Monday, September 05, 2005

donc, d'accord.... (so, okay)

Concisely: All I want is a perfect set of words that say exactly what they want to.

Expanded: The old poems make me want to puke. They are full of extraneous decoration, vulgarity, pretension. I'm sorry. I think poems are similar to people, and somewhere along the line I forgot this. Both people and poems have a driving force that we can't cover up, no matter how we struggle.

I think in metaphors. They will always be there for me, the way that I associate everyone and everything with colour. Both will always be in my poems. But pretension, overuse of thesauruses, garish and unintended melodrama? No, I'm done with those. I do not write to include all of the twenty-word school vocabulary list.

I only want truth, and I don't know if I'll ever quite get it, but I like to pretend I can try.

Examples of simplicity? "Lovesong" by the Cure.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


I liked you for the way your 5 o'clock shadow ws always here by 1;
for the nervous flurry your hands conjured when you talked,
the way your hair was slightly overgelled.
I liked your for the way that you stopped and stared and listened,
when the boulders fell from my mouth because
I am not the patient daughter from my childhood fairy tale.
I liked the way your shirts were always slightly overpressed
(even though you knew you would be painting),
your hands rough and red as they gesticulated and
weaved too many patterns and your mouth chapped as you
injected your talent into too many parentheses.


Bonjour mes amis!

I apologise for the lack up updates until recently. Due to health problems/a mounting fear of having my entire life open and public, I have disbanded my everyday blog. In any case, any prose or essays that I write have now been moved to this blog. Yes, it is a different penname, and No, it is not a different person. I hope you continue to read or begin to read and (as always) offer me as much feedback as you can, even if it is not purely positive.

Au revoir,

bare midnight.

But I do know that if I could make room,
I would choose to know all of this bare scrap of land we call a planet,
and still have room to both know the moon, and to also love you.

Right. So, this is just a fragment of something that is yet to be written. But I thought it was fairly nice and that is why it is here.

The Love Letter (From A. to B.) revised

Simple greeting.
How are you?
You aren't speaking, you won't communicate, which language must we use? I've got them bound inside my bag of tricks and taped inside my sleeve but none of them will let me mine your brain like the scalpel I use to hold my hair in place.
I am okay.
My acting has been honed, can you sense it in my scrawl? I learned from the best, from you. Who else are you fooling in your amazon jungle, which warrior queen are you now seducing?
The weather is the same as always.
She is not better. Maybe we could bind your lies into my language and make her new. She would be a product of your wine and my whiskey and maybe take the best of the both.
It is rather boring here.
Do you remember grade school, the childish insults that came when we crowed, "it's opposites day!" and then said what we really thought? Opposites day is not today.
The play is going rather well.
Of course I wanted to do the sets but somehow they conspired to elect me lead. I have my paltry lines memorized and I act as though I am acting.
Too bad you will not be able to see it.
You'd be proud to know that my bitchery and bitterness can rival yours. I'm all spit and spite and now I'm a sniper.


I love you,


Saturday, March 19, 2005

well at least i didn't do the acid reflux jig.

I'm on gizoogle!

I had solo and ensemble today. Just, ughhhhhh. I had a serious case of nerves. You don't want to hear about it. The only positive thing I can think of is that I did not pull an Ashlee.

On the good side, I got Aha Shake Heartbreak and The Cars' Greatest Hits.

On the bad side, I did not get to go to Gauthier's show tonight.

On the good side, my room is clean and covered with pictures of pretty girls. Oh yes, it is my happy place. With a few cute skaters and Conor Oberst and some paintings, ect., thrown in.

Oh the bad side, my life sucks.

Friday, March 18, 2005


Maybe you, in all your glory,
would talk a little bit less
if you just thought a little bit more.

The Love Letter

Hello, (Are you there?)
How are you? (You aren't speaking, you won't communicate, which language must we use?)
I am okay. My acting has been honed, can you sense it in my scrawl?
The weather is the same as always. She is not better.
It is rather boring. I am attempting to find the words to say what I am feeling
The play is going rather well. I am attempting to find what I am feeling.
Too bad you will not be able to see it. It's only our method acting.
As always, and forever

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

promise keeper.

(You taught me that love does not have a cause and that love is sometimes
the quietest gesture and if I do not stop to stare I will miss it.)

I can't love you when I am dead.

My tylenol is in back in the cupboard.

It is not coming out again.

The Lead Age

You have heard me speak of the Republic of Heaven, the idea that I stole from the book
the idea that we must build our Utopia here but now I know that I've been exiled from there
before I ever had the chance to enter and so I think I am choosing the Republic of Death.
I want to be somewhere where the principal players in my lives are not flightly girls
named Serotonin and Dopamine, girls that will abandon me with frightening ease.
I have my ticket in a bottle and all I want to do is tell you this before i go--

I know you will be better when I am gone, because my existence
will only dull your Paradise.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Belated Valentine: A Work In Progress

I woke this morning with that shadow feeling I'd been dreaming
significant dreams-
Strong and powerful,
Richly full of meaning.
But I was unable to recall them no matter how hard I tried.
Chasing them only makes it worse,
Like groping for the other tennis shoe
Lost under the bed
Just beyond my reach,
Closing my hand on something,
To discover it is only
So much dust and dog hair.

I closed my eyes,
Breathed deeply,
And reached for that familiar place.

But the Universe asked me a question.
Why do I continue to love you?

And I begin to answer immediately because
Confidence is the feeling we have before we understand the situation.

Why in the face of all we have seen,
and failed to see in each other,
Do we persevere?

I begin to understand it is a matter of pride.
And, pride is, after all,
what we have.
Vanity is what others have.

So, in pride or vanity I offer:
I love you because I have always loved you.

And the Universe knows this is not a whole truth.
It knows it like it knows we can't pray a lie

I try again.
I love you because of all we have been through together.

And the Universe does not like this cliché any better.
It asks, with all the Aristotelian logic it can muster,
Do you not manifest "All that you have been through together?"
The Universe knows and wil not let me get away with half a truth.
We have been through "all that"
Because we have put each other through "all that."

It asks another question:
How can you assert love after all you have seen?

The helplessness after surgeries;
The weakness in the face of adversity;
The cowardice in the face of confrontation;
Weight gain,
Hair loss,
Reduced libido,
Nakedness at forty,
Nakedness at fifty?
The knowledge that the final solution does not involve Bean-o.

And I begin, in answer, to list the qualities I admire in you:

But the Universe will not allow this equivocation either.
And because the Universe is a big believer in the Socratic Method,
it asks
Why do I love my dog?

I confess to perceiving a similiar list.

The Universe sends me the spring songbirds early,
Who sing, and feed,
who show me community in bright colors
And high energy.
The birds know nothing of our sorrow.

And the Universe asks again,
In the face of this sorrow, why do I continue to love you?

It is not because Mothers are better than Fathers.
It is not because women are better than men.
It is not because teaching is better than poetry.
It is not because daughters are better than husbands.

And slowly, the answer,
Or rather the understanding that there is no answer,
Begins to reveal itself to me.

There is no aetiology for love.

I do not love you because
I do not love you in spite of
I do not love you since
I do not love you in so much as
I do not love you for the reason that

There is nor eason,
No logic,
No syllogistic proof.
It simply is.
I love you.
It comes about without cause
And with luck it is returned
without cause.

That is why love fits more aptly into poetry than paint.
It is not revealed to the mind through the eye.
It comes to the heart, through th enose and the fingertips.

The old poet had it right.
"Do not go gentle..."
Even here in this moment of doubt
I don't give up.
I do not go gentle,
Down by two in the bottom of the 9th,
Two out,
Two on,
Two strikes.
I will take one more god damned pitch!

And even if I fail,
We will play again tomorrow.

The story of my life is told between parentheses
whcih you open and you close.
And inside those parentheses is one word.
It is (Hope).

--Steven Marsh

Courtesy of Kara who had it courtesy of Dylan. Read it out loud. You can relate, because you are human.

Undeviating Advice

You know who I am.
Sitting in front of you earns me
a daily complement, and a daily
discovery that something of mine is yours too now--
It does not bother me. Instead, it is quizzical,
a puzzle to be poured over only in the morning hours.
Why me? I have nothing that no one else does.
You are posssessed of hidden qualities, surely.
But they’re just that, hidden.
But why deviate from this life?
It is a poster for popularity and you have worked for it.
Do not throw it away because of a crush.
Go back to shopping and social drama
and boys that want you for your body:

A life like mine will only make you feel ugly.

To Kelly, who sits behind me in Algebra. I took the situation and fictionalized it. I dunno. This is my alter-ego talking. Come on y'all, I think this alter ego needs a name.

musical intelligence

Musical intelligence is magic and it forces everything in it's path to twist and shimmer while obeying colour laws
with the flick of a brain footsteps become drumbeats and a smile is an alto's scarlet jazz chord
with awakening the rustling of bedclothes are the strains of a midgetal violet viola
and the tap of a switch is a chocolate staccato beat courtesy of an animated ebony pianist
the chartreuse cries that come with vomit are the screeches of a synth.
the scuff of rubber shoe soles is the whisper of your best bombazine soul
and only with golden death are our bodies finally silenced.

Tell me whatcha think.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

production room

you're my bluescreen, yeah
the bluescreen upon which i project
my private miseries

flattering to be
one of three reasons for your survival,
probably more ironic especially because i would
kill anyone that hurt you
but apparently you're most in danger from your suicidal self.

i was sitting on a pew
In the coral suffocated church in Tourist Florida
thinking that God wasn't there until
I looked at the fake gold of the wrinkled lady on my left and
understood that God is the one word that means whatever you want it to.

But forever, yes, you'll always be
you're my bluescreen, yeah
the bluescreen upon which i project
my private miseries

This reads like the draft of a much better poem.