fits of forgiveness for every sunken son and daughter. the lions paisley tongue dealt nine lashes. the child fit into a barren hand, the smooth palms of a gypsy mother whose liquorish lips peel for every day we've lived without giving proper things proper names. bird, fish, human mother, wolf breath, baby tail, rainfaced i gave up. my lions paisley tongue wrapping around the words we would die to change " mother, daughter, dead hand, evil man."
fuck its hard to form a clear sentence or thought or anything for that matter i'm just murky water lying flat like a puddle why? i still smoke and drink and swear at all the things i cant control like the newness of our wedding shoes or my neurotic tendency to pick out something to hate instead of closing my eyes and putting spoon to mouth well..why do i feel less like theres something spun tight in my head when its still all the same? a suicide, a holiday spent with my mothers arm suspended over a blender wouldnt that be something to say thirty times over, always eloquently spoken with the tenderness of lovers at an altar? no and so what? she tried, she failed, told me the other crazies in the hospital were indigents before she said she needed more shampoo a brow pencil and her sketch book while the nurse said something about sedatives and made her hang up i thought maybe i needed my own devils to make my mind soft, make the words more malleable, maybe turn such a humorous selfish woman into some sort of painful death eaten fragment of a person. but no and so what? why does something insane and hard to ignore have to sound romantic or like i really was sad or hurt. i went out, got naked, had a drink made eyes at the bartender, threw a fit, missed a few trains hailed a cab, slipped on an ice patch, fucked in a foreign bed whose only comfort was seeing the knife beneath the mattress ( we all know its always there but rarely see them.) my devils stay planted firm and laugh at my now sad attempts at writing anything more than my name and the date. my name is kristen and i may have forgotten time logic and how to spell my mothers name.
dear god i am wrecked a wreck i am a whisper during mass i am cake after sex i am that moment before sleep; the endless ocean of a million dreamt up lives living in the crease of your eye distant and vague, something so far away s o fa r a w ay
i went to sleep last night with no job, no car and nowhere to live was woken up by a phone call for a full time position, called lady to tell her and she gave me that blue monster of a car that has been sitting out front forever, looked at an apartment and fell in love...then found out the rent was almost $100 less than what i was willing to spend in the first place
i'm trying to remember exactly what i did before falling asleep last night so i can replicate it tonight and fall asleep dreaming of winning the lotto.....
i was a child in a dream foolish with hunger ignorant and bluish brushed ponies manes, ate the flies as they fell free real life was not so different swallowed down you and your day old whispers held your nude frame with rebellion more than passion we had a hard time keeping faith while held up in my bed, swearing at the curtains unparted folds, like the space between teenage legs its not right to speak of young girls like so... but i was once so young in a dream or drugged out state or a drunken memory i dont know i just remember i stood around naked and brushed a horses hair
Was it the moon? Cut up like a dirty fingernail that twirled your wild thick hair until knots of silk plagued your moth eaten scalp? I've missed unbinding those tangled wiry strands while laughing into your mouth, yet calling it a kiss. Open lipped and fresh, always with your pale slit eyes staring back without an obvious tenderness but with contemplative affection. Its these tiny indiscretions that i count on the scarce peaks and valleys of your flattened fists, [so much the same as a child pulling petals from a weed disguised as a daisy], Rise fall Indecision strikes silent bells whose vibrations crawl up my legs, the long and the short, the nefarious nature of it taking residence in the hollows of conversation, Yet how female of me to assume anyone but myself can know when my speech breaks, when the words become less patient, when want exceeds need and each sentence becomes less about anything but feeling the movements of my jaw rubbing against your hands that reach and reach and reach but can never fully touch the smallest bits of myself that i keep forgetting to expose. Those pale slit eyes never tire, they simply accept my naked viridity without any judgment They break me down to color and shape, and i am left to wonder what the geometry of my face means Again, a laugh, a kiss, your milk and bone cheeks, a second of thoughtless sleep ripped open with the abrupt awareness of your painfully beautiful perfumed youth The prickling bells back down my thighs. I could live in you forever
sitting in a plush chair in my mothers driveway yelling at a man in a mock frueduan voice. its dusk and probably spring, the man's white van is parked and smells like burnt rubber, i can here the tick tick ticking of oil hitting pavement
"do you feel ze penile envy?" no "ven you ride a bike dost it geev sexual gratification?" the man makes a scissors cutting paper motion with his hand "WORDS MY MAN, ANSWER WEES WORDS" i spin around in the chair, launch myself forward and smile the man looks terrified, its my mothers pastor, he knows im playing a game with him, more like testing him he lifts his face and its twisted, he twitches his nose, i can't help but laugh "vell? vhat eest your problem? i am not zee crazy one." i break character and say maybe to him but more to myself, i am not the crazy one. his hands, i am fixed on his hands, his gold wedding band looks tight and tired from years of being rubbed at. his fingers unlace and pleadingy stretch out toward me. please, he says in a voice so sincere it stings with sarcasm, let me help you, i understand you are lost and need meaning "i don't need meaning or god,"i interject, "i just need anxiety medication." i quickly switch back and finger a smooth cherrywood pipe, puckering my lips into a half smile and squinting. this man of god sees all my demons, smells them, the distant scent of burnt hair,the sickly sweet cloak coiled and black. "now meester tell me, why do you a man auf god wees to dig deep into my riddlers brain?" im screaming and crying but completely unaware. in the back of my mind i wonder when it started raining, why the dogs are howling from inside as though upset by thunder. i am the storm i realize. "what is it you know? what divine means have you to heal my crooked mind?" the pastor takes a step forward on the ball of his foot. i am the master, he is the beast. i can heal you, oh its that mocking voice again, i am well versed in the body of christ, only a man with the knowledge of lord our savior can heal a hell ravaged mind like your own. all the doctors and pills are smoke and mirrors, shamans from the devil. i can save you, you are sick. " save me like you saved my half dead mother." i feel somethinh rising " save me with words of morality over rationality?" im boiling over, grinding the flute of the pipe between my teeth, breathing in the smoke of my fathers ancient orange flapped tobacco, coughing and spitting like some bastardized depiction of a female devil. "SAVE ME SAVE ME WITH YOUR DEATH MARCH HYMNS AND BURNING BUSH TONGUE.i can no longer talk, ze dockture haz left for zee night." i rise from my chair with elongated movements, i may be crude, but i still i understand the grander of my dramatics. two steps toward the door, and its back, scraping at my esophagus, plucking my vocal chords. i stand, rigid and proud, tiny hammers through my dry mouth, cracking every tooth. "im rather angry aren't i?" my fingers tips are numb, dissolving. the man gets into his car and calls his wife to come clean me up. but its clear now, to me at least. i am crazy, bat shit fucking insane, but i am also today tomorrow and every day after that. i am a holy shiver, rabid with truth. these men of god, they don't care for life or death, they don't care about personal triumph or tragedies no one does.
Felt less like my self, nails dug deep in sweetness of morning sounds, a tipping cup, fragile breath. our orange rine backs,hair knotted like delicate whips. Awake, we play adulterated bed games in our closed caves swept shut with unmatched curtains in our windowless home.
im pushing up babies and willow boughs from my destroyed gut. keeping my paramour at bay with a quick flash of nude ankles, sickly gray, the flesh, the bone. bottle cap necklace, we are to name our daughter after a drunken mans mistress
i was high he stood and talked about politics, police bears, dancing side by side i slip in and out knowing full well what this might mean taking on the doors swung wide wider than usual carousel horses, pontiacs and polloks running the races gilded pony manes this is a death note an sos my rambling is drug induced havoc i cant write my lips are completely numb and if i had my way wed be fucking in the attic right now ghost hands pouring over each cup parking meter metronome tick tick tick tocking solemn rocking my baby brothers chair blue velvet tiny rabbits tomato patch that the gators over ran so we picked up marshmallows tossed them and run like paper cranes