Ten Things I'm Not Going to Do Anymore

She Will Feed You Tomatoes and Radio Wires

Better than Content

we must exterminate the leeches

almighty neworks of revenge

almighty networks of revenge laid out in old stories tracing time lines of oral tradition and literary work tracing gingerbread cut-outs and people we don't fit into tracing footfalls imprinting
tracing fingers trailing up-down-up-down-up-and-down frets releasing old songs old experiences, almighty networks of revenge intentional and sharp in D minors and dischord in rotting tributes in trite toasts to loss or to future, in people vacated and vehement, in faulty bottles constructed to deferment intoxication, to hold-off and to wait, to come back to adjourn,
almighty networks of revenge unpracticed and un-tuned
like lingering laments, griots grieving guiltless, melancholy missing memories,
hearts hastening their tempo to hinder dilatory mis-arrangements of current sluggishness,
to hide heartbreak akin to clock-work
scheduled and schematic
I'm scared sorry somber
I'm timely towardly and tired
almighty networks of revenge
all invalid and inappropriate
responding in regretful repent

This Junk

When I can't sleep I lay in my bed obsessively writing down lists of things that don't matter, and doing budgeting math that I don't stick to. I'll do it for hours. This is the list of all the junk that I still have/wish I had kept/ I am glad is gone.

1. A Piece of metal left over from the car accident that opened up the side of your vehicle like a can, but left you alive.

2. One half of the coconut shell, left over from the coconut we found floating in lake ontario, and that we cracked open and ate there on the shore despite the toxic sludge around us.

3. The Mister T. bobble head I bought for two dollars while in Charlottetown visiting my Grandma after my Grandpa's death.

4. The sugar packets from the dinner we ate at in Quebec, after driving across the country to pick up my Grandpa's car, and unknowingly staying in the same hotel he died in.

5. The altoids container we carried his ashes home in, so part of him could be left at the Fort Frances airport.

6. The dress I wore the night you raped me: I still have it, and I can still wear it, and you can't control me.

7. The professional photographs we got taken of our group of friends, the only girl I miss the most isn't in the photos because everyone but me was fed up with her.

8. The gold chocolate tin you once gave me a Christmas present in, that I now use to store my jewelry.

9. The Spongebob Squarepants note pad that reminds me of my sister every time I see it.

10. The razors underneath my mattress against the wall, next to the cloth used to soak up the blood.

Tenthings Tent Hings Te Nt Th In Gs

Between now and December 31, 2007
You're obligated to make a list
of TEN THINGS

it doesn't matter what they are!
You don't even need to rank them!
TEN TEN TEN
THINGS THINGS THINGS

Relax

It must be incredibly easy to trust people when you know that you could kill them if you needed to. All it would take would be the raising of an arm and the squeezing of a finger. However, if that’s all it takes, then what’s stopping anyone else from doing exactly the same to you? How quickly can you draw your gun? every time you meet someone new say to yourself, “Could I beat this person in a gun fight?” If the answer is yes, you can trust them; if not, use caution. In order to trust someone you should be able to outdraw them in a gun fight. But, how do you know you can outdraw them until you’ve outdrawn them? Simple: Trust no one.
If your spouse has a gun I recommend you sabotage it; jam the barrel, deactivate the trigger, whatever it takes; find out where they hide it and move it. If you see them searching around wherever it was you moved it from you’ll know they are up to something. Does this pose the risk that if you aren’t home a burglar could come in and rob the house blind while your spouse lays there, the clip of their gun backfired into their face? Yes, but it’s a risk you’ll have to take if you’re going to trust them. It’s your choice, nobody is forcing you to do anything.
Carry your gun in the elastic band of your underwear. Keep one hand on your waist at all times, just in case. Never turn your back on anyone you don’t trust, which is to say anyone. Never let someone open a door for you or force you to break a handshake. Get a chain for your wallet and a holster for your gun. Show it to your kids to make sure they don’t have people over while you’re out of town. Relax, you are now sleeping soundly. You are armed, and you can trust people.

I Showed You My Palms

How do you measure the gradual loss of love?
The tyranny of distance, physical or otherwise, that tears people apart?
When does a person shift from ‘my friend’ to ‘somebody that I used to know?’
What marks the end?
As someone who’s lost a fair number of friends for one reason or another, I’d expect myself to be able to answer these questions.
However, when it comes time to articulate the sudden feeling of knowing, “I’m still alive without you and you’re not my sheep anymore.”
My lips and fingers bring forth nothing.
Maybe it’s alright to leave it unquantifiable, to rely on the misplaced words or fumbled conversations to let you know that you’ll be walking yourself home and that they’re already long gone.

moon days

I feel you like a tidal pull
the moon days rushing in to gather
break and recede
to flush out

sitting within cedar boughs
on the right night
the moon rises and aligns with a stained glass telescope
placed there almost on purpose
as if you had only been waiting for the night where
coyote would spill out , falling to the ground, twirling
splashing into lake
crawling out into domestication of water dogs
bred to retrieve love and comfort the post menopausal heart
the girl who married the moon
grandma
post moon days post mourning post matriarch post mortem

oral tradition, art, and love of the moon
stories, stained glass windows, and proctology
I immerse into their culture like I know you must have before
and I cling to stories of spirituality because I feel them relate
to the legends you've left me
but at night when the moon rises
I re-write old Kalispel myth like changing of surnames and stealing of history
howling "hough shines brightly through my eyes like moon does in the sky"
I make art like the creases and folds in the moon like the outline of coyote when his silhouette once pressed against its surface
each flap of skin resting against moondust supported by myth
a face once made-out but not recognized
until now
when I draw

Now I see your silhouette, your countenance, your visage
each clear night
gather and recede, gather and recede
pulling me into tidal waves
into ancestry into culture
moon days rushing out to break.

Radio Silence

All my life, I'm in a tunnel
radio in my hand waiting for signal to return
cursing my concrete ceiling
cursing my concrete heart.
For the next ten minutes all we have
is this radio static coming in from nowhere,
like the kind that wakes me in the morning
that ties me to the bed.

Radio silence like the static
that ties me to my bed.

left open to interpretation

"how old are you?"
one question that leaves me hanging on a ledge
I lied once
18

It wasn't that I thought 18 made me any older than 17

and I still don't know why I lied about it.

I want age to become as meaningless to me as gender,
but like gender,

everyone wants you to define yours.

Seventeen, and I'm blushing.
Eighteen, and I'm lying.
Nineteen, and nothing will have mattered anymore.



Pubs, liquor stores, probably even bars,I'm in.
I forget about age until the person I've been talking to asks.

"heh...seventeen"
and they admit they were fooled
and I admit it happens too often

The conversation carries on, in the same manner as before.
but I can hear myself talking with soft R's
my opinions sound naive
I'm getting words of advice
my piercings become embarrasing
I'm clenching my wallet as though it's babar's trunk
all my emotions feel like they're coming through invalid
they're coming through as angst
and if I had been drinking, the glass would have turned into a bottle.


I can sense the grey in my eyes reverting back to blue
and I've fooled myself again
into thinking that this age,my age, will ever been taken seriously
the conversation dulls

when my feet make their way back outside
I see beauty in snow that I've never seen before
like crystal clear sequins falling down, adhering to my clothes.
like babies breath when it hits my hair
I reach out for it
jumping and laughing at the sight of something new
snow that doesn't melt, snow that twinkles as it turns to ice
I hold it in my hand, smiling, as it falls
Grabbing the otherwise untouchable shapes which shake and revolve ,
turning and gleaming,
above my head,
past the walls of my crib
like a baby whose eyes have just opened,
mine are re-invented.

I am as young as the snow is gripping

piece of paper on my floor..next to the towel..by my bed

ON ONE SIDE :

DRAG IT OUT YOUR WINDOW

-picture of horse
-hippo dinosaur
- bumblebee?

"hold onto what you need we got a knack for fucked up history"
modest mouse quote?


and then some squiggles

and then some shooting stars...they even have shooty lines!

A HAIKU

"wrapped between two rings
through side a to b
we all sustain hope in verse"


and then the coming out of pansexual nothing 'i like boys girls and other and i dont really even care what that means'
SCRIBBLEZss
I wonder why I write things down.

ON THE OTHER:
- a large wasp stinging an anatomical heart
-a 'd' cut out of the paper by a pen
-the printer's typed 'page 13'
------------------------------------------------------
I think we leave little fragments of our own under-appreciated art all over the place
I want to frame this piece of paper on my wall
blue and black pen
pencil
and ink.

Where Are Your Friends Tonight?

Last summer I nailed the screen in my window to the frame, preventing it from being pushed in or out. I had to do it because of our cats. On summer nights, when the heat got so intense in the house it became impossible to sleep, they’d push the screens out of the open windows to go wandering through the streets, hunting the breeze they hadn’t really felt since we moved here from Ontario. Of course, every time this happened we’d spend the time between their escape and recovery in a state of panic, worrying about the fate of our de-clawed and mildly obese charges. It was this worry which eventually led us to nail my screen shut. As the hammer pounded out the sentence, I allowed myself to mourn the window, both literal and figurative, which I was closing. I thought back to the summer before, when I’d slipped out the same window and into the night.
My conspirators and I had planned it out perfectly. We hid my shoes under the bed and placed a stool under the window, removed the then unsecured screen and set up a signal to let me know when to make the leap over the windowsill and out into the streets. Everything was optimized for stealth and speed, and when the time came to make my move everything went off without a hitch. I met up with my team a few blocks from my house and together we marched through the orange pools of streetlights and darkened corners of our wicked little town. Together, we own the streets; we’re lawless and only as young as we choose to be. We can do anything and just to prove it we hug the ground to our chests and crawl under the bent up fence surrounding the golf course.
Once we’re inside we unfold a blanket and lay it out wide enough for all of us to sit on it. There’s a meteor shower, so we lie on our backs and count the tiny dots of light moving through a place we’ll never visit. Whenever a car drives by we tense up, afraid of discovery in spite of our knowledge that everyone driving by is far too busy to notice some kids on a golf course; far too busy to notice the sky is falling in above them. Watching them pass also serves to remind us that we have places to be, that we can’t lay there under the apocalypse forever, and soon we’re back on the roads that take us home, away from the blinking lights and other revelations the dead, dry streets hold.
More than anything I wish I was still back there, but that seems more and more impossible as time passes. The candles on a birthday cake are like nails in windows, and a person can never wish themselves back to somewhere they’ve already been. Friends grow distant and cold like the air in their hometowns; essays, tests and paragraphs start to grow out the bottoms of your feet, like roots through clay; girls get jobs and new friends and bosses and boyfriends, and girls find god crushed up inside ecstasy tablets and hospital dressing gowns. Friends leave town for somewhere new, leaving docks empty as the streets on summer nights, but colder. Applications get filed, portfolios neglected and mud settles into carpets until you’re old. You still can’t find what you used to have, and you still can’t shake the dust.
But for now I’m seventeen, and I have a lot left to lose; a lot left of me to leave on the streets and a lot of people to help me leap into the night. So maybe wishes could still come true, and maybe even if they don’t I can be alright with now.

writings and ramblings extracted from my journal that I write in in the winter garden at UNBC

everything around me looks like poetry
everything I say is the absence

I listened to the words of chain smoking blues poets
and nomadic punks
rusty growls and scratchy beautiful shouts
even my favorite poets can't speak to a well tuned-ear
tone deaf opera singers who tell a story of fucking up, dreaming, and trying again
So I tried again, to talk to you, to talk to my words.
but all I hear is
the perforated pitches
and garbled sounds
so I sty quiet
and I see
that there are only two types of well-read poets born into language

the silenced, hopeful, and beautiful romantics
and the unorthodox screaming,dreaming, well-spoken revolutionaries

the babies that are tongue-tied
the skin beneath their tongue disallowing the formation of words
grow up keeping their pen to paper, and sealing words behind their lips

and the babies that get older and ripen into being tongue twisted
the clumsy state of tongue hitting cheek but missing teeth
their words hitting us like lyrics in a song
harsh, loud,muffled, mumbled, but heard,
their clarity has nothing to do with pronunciation

we learn their lyrics and they ferment like fine aged wine
replacing old conceptions of who we thought we were
and they construct new values and hopes
into the beating pulse of a pumping fist.


I was thinking for a while that the only poems worth writing are those that are screamed out
mumbled
cried
or shouted
but then there are those poems
that get our heart pulsing to it's own beat
the ones created by
the tongue tied

who lay out words that have never been uttered, but amplified by their own beauty and fear
and I fear these words

the words that need no microphone to be heard
the words that need not be held up
because they're locked in
and they know the struggle
of gently training the strongest muscle in their body
to stay quiet
to enjoy a moment
to let words speak for themselves
and to keep their tongue from ripping the flesh beneath which ties it to the floor of their mouth
I fear their quiet revolution
as they know a strength that can tear
but instead holds back

and so they're held down and grounded
by a fragile flap of skin
nearly as thin
as the paper
that I wrote this on.

On Birds:

I wish I too could have evolved from reptiles,

and could fly.

Caw, caw.

Why I Write

I write because without the words I am powerless
Without the words I have no claim in the form or shape of the world
or the forming or shaping of the words that tell us that form and shape
Unless I can say "I do" and say,
"Like a comet falling into the ocean, I am going to push back the land to see what's under."
and mean it.
I write because if I didn't my fists would be free
and they'd punch windows and make deals under tables or covers
and fuck if they wouldn't tear away at my body
the body that makes them want,
and if I keep punching in these windows I'm going to start bleeding
I could be so god damn human so as to bleed
and it wouldn't stop,
and it would never stop.
So I write.
Because if I don't I know I'd start to strip
peel away like yellow paint on the oldest walls
slowly, with a practiced languor
the kind that makes men say stupid things
like, "his neck is nice to kiss."
to giggle uncontrollably.
I'd be dangerous.
I'd be temporary.
I write because when I'm writing you can touch me,
unlike now
when though you might think you are
it's really just rubber burning under your fingers
and I'm long gone.

confidence trials, non-transitory aerodynamics, and cryptic coloration

Last week I attended an interrogation
one-way mirrors turned double, pointed outward and reflected back on a face
accused of 14 years of slandering its smile
but like the the innocent who do not have the effort to appeal and to fight
I turned myself in,
pleaded guilty.

we try so damn hard to get ourselves to believe that we are our biggest felony.

I sat staring at my accomplice
at this reflection
at the creases and the folds that bend around my words
locking testimonies into brackets and paranthetical citings
of stories once taken from a three year old
that were spat back out , dulled down,
and presented in proper stylistic format,
with logic and reasoning and boredom.

these things we call dimples
that now contain my usage of language
and present a facade in the form of a smile.

but when I look through the mirror
and I'm my only defense
I'm asking questions trying to gain alibis
as to what caused the change in me that ruined these lines
that were once just dimples
extending deeper into the skin making the brackets appear more like question marks
that marked the curiosity of a child smile
and I look familiar to an old video of myself when I was three and laughing
singing about the cowardice of some butterflies who flee the entrapment of their cocoon
to attempt finding beauty in the air with hopes that wings outstretched would carry them to freedom
away from the trials and tribulations of the earth-bound creatures
the ones who once were
the creepies and the crawlies
trying to survive with the struggle of motion created from prickly hairs trying to push against ground

while awaiting my acquittal,the mirror resonated a voice
that questioned like the marks of my three year old smile,
trying to know the motive of a monarch butterfly
and why a caterpillar would bundle themself up for so long
only to discover that their verdict
is that the glorified spectrum of vibrant colors saturated in their fore and hindwing,
are that of the same which rested against
their strong,muscled, flesh
before they traded themselves in for a weaker self
just to find the same beauty in fragile wings

I want re find the spirit of
the youngest butterfly who knew the wings she was growing would not hold
when she jumped off the monkey bars
and laughed while hitting the grass
feeling the snapping of fissioned bone,the break of her growing leg

I want to know the motive behind why she denied the crutches
why she did not want to be held up

and when the question marks un-folded like wings
they said she just wanted to feel grounded
to open up her chest like a cocoon
reverse with blinding speed from chrysalis to larvae
just to land back down and crawl amongst the brush
and to find freedom in unpalatibility

Forget writing your own poetry! (joke)

Anis Mojgani

There's still a lot left of you, Travis Cannon.

these anxieties

pushing upward, metal bars grate against thin skin
peeling of thin tubing
the science of capillaries

it stops the bleeding
keeping toxins out
no need for blood letting

in this moment there is flesh
there is cotton
and there are materials being ripped off

organic chemistry and biology
and hell, probably even a bit of history

we've got an art student
laughing at those who believe in the existence of non conformity

the existentialist makes them giggle
the scientist thinks in extremities and talks with nothing
and the historian holds a bias

I'm simply poking through bodies of water
trying to belong inside the mystery of a meniscus
and I'm a catch phrase a way from being that fucking person I learned to hate

Dead Fire

It's when you're watering the new flowers that you miss the old ones most.
Their wilting leaves and modest, slow to bloom petals seem most ideal,
when compared with the short-stalked and ostentatious breed now gracing your finest dinette.
Suddenly, I miss red wine, boys too soft to touch
and most of all, the heat.
God, how I miss the old heat.

threatening a cameraperson,

they are filming a documentary
asking someone whose loved one had just been shot,
what they think of the apathy shown by police,
"can we have an interview?"
She refuses them, gets angry,and screams,
"Go away,I'll break your camera, you know I can do anything I want in this country and get away with it"
Yeah, she screams this.
Like laws that are put in place should be our only moral reasoning
I'm sitting in a chair feeling my crossed legs going numb and
wondering how we can be so fucking blind
and I'm sort of shocked by this dramatic irony

the lady next to me is sighing
and I am just really fucking angry

their red nail polish being wiped off by vultures
and cops in training
trained by our patriotic people in red
calling them 'nothing'
and her body has been laying there, and I think it was after a rape,
waning in a heap of garbage and rotting,boiling,submerged in oily liquid
and it's 48 hours later
"she's a prostitute"
the police don't do anything

and then they all just stand around the body and pray to their god that this stops
"dear jesus.." whispered in a spanish prayer

and a lady next to me let's out a concerned 'hmm'
she's still sighing, and I want to know what she is thinking

"HEY JESUS CHRIST, COME PICK UP YOUR FUCKING GARBAGE, HERE IS YOUR FUCKING RED NAILED HOOKER."
in haste, that's the only thing I could even think of praying

so I satirically whisper

'congratulations, jesus sends his vultures to take care of it.'

cuz I'm pissed off.

this film is reminding me of what I am taught to recognize as sexism
and I cry for it
and for them
and for us
but less for me
because I can't know this burden like they do

and even in this country,
where I'm being taught to think about working class women

and how, in this country,
she says they still get called this derogatory term known as "easy"

I feel even less of this burden
but I still carry it
Yes, I've got these burdens in a bag somewhere
and I can't relate to them at all
but I can carry them up high above my shoulders
because sometimes I feel pretty fucking inexistent too

no not nearly anything close to this


but like the unnoticed who are labeled as 'prostitutes' and 'nobodys' to legitimize the fact that nobody gives a shit

and like the raped, and the abused, and the ones who are judged,
and the ones who got fucked,

I get mad about spending my time feeling completely de-sexualized..
but I'm not going to let this become ironic
so instead
when I start to feel like my personal injustice is being marginalized by such bigger ones
I stop seeing this marginalization as a bad thing
but more of a reason to feel solidarity with these other struggles
because nobody is alone with this
it's always the same issue
and even my specific one isn't left to stand alone
because it translates in my sisters beautiful poetry
and
in these womens' bullet and knife wounds
in her sixteen year old pregnancy
in the tragedies left by those who have gone missing
in the barrel that's going to forever roll around his conscious mind
in his tears shed for the family he lost

I think that quote couldn't have been more right
when it said something about how we're all the ones getting fucked

I unfold my now numb legs
tapping them to regain feeling
turn to the person sitting next to me
and making an eye contact with her that causes my tears to dry up,
I sigh too
"hmm"

planet earth findings

staying awake until the fog rose above us outside

nearer to you
and encompassing me


I always seem to forget about the antarctic, I told you this before

spent these last few years studying the foxes and the bears

never paying tribute to the march of those penguins

how they duck and slide and barely escape capture from the lions of the sea

we take our time to remember the polar worlds.

time ticks away
one batch burnt
one batch liquid, now near frozen in my fridge

the oven died on the latter.

I'm thinking you're not really a polar bear as much as you are a leopard seal
and that it's better to be with an advantage in water than it is on land
better to dive than to dig for your food

and in the ocean, you're not left stranded

Ah yes,
communication between land masses

I think you just found me
and slid down to middle ground
wher we're all pretty mediums
we never have to escape capture
or fear being preyed upon
I meant to say that we're nearly as south as we are north

and that I haven't totally forgot about the antarctic.

but it never came out very cool

Hello, Hello

Let's do something stupid and irresponsible that leaves us momentarily satisfied and full of hilarious stories.
Let's do something reckless and dangerous that leaves us waiting in line at the medical lab to get out blood tested for diseases.
Oh, hello.

Architechture

Back arched enough to suggest architecture
Above the flow of old, oft forgotten legs
Taut as the rope tied to the loop of an anchor
Pulled so hard as to warrant cracking, hissing
And smoke.
But at the other end is something darker
Weightless so as to hold back nothing
Nevertheless sinking sinking sinking
And this gull perched on the mast won't cry
When Venice finally sinks.

A Bird Told Me

and when I look at pictures from other people's lives and I wish I were there, I know that is I was I would have just slunk off into or a corner or onto a roof to be alone. Because someone has to be the asshole, and someone has to be the straw dog for you to dress and to hold, and the things we do aren't out of love or hate, but out of necessity.
and I know you say you've changed, but I'll always see you as the same girl who didn't call me the next day and didn't believe me when I said I couldn't tell what was real, and who upon seeing I couldn't even bring myself to say, 'your hair looks good' to. Maybe I didn't even need to.

Si j'avais le choix, je n'aurais jamais occupé n'importe où.

to gordo from lizzy

small electronic light tracing yellow street
lines home
on a series of oceanic concrete hills
we followed it in the dark my bike pulling me downhill
asking me to jump on and turn the corner at the bottom
plunging into the pacific
solidifying myself in water so that there is no need to move
no necessary shifting of place of finding somewhere new

but we persist forward to end up back at those places that are known as home
we're talking and we're laughing
something about twisted old friendships
something about grade nine
things that I doubt anybody ever feels okay about
but we search for comfort in the discussion of it
and I remember bits and pieces of this specific walk home like it was last night
I remember cherry tree branches shaking and dancing
and wondering where the wind was coming from
and the cat playing out on the street up ahead
and the feeling of warmth
on a calm summer night
sitting on the sidewalk talking about departures
or maybe nothing at all
and y'know
everything felt really in place
except the wondering of where your friends will be in the nearing weeks

and I was found in a room making a zine
drunk on coolers, as usual
in a crowd of people I had just barely met
overhearing old friends, strangers to me, talking out on the sidewalk
and I tried my hardest to not scratch out some shitty poetry about
sidewalk conversations
after walking home from parties
and how it feels to no longer have that

but i stopped myself from putting pen to paper
probably because the poem would have ended up being something like this one:
confused with too much meaning,
made aimless ,un-poetic, and completely ruined by memories that are too wonderful.
and I struggled with that
with this distance
that can't be written about properly

and in some sick way of not wanting to be the only one who misses their friend
I hope you feel that too
if you walk home alone
and turn the corner
from haida onto linden
or church onto noel
the places where we always parted ways at the end of every perfectly memorable or potentially forgettable summer evening
where it was never goodbye
but only goodnight

i am afraid i'm losing touch with my masculinity

i keep saying i'm not talking about women
and you keep defending yourself as though i am.
i wish you could listen to my words instead of
doing your worst to read into me.

i don't understand why we are made to look like enemies,
struggling from "different" sides against the same perpetual victor

i used to think my life moved in a series of spirals
but now i see there is just one
and it is just me
at the hands of some faceless force of propulsion.

there are other words you could have used.
there are still others i could use,
new meanings to take the place of this
headrush whirlwind upset stomach
kind of twisting entanglement, the breaker roar and drowning sounds
something like every heart attacking, marching through the eardrum and into the skull.

there are always other words,
yet i wait for you to use them first, to give me some kind of outward motion.

this is
and is not

personal.


i didn't want to confront you on this,
but suddenly your face and this circle spinning
have taken the place of this shapeless force that
presses its hands to my shoulders
and sets the world revolving

My mom

Spitting, farting laughs
she sounds like deputy dog
this is a haiku

girl with death mask- thanks kahlo

OR....


he him
them
kidz
fuckin' stumbling for words

gorgeous complete circles

straight
white teeth
a smile
beautiful

and hats


you might as well lose all faith in me
are
we all
just language?



replacing the touch of tongue to teeth to cheek against lip
with fingerprint against broken keys

these words take effort
i notice in the grabbing of black hair and wandering eyes
it emerges in short hellos
in the books I use to distract

o fuck you
o fuck you
o
fuck
you.

if i went to a coffee shop to sit down
it would not be honest
but
pulling back whilst still feeling intact with you

well HEY
thats all me

take
note,
you
fucks


It's shorthand for
'this has NOTHING to do with me'

It Doesn't Hook You

Can't speak without stealing something
from someone who could say it better
or in fewer words
or in fewer, better words
that snubbed a context
and don't say "Well there I go again!"
and don't fall into circles and nonsense
circles leading towards providence
and instead say "This Boy is Exhausted"
and everyone chooses sides.

And while we're here, stop scanning group pictures for him.
This was never something you could have been good at.

Revolutionary Wars

wooden floors lining empty spaces
chopping and blending

the offerings of food.

"there'll be hippies there"
Define hippies

"I'm an activist" he assures
I nod in agreement

she overhears conversations and sits next to napolean and his Grand Armee

or
at least
someone with the same pride

THE OPERATIONAL ART OF WAR
I could have read it on the microphone
time and time and time again

but I draw a boy instead,
blending lines into shades

The Long Island Sound

Bruised long island sound
keyboards all smashed into bits
the horn section is playing off key
on purpose in 4/4 time
but out of sync.

Staged long island sound
guitars all fucked off
or distorted until far away
the drums are too loud and
out of time.

Faked long island sound
voice too high and too strong
bending too easily to make it beautiful
too beautiful to be good
too far away to be good.

who they are and how they leave

I'm not sure it's ever important.



I'm not sure I can keep making comparisons

The end result is that they were how I related to certain parts of myself

whether it was in
the cough of an old man, the ocean on the edge of a town, a feeling trapped inside of a school, the warmth of a friends hug, or a musical interlude


they'll all leave you feeling like crap,
the missing
of these things

D:

ooooooooooooooooooooo

fuckshitcockasscuntbawlz.

Band on the Run

You don't even know what makes you think of it, but suddenly you can't shake the image in your mind of Lauren Ambrose sitting in a diner at the end of Can't Hardly Wait. You see a low, early morning sun in the plate glass behind her and it flares out through the camera lens and reminds you of a photograph. You wish you were her, you wish you were there. You can hear Band on the Run playing in your head, the raucous, spontaneous version from the end of that Broken Social Scene video, or even just the Paul McCartney and Wings version. You get a little chill in your spine.

You wish you could have that moment, that it could have been one that belonged to you. You want to be on a trip, driving through the North America Middlewest with your friends. You want to be getting up at dawn or not sleeping the night before and pulling into a diner, still nursing a hangover or coming down off a high when you arrive in the parking lot. You want to sit there talking loudly and laughing a lot while a waitress begrudgingly or even happily refills everyone's coffee cups and you all say "Thank you." And she smiles. There's a musical flourish and the screen starts to darken making all the oranges and dirty yellows of the morning more pronounced, and a girl with curly red hair lifts a cup of coffee to her lips and grainy white text proclaims, 'The End'.

The credits roll, but then the colours come back and you know that it's not over. It's never ever over.

Laissez Tomber La Page

It's the reason he arches his back when he's standing in the windows
while the world passes by outside
barely noticing he's there,
and it's the reason why when he puts his clothes back on
and walks out into the street
nobody recognizes him.
He's a vampire.
He's Judas.
He's just a kid.
Now he's lost in the stacks, fingering the edges of the modern masters.
Now he's lost on a screen, having forgotten all he'd learned.
Now he's lost in the stacks again, wondering
"What was the point of that?"
wondering why his life is just a modern rock song,
and why they always put him back on the shelf.

all rivers run south, all roads lead home

presenting myself like a Saturday afternoon playlist.
Where parents have left the house,the coffee is on, and we're dancing.


our every moments should be lived like these Saturday afternoons,
and we know it's true
So we feel it instead
because
Living it is feeling it
and I breathe in, I scream it, I sing it, and I read it like notes on a page.
And we're all fuckin' dancing.

like tap shoes on a monday
there's an orchestra of scuffs and clicks and shuffle-toe-heels.
there's this ambience of sound between particles of air.
It's what sits lurking between the verses
and wraps around your chest, squeezing your ribs until memories flood out like the Fraser, southbound and silty,paving a highway that's built for the
crashing and churning and twisting of water.
The booming echoes that all but the fish are too deaf to hear.
They travel underneath their crashing blanket
loud whispers
that flow down
reaching the pacific
melting into song.

you dip your feet into the ocean
tapping them like a finger taps 'play'
and I unravel from the water.

shuffle after shuffle,
chord after chord,
you strum me back out

This Week's Theme

This Week's Theme is:
"Life, the Pop Song."

Where the H!

WheredaH are the weekly themes!
now really.

Love me love me say that you love me

Note pour mon Concurrent

I've forgotten the shame
and humiliation of those days.
But it always comes back
when I see you
and you see me
and we look away,
I'm disarmed.

vulgar

All the words keep slurring together on the page. I read like a drunken idiot must speak. My eye rushes through paragraphs and letters ahead of me form together and I'm almost certain that half a sentence down the line I'm going to run into "fuck." It's an exciting word to see written sometimes. It is always so overused verbally that people try to avoid it in their writing so it's exciting when someone just puts it there anyway. They rarely do though. It's always just my eye tricking me.

recycled

removed, without feeling

like when they tore me from the womb
like when they tore your womb from you
like when i tore myself from you.

you always seem to have things removed.

I'm sorry I've kept myself so removed
removed and ignorant
removed from my mind.

and on the topic of minds,
I hope yours is okay

I feel echoes in my middle ear
and I think of the block next to yours
about how there is no room for an echoe

and i feel less of my nausea
and more of your vertigo

like an unborn child feels their mothers' heart beating ,
it makes sense why I'm the one getting dizzy

It's Already Gone

and suddenly it seems terribly important that you remember this moment, exactly how it is, because you realize that one day it will be gone and you won't be able to bring it back. Then you remember a fictional man whispering "You can't capture this moment, it's already gone." but you think to yourself that it might be helpful just to say something out loud. You say, "It feels like two small vikings are fucking on my brain." and you can practically see the words coming out of your mouth, getting smaller and smaller until they're carried away by currents of air, like flecks of dust. For a second you worry that maybe you chose the wrong words and that you could have said something so much better, but then you remember

mummble mummble yeah yeah

and there's this intensity built up inside my chest, concentrated there.
It's ready to burst and split open my rib cage.
I want to reach my hands inside my body and tear my ribs apart, cracking them with firm movements.
I want to expose this and set it free.
So I can be at peace.

The future is coming (ohfuckohfuckohfuck)

Two things

Fucking Whatever Whatever

Same post with different words is the recurring theme around these parts,
poor choice of words and sentence structures,
a shaky foundation of words and word crutches.

So instead of moving forward I indulge in the same old self destruction
but this time not feeling bad that mine isn't as tangible,
or as dramatic or as justified.

Just lost.

it's palpable

drums that sound like far off thunder
roll into the end of something
reminding me of an evening
when someone I knew felt younger
because of wrinkles still hidden
under pounds of missing skin
caressed by an old boyfriend
on the other side of town
and when she called from the train
she didn't start crying
when she thought I'd hung up
hiccoughing into static
while the people around her whispered.

"You're just another crazy bitch Wylie fucked"

She sat there shocked. Her blood pumped quickly through her, she was convinced it was full of caffeine. She felt completely out of control of her body, out of control of everything. This was not the time nor the place, yet here it was. The photos she feared. All she could think about was how she is built like a twelve year old. The room was poorly lit and cell phone photos never turn out well, but what she saw could not be mistaken for anything else. His naked chubby body was lying on top of hers, as she feverishly attempted to turn her head away. her legs wrapped around him with both of them panicking and her right breast exposed to the camera. The third person in the photo stood over her triumphantly. His palm slapping the palm of the naked man who was on top of her, and inside of her. She didn't remember this happening, she remembered very little of the whole night.
The best he could do to comfort her afterwards was assure her that she was not some slutty joke, just a regular one.

The Hunter and the Forest of Sorrow

One plutonian evening, a hunter of fickle means entered the Sorrow Forests which lie beyond the northern territories of the wild women. He searching the barren winterlands for rations with which to feed his many starving illegitimate children. The approaching winter whispered at his neck like the fickle breath of Hades and the crows upon his windowsills gurgled contentedly at the sight of his empty cupboards. In the obsidian blackness of the forest, the hunter’s moccasins crushed through the snow and fallen limbs of trees to a small rodent enclave.
“Stop, yon cursed hu-man!” The oldest and most wise rodent leader protested, “What ungainly businesses hath ye for mine kin?!”
“I search for sustenance with which to feed the illegitimate children of faithless wandering. It hath been an eon since mine homely mistress’ teat hath run dry.” The hunter announced, his hunter’s bludgeon hanging pendulously from his hip. “Return to your mewling, fickle fay mouse. Seven years hunger shall not be sated with the ungainly taste of mousen flesh.”
The hunter began to move on, deeper into the barren forest but the mouse followed him, fuming, “Ye were a foolish hu-man to come to Sorrow Forest in famine. Ye shall find no beasts more comely than mine kin in her obsidian blackness.” Feeling the brewings of treachery at his back, the hunter turned upon the mouse and drove his hunter’s bludgeon through his fool’s skull, causing it’s spirits to abandon the body and rise into the miserly air. With a fickle chuckle the hunter sloughed the gore from his bludgeon and continued deeper into the forest where no beast uncomely or otherwise was to be found.
With the passing of time, the hunter found the rodent’s sage words to be truth. The stench of winter death hung in the trees. Clutching his fool’s gut, the hunter collapsed upon the winter wastes, certain the children at home had already fallen into the fevered madness of cannibalism. Before him appeared an apparition, the slain elder mouse of the rodent’s enclave. “Foolish hu-man. Can you not see now that though you would surely starve upon only the flesh of one of my brethren, with the scraps of many you could have fed yourself and your fickle bride’s brood.”
“Inhumane gods,” cried the hunter, clawing his innards, “had I merely taken the offer of many small, hideous beasts I could have had the sustenance provided by only the most rotund and vaunted of bears! If it were not for my fool’s eyes, me and mine illegitimate children would now be curled round the fire rather than enclosed in the fickle grasp of Hades!” And with this, he expired and the forest devils claimed him as their own.

how not to deal with life

"are you trying to break me?"

I find myself wanting to scream this out to some divine creator.

and this is the fourth time this summer.

The fourth time I actually wished I was religious, so I could have someone to blame this over. Someone to ask
"is this just a fucking sick joke?"

But I don't.

and i wish I could be hugging you. It's been nearly a year since we've crossed paths , my dear.

and it's my fault
because it's been my turn to say "No, rest your legs, I'll come to you this time."
and I never did.

and it's beating me up inside
Just like everything else this lousy fucking year seems to have brought me.

That's right world, fuck you, I admit that I'm weak
and I admit that I feel too much.
I just wish this stuff would stop happening now.

Would a month of peace be too much?
fuck it.

Bad is always Bad is Bad enough.

I wanted a tattoo. I wanted a piercing.
I wanted anything just to make me feel less like Travis Cannon.
So I used a typewriter and attempted to bang out something beautiful,
Instead ending up with the beginning of a bad habit
Of speaking in extremes.
I just wanted
something I could feel now
and still feel ten minutes later.
Later on I e-mailed this to Mary Parsons
because she had said it all so much better,
she said it was Pertinent.

Now now, hey hey (off topic/theme rant about existing and how lame it is)

She spent the last two months avoiding her situations in any way possible. The only way her desperate emotions would leak out were in horrible typed words to herself, that anyone could easily find. Part of her desperately wanted someone to confront her about her sanity. Her lack there of. Part of her just wanted to release her insanity. In more public forums, in which she likely would have been confronted, she avoided any such release. She would pussyfoot around her depression and pretend that her life consisted mostly of bad dating experiences and short shorts. She made sure that her life consisted mostly of bad dating experiences and short shorts. One can only use promiscuous clothing as a distraction for so long until it gets to the point where spandex just doesn't do the trick anymore.

She wanted to speak like poetry. She wanted some sort of flow to her words like she feels she used to have. Some sort of way to make her life more artistic and seemingly romantic. Instead everything that came to her mind was blunt and crass. Now she says the words cunt and tits too often. She doesn't feel comfortable enough to call anything by it's actual name because too many men have had things to say about her tits and her pussy that now they are just some sort of abstract idea to her. She is not a female. She's just a cunt and a small set of tits that any drunk guy would gladly stick his dick in between because everyone wants to fuck a ginger.
Words no longer have beauty to her. Every syllable rests in her mouth like the cold sluggish tounges of men that press up against her desperately attempting to turn her on so that they will have someone to sleep next to that night. She stares at them with dead eyes. The eyes of the cheap backroom porn star that is so trashed and taken so many things she doesn't want in her body that she just doesn't even give a shit anymore. Then she walks away from these sluggish tounges, and words, because part of her gets a kick out of making them angry. She likes to disappoint and frustrate someone or something else for a change. Part of her just knows that she would never be able to make it into anything beyond a fuck, a simple disgusting act or poor excuse for a word, so what would be the use in even trying.

Why why why

Come on honey, stop denying it. You can't pretend anymore. That fucker raped you and there's nothing you're ever going to do about it but have panic attacks every time you see someone who looks remotely like him. Quit drinking to forget the fact that you don't feel like a normal human being anymore. Stop pretending you don't want to blow your brains out. Stop acting like it's all up in the air and no one is quite sure what is was or what it wasn't. You said no, he didn't care. End of story. Stop obsessing and try to just accept the fact that skin on skin contact makes you recoil, and that you'll never have a normal relationship again.


I just needed to pretend that there was no way to tell, and that's why it was never going to be reported. Really I'm just afraid of existing.

This Week's Theme

"You BETTER Have a Good Explanation for This..."

The time has come for you to explain yourself, Oscillations. Take one post you've written and tell us why you wrote it.

Duck Boots

livers that throb with force, the dialation of a crocodiles smile.
He clenches,constricting blood vessels around his prey.

this is what it has done to you.
Do not focus on the crackle of skin as it reaches for a stalk to whipe clean its blood,
blood left from bullfights,
blood left behind from when reptile met beast
blood left from the poaching of great jungle beasts

do not let these crocodile hands gain inches around your throat
think only of the silk laden bride, the one who rode elephants to your saviour.
soft hair, warm breath,
think of her as she lies belly up,
her two white slippers, and one white mitten,
strewn next to her on the solid earth that surrounds.

"Eventually!", they lecture you,
"your beautiful woman will turn into that gallant old man."
but you know already
your smile will be painted on when the moonlight stretches across your face.

Up north the lady is gone.
Her slippers now on your feet,
stuck in a pile of fermenting compost,
searching for the warm silky mitten,
Hopelessness grips your hand.
The silk does not last.
You're back in those 'duck boots',
engulfed by mud.

A familiar sense of panic,
the most sincerely heartfelt cry of a three year old who is auctioning off her belongings.

"something about having to say goodbye to elephants",
mumbled to you in hospital vespers
"to those who never forget."
she called it out to the world.

"something's got to give",
and everything breaks,
boards that once saved you from the mud become the planks which you are walking.

'breathe in deep the cold air' little girl,
'they say you'll see the northern lights.'

but as the clouds dissipate
she's only searching for the moon.

"come find me, I'm back in this mess!"
it was cried out to all the elephants

waiting for their trunks
to reach out,
turn tightening duck boots back into white airless slippers,
to lift her from this sediment.

The elephants never came to her rescue.
There was only the dry skin of the crocodile,
and I shook its hand.

I'm in the way, I'm in the way.

Reliving the past

Oh honey be ready, She is back. She's got a lot to say about herself, when she's recuperated a bit from her depression caused severe lack of appetite and general insanity. Until then, on with this weeks themed post.


Sister Friend
Same as me Friend (minus the being a cunt)
Should be my friend, Friend
Not my friend: a true cunt
The best of friends

Arranged by their actual names (First ones, of course. Since we're all such friends.)

No body told you but everyone knows
You feel it too
Ryler Dustin
Happy Holidays
PS/I AM TOO LAZY TO ORGANIZE IT BY AUTHOR.nurrr

This Week's Theme

This week is: RETRO Week!

That means: Go back through the archives, pick your favourite post from the history of Oscillations and make a post about it! You guys can do it, I believe in you!

Also: You have no excuse to not post something. You don't need to do a write-up about the post, you don't even need to repost it. Just go to the post, click the title and paste the link.

Arranged Alpabetically by Author:
Sometimes Motion
017: God
She Stumbled on a Well Worn Path
Peckings and Patchwork and Negligence

Just the Moon

Standing in my back yard, bare armed in the clothes I wore to that night's party. There's a camera slung over my shoulder by some fake-leather strap and I'm using it to take pictures of the moon. They aren't good pictures by any measure, but they capture the moment. They prove to me and to anybody else that it happened and that I was there when it did.
Staring into the sky at a white ball the size of a dime I feel nothing, but it's the absence of feeling that makes me feel. By staring at this rock suspended in space I felt the presence of everyone and everything that's come before me. "We have this in common, no matter what, this is something we have in common." I breathe in a deep lung of cold pacific air and wait.

I was told the moon might change tonight, that tonight was one of few when it could trade in its indifferent ivory and become vermilion with passion. Tonight was the moon's chance to sever the connection that tethers me to the million young buried at my feet. Tonight I could lift my feet off the ground and fly, free of history, if only for a few minutes.
As the hands on my watched pass the time I was given and the sound of the inconstant stream of a sprinkler breaks the air, I know she's reconsidered. And as I replace the lens on my camera and creep through wet grass to my back door, our connection is stronger than ever and I'm glad.

I Can Wear Lipstick Too

I left town after I found you with him.

How could you?
In my home?
In my bed?
With my panties slung over his face like some sort of sick circus tent?
Except you two could hardly be called acrobats...
I mean seriously, is that the only position you know?

Now I have nice plates
and silverware.
And enough spoons that I never run out between wash cycles
And they're green
So the look prettier covered in apple cores
and tears.

I'm never coming back to that house,
You're the worst mom ever.

This Week's Theme is:
"Floods"

Lets Lady Pee Standing Up

Now every women can pee standing up Antibacterial, Wash-less, discreet!
Whiz Biz dot com!

"Perfect for all outdoor activities, like hiking, camping, climbing, boating, backpacking, travelling, driving, outdoor music festivals or even a family picnic!"

Working?

"If they're really that concerned about the 15 dollars they're losing out by me not finishing my shift then tell them it can go towards the 200 they owe me in back pay that I never got."

then I left.

peace la senza, you suck.

At this rate I'll never give proper update again

I need to stop telling people on MSN when I'm going to take a poop.

This is all.

Every Week is Shark Week

You keep talking like we haven't been.
Talking like for the past two months
Our every movement hasn't been directed by it.
Like every time we shudder or speak
We aren't just rattling leaves,
Trying to make nothing out of something.
Trying to hide the sound of footprints being made.
Trying to cover your tracks in advance.
Covering the tracks of trying to advance.
Tricking ourselves,
Our only advances made under the covers.

We can't stop talking
Because it's all we can talk about
Because it's the one thing we don't.

frozentowns and heartbreak

three days i've been sitting here
looking outside at nothing
trying to scan my neighborhood for something new


I tried to begin packing and I tried to start saying goodbyes
but it's still way to early
and I apologize if it's getting repetitive

I have no idea how to say goodbye
So instead of repeating the same old blather
I've been sitting here

listening to okkervil river
and living vicariously through will scheff's lyrics

and wishing I could say the same thing but better
and I've been telling everyone how beautiful this album is
in hopes that they'll understand what im really trying to tell them

but I know that's ridiculous

'ithinkineedtobeadifferentpersonthistimearound'
'ithinkyoujustneedtobeyourself'
'thatdoesn'tmeananything'maybeijustneedtowritemore idon'thaveafavouritebandifsomeoneaskedmethatswhatiwouldsay
isaidthattodayiwouldsayrockmusic
i take my eyes off you and you're gone. every time.

making eyes
at the moon in different phases
circuits perfect

i reprinted an old tablature i used to keep in my head
and i want those callouses back
for my red lips and the eyes
i made for music itself, not just the place it steps in for the sake of history

I'd Be Sick of My Bullshit Too

My tongue is too heavy
That's why my body sways like a toothache
Barely tethered to the ground like a falcon
My arms reaching up to the vultures and valkyries
Gyring forever
Outwards and away
Until nothing comes out of my mouth
Except a copper coated tongue
And the tooth parade.

This Week's Theme:
"Why I Don't Update"

La Pire Matrone Jamais

Even as I'm standing here, looking across the Pacific Ocean, I keep thinking about the kids at home. You assure me, "They'll be fine on their own for one weekend." But, I keep worrying that some day, a million years from now when they're all grown up, they'll be talking about this weekend with some expensive therapist who'll suggest that maybe I just didn't love them enough or that I abandoned them during a formative stage. Whenever I tell you things like that, you tell me I'm being stupid and overbearing and, every time, I fight the urge to bring up your parents, but I know if I did you would go berserk and just say "That's different." Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't.
I wish I could just have a good time like you do. I know that I'm wasting this vacation worrying but I just can't help it. I know that eventually someone's going to recognize you and there'll be a media frenzy and this vacation will be completely ruined. My mother warned me about it last night when I called her from that Gas Station pay phone, which I still can't believe you stopped at, by the way. We're just lucky that the guy at the counter seemed too stoned to care who you were. Sometimes I think you don't even care if we get busted.You come up behind me and wrap your arms around me, right under my chest. I'm so glad you shaved off that long black beard you'd grown, now I can see that cute little scar under your chin. It really is true that there's something sexy about battle scars, it's nice to know I have a man who knows how to handle himself in a fist fight. We walk back to the parking lot holding hands and I notice that you still haven't cleaned your nails. "Honey, I told you that it would dry under there if you didn't clean them." You pull your hand away and look at it then mutter, "It's just a little dried blood, it washes out pretty easy."
When we get back to the car there's already cameras and police cars gathered around it. Some fat, mustached man walks forward and starts to holler at you. You wait until he's right next to you then punch him in the face, that's when the guns start going off and the camera people start talking a mile a minute. CBS, NBC, FOX, CNN... We're national news. I feel blood splatter my face, it's warm and it stings when it gets in my eyes. I step away from your body towards the police cruiser, they tell me to get on my knees and put my hands on my head so I do. As all the cameras point at me and the news reporters rapidly give their viewers my brief history I think to myself, "I wonder if the kids are watching..." and wave to the camera's. But then I remember that there's no television in the orphanage.

goodbye? Fuck.

Just relax, take your time, have some strong cups of bitter coffee.
Feel the light of this town reflect off the diamond that hangs from your window sill
and watch as the rainbows create their vibrant orchestra of colour.
The one that you awoke to every summer morning
before you were greeted by the familiar damp nose of your wandering house cat
and remember how she purred and bit your knuckles
like a friend who understood that your need for
attention was something you only wanted
to feel through some sort of sacrifice

and watch your step when you climb through blackberry bushes that lead you tip toeing through dirt roads that once led to carved out trees and warm hearted beasts.
Watch as they now lead to excavators and rock beds.
Feel your heart sink down below your ribs and twist around your spine.
search for the friends that you need at that time
and remember how the best of your friends will turn into the worst of your enemies in the middle of a move
but also the way that they will
immediately revert with blinding speed to sweetheartdom
as you try and capture memories
in your several desperate last attempts
to create a connection
and you'll grasp out and scream the words you were unable to voice at those failed times when you tried to create closure

and you'll find yourself perched on a mountain
and you'll fall back laughing and spewing out what used to just be mumbled rhetoric
but is now 'clearly phrased and technical'
to some stranger who probably doesn't even know
about all those who are still beating you up inside

you'll repeat the words 'i miss you' to those that you left behind
but the emotion will never be translated properly
because you know emotive letters,words,and conversations
only feel right
when spoken to a close companion late at night
beneath moonlight overlooking oceans or lakes
that you walked through and breathed in, glancing upward at the sky,
where all that was felt,
was forged in the hearts of the pretty spectacle of long dead stars.

...and then...

Such a lady but I'm dancin' like a ho



I'm buying these in black and possibly purple to wear with high heels to dance on speakers and bars at skeezy night clubs. I love my life.

Regarding Catastrophe and the Cure

I promise I'm not holding anything against you.
How could I, really?

You've never held anything against me,
Even when the opportunity presented itself.

So let's just agree to a cease fire and put these arms away
before someone gets hurt or doesn't.

Thank god for small miracles
and for paths out of this wicked little town.

my list

#1: I am too moldy

#2: I've never been great at being a friend

#3: I like these comox people Waaay too much, and I think my expectations are too high for Prince George

#4: Punks aren't the only cool people in the world.

#5: Last night was a weird dream but it only existed because I was outside his house. Don't over analyze.

#6: TOo much fun at work lately. Too much stress at home.

#7: Too much dependance on my wonderful wonderful friends who I want to spend all my time around.

#8: I don't like drinking because I love conversationalists too much.

#9: Grumps are lumps are frumps are often ~~~~>this guy <~~~~~~

#10: I still think about that stupid boy

#11: Sisters,Colleen,Corrina,Ayri,Andrea,Heidi,Travis,and Zander and Ryan are going
To be missed shitloads when I move in three weeks and I'm dreading not having such great friends in the same town with me.

#12: i got my graduation transcript today.

#13: Travis and heidi better hang otu with me tonight because I love them.

Think 'Let's Get Confessional' but more Confrontational

I'm not trying to run or hide from it.
I'm just trying to get a head start
so that when it finally hits me
that you're seriously gone,
I can get out of bed
and move on
and move forward to forget.

You can all assure me that things will be better
and that nothing changes in one summer,
but we know better about kids and things and problems,
we know that everything is changing
and it's out of control and it's terrifying
but at least we all survive in the end
and at least I can try to get a head start.


This Week's Theme:
"Let's Not Be Dishonest or Maybe..."

Him&Me (I need to stop dating)

W says: (11:16:10 PM)I saw pauls, i think you can tell its me, you would have no idea its you

W says: (11:16:17 PM)its the "high five" one:S

S says: (11:16:29 PM)what?

W says: (11:16:46 PM)you dont recall?

S says: (11:16:53 PM)no, what happened

S says: (11:17:00 PM)i dont remember most of that night to be entirely honest

W says: (11:17:16 PM)hahah paul came in..and was like wylie high five, and he was like

W says: (11:17:21 PM)I'm not leaving till you high five me

W says: (11:17:23 PM)so i did


S says: (11:17:25 PM)REAALLY?!

W says: (11:17:27 PM)and he took a picture

S says: (11:17:39 PM)how many people were actually in the room

S says: (11:17:41 PM)what the fuck

S says: (11:17:44 PM)how many people saw me naked

S says: (11:17:49 PM)jesus christ

W says: (11:17:50 PM)..5

W says: (11:17:51 PM)?

S says: (11:17:58 PM)im gonna go die now

W says: (11:18:10 PM)that might be a minium number

W says: (11:18:12 PM)i totally dont kow

W says: (11:18:33 PM)but i know, paul, melissa, olaf, nicole and zak, for sure

W says: (11:18:39 PM)vanessa may have been included in there

W says: (11:18:50 PM)as well as sean...sean came in, but we covered up becuase he warned us

S says: (11:18:57 PM)yeah i remember that

S says: (11:19:10 PM)i actually feel like im going to vomit.

Uh Huh, Her

Bullshit, because I'm too exhausted and boring to post anything substanstial

my friend was right, my tits did in fact grow. It's sad that she noticed it a week before I did, and I work at a lingerie store.

Also I need to stop drunkenly making out with random men in bars who are in their mid to late 20s. I'm too young for this adult shit.

The Rise of the Black Emperor

When the glow was gone I found myself wanting
To be granted some silence, be rid of this haunting
To be taken away on the crest of a wave
To be given a way to be free of the grave

I became the chemist, I sought transmutation
Creating devices which destroyed my nation
I cared not for gold, it was Iron I'd need
To create a bridge between man and machine

When the bishop got word he began the crusade
Luddites in garb marked 'The Christian Brigade"
But by the time they arrived, I'd completed my work
and waited for them in a swamp midst the murk

I appeared to them as a God among Men
Veins of black oil, the raw strength of ten
I tore out their eyes, I severed their spleens
Just as they'd done to my fellow machines

I followed their trails to the capitol city
I burned down the courthouse, I killed without pity
Women and children, my ex-countrymen
By the time I was done all that lived were the wrens.

It brought me great pleasure to see the look in his eyes
As I cornered the bishop who'd incited these times
Of dread and of war against the Man against death,
Of the cutting of ties, the cessation of breath.

When I finished with him I returned to my home
To begin the creation of mechanical bones
My vocal chords proved incompatible things
So they were replaced with a system of strings

Man's body's a curse for machines to pity,
I call arias of static from the roofs of this city
With a voice like the hiss of guitars' metal strings
I can whisper these secrets of my metal things.

Moonlight Eclipsing the Rainbow

LIFE LIFE LIFE LIFE PAIN

PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN LIFE
LIFE PAIN
ART
think about it

This Week's Theme

"In the Musicals"
this is a terrible theme.
Ignore it, s'il vous plait.

One Man, Another

One man, another.
Hanging in space
or another high place
with less gravity
and prettier sunsets.
Where you can talk
about the tanned giants
who roam this land
conspiratorially, boasting.

A Cold, White Christmas in St. Paul

Despite the fact
that I'm sweating buckets,
I can't help but pull my sweater
tighter to my body,
while I try to forget that
you were never talking to me
to begin with
and to forget
that I wouldn't blame you for a second.

Despite the fact
that I don't believe in anything,
I can't help but find myself repeating,
stuttering over the same words
that everyone expected
but nobody told me
were coming.

But more than anything
I'm just sick
of feeling the victim
or feeling the victor
when nobody will come
out limping from this wreck
because this wreck never happened.

Mercury

It's always been about disconnection
Just as it's always been about rock and roll
Rebelling or conforming
Through noise and bombast or whispers
And even silence.

The silence between the here and what's after

The noise at the boundaries

The vacuums of nowhere.

Distance is disconnection as a natural thing
Something left free, denying a form or function
Unbound to anything or anywhere
Just the existence of two points;
isolated and in extreme.

The extremes of this hysteria.

The absence of motion at either end.

The sameness in everything.

We're recoiling all the time anyways
From everyone and everything
Anywhere and anything between
These two points; this distance, this disconnection.

im just tired

one month ago
and I feel that hand clutching mine like it was only yesterday


it pains me now

to think of the week following

when I seem to recall you repeating "it couldn't have been a worse time"

and I trying to reassure you that exams didn't matter to me, and that it would be okay, saying " there could have never be a 'good' time."

but you were seeking a different kind of comfort
not affirmation that I would be okay

...and I thought I was helping
but listen, I'm not trying to make things worse
I don't want to act bitter

it's just that I'm really tired of this