 2006|07:24pm] |
I think the flowers have bloomed
their last season
But I can't say I'll miss
those watercolor buds.
I haven't snuck a peek
in a mirror
since I gave birth
(for the second time)
two months ago.
But I can feel the difference;
baby fat
where hip bones used to be.
"It'll catch up to you," my mother
always said resentfully. I laughed
and shook my head.
I couldn't keep
an extra pound on me
if I tried.
The word 'calorie'
has been without meaning.
"You're finally curvy
like a woman should be,"
she remarks now
with her I-told-you-so smile.
Two-digit numbers
are all I've ever known-
94, 97, 95.
The nurse jots down 123.
My mouth goes dry.
My tongue is numb
as I stare at the wall
silently counting the days
left of summer.
Her eyes are half-sympathetic,
half-satisfied.
"Honey, you just had a baby,
what did you expect?"
I don't know
but it wasn't this.
There's this thing called
Fear of Losing Identity-
If I'm not the coveted
skin-and-bones one,
I don't know who to be.
Now I clutch pillows in my lap
when I sit
And all the new pictures
of my daughters
show only a hint of me
in the corner.
"Never again," I say
to my husband, dripping tears
on his lap.
I think the flowers have bloomed
their last season
But I can't say I won't miss
those watercolor buds.
|
|
| statistics |
[28 Jul 2006|08:40pm] |
|
Pale bone scraping bone--
one bare leg crossed
over the other,
friction rubbing like two sticks
relentlessly trying to make fire.
I want to run from this
steady rocking
trying to lull me to sleep
like a colicky infant.
The train spits me out
like a bad seed.
My knees crack and bruise
when they hit
the concrete.
With golden flowers
wrapped around my wrists
and in my hair,
I swallow sharp gulps
of blackened air.
But I'm breaking away
from the executing streets of
cold smoke and trick mirrors.
I'm not taking any more strangers
blindly down piss-stained alleyways,
my icy hands pressed
against throats,
against brick walls,
leaving tiny white fingerprints,
evidence.
(And dry tongues leave
unknown disease.)
I've had my share of luck;
I'm not taking any more chances.
I've been pick-pocketed enough.
I'm running like hell
from the statistics
of my own kind of crime.
I surrender
to the latest magazine reports
that say
I'll be dead by December.
|
|
| look what i've built. it shines so beautifully. now watch as it destroys me. |
[13 Jul 2006|02:06pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 sleepy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
afi |
] |
we've got a wedding date: september 9th. the ceremony is on a private beach and the reception at this nice small family hall that has outdoor activities (like volleyball, basketball, etc) as well. very low-key. very us. i need to go shopping for my dress now...i know it's gonna be fairly casual, something short and summery. NOT pure white, heh. the girls have close-to-matching outfits, it's cute. i'm gonna have to start posting pictures now that i have someone living with me who knows all about uploading that crap. =)
|
|
|
[06 Jul 2006|11:50pm] |
|
Courtney has a memoir due for publication in November. That's just great fucking news =)
|
|
| the grieving process |
[06 Jul 2006|11:47pm] |
I passed the Mad-as-Hell phase
with flying colors
(exhausted my bright red scream);
I'm at the tail end of
Heart Broken
(with swollen eyes and
worn out emo cds for souvenirs),
soon to be entering that
seemingly endless
catatonic state of
Numb
(when empty pill bottles scatter the rug);
Then,
slowly, but surely,
I will be on my way
in and out of
Recovery
(I'll wear a sign proclaiming
my personal success);
I will be fine again.
Unloving
and
unloved.
|
|
| time bomb |
[06 Jul 2006|11:42pm] |
|
watching the clock habitually
in the half-lived
living room,
measuring the pills into hours
like sugar in a spoon.
oh clock, please stop.
stop
i can't do this anymore.
all i see when i close my eyes
are flourescent green numbers,
a time bomb
panting
panting my life away.
holding my heart as it
ticks exactly
two beats a second
screaming out of my chest
i wonder why
i'm still
breathing
lounging
in papery black lace dresses,
waiting for the ability
(mobility)
to dance
without my heart stopping.
|
|
|
[08 Jun 2006|09:24am] |
jesse and i bought our wedding bands =) they're simple stainless steel with a subtle pattern that still can be engraved on. the white gold ones we wanted were close to $500 each and we cant afford that =/. the quote we decided on is "an endless scream passing through nature". it's from edward munch's 'the scream' painting, and it sounds a bit twisted, but it's really about passion and such and we both love it. as for when the legal marriage comes though is a problem because of health insurance shit. dont even want to talk about it, it depresses the hell out of me. but we're gonna find a way to go around the fucked up system. but we're as commited as married now anyway, so really, it doesn't matter. ah, i love him. i feel silly about it, so i must never have really been in love before.
enough about all that though. on to... the kids! heh, i have SUCH a life ;) the babies are great. autumn's getting soooooo beautiful and she's not crying so much (thank god). i was afraid she was gonna end up colicky. kaylee is still going through her terrible twos, but she's quickly learning mommy's limits and *starting* to respect them a bit more. she's an awesome big sister.
yesterday was a ridiculously stressful day and i made it through. i must be able to conquer anything.
|
|
| baby daze. |
[03 Jun 2006|11:14am] |
mothering two babies is much more work than i could have imagined. i mean, i knew it'd be quite different from having just kaylee, but i anticipated a LITTLE bit of free time- i virtually have none. for example, i read about 40 pages of a book (actually it's the one i mentioned in the last post) a week ago and haven't had a chance to pick it up since. THAT'S TORTURE TO ME! no time to write or read or do anything much besides this when i have a minute. jesse and i already stay up way too late watching movies and such when we have to be up with the baby the rest of the night. but to just go to sleep at 10 or so, it seems like a waste. so we watched basketball diaries the other night until 2 in the morning, and then the baby woke up at 2:30. good times.
i'm starving. eating is something else i've left behind in the rough of my pregnant days.
happy birthday, ivy =) although i'm not too sure you come on LJ anymore. you know i'll give you a call, girl. we need to hang out.
kaylee's swinging autumn way too high. must rescue the little one.
x. i tried to give you summer, but i'm winter. wish i could make you spring, but i fall so hard.x
|
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