Wurds in her head

One One Two Eight

2011-09-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

CONDEMED the wurd screamed across the paper taped to the window, and across her aching heart
ABANDONED, it was declared. By the powers that be in the STATE. And the powerless being in her mind.
One one two eight they were all too late
Memories confused with the scenery backsplashed in the night terrors. Was it this place? Was this her reality?
Night after night screaming into her pillow. Crying until the death rattle shakes took their hold.
Knowing then that there was more to life ~ knowing now that there is nothing that she can let go from the past.
Staring at the vacant dilapidated structure. She breathed in the evil that clung to the air, it filled her lungs with
despair.
It wasn’t what it always was, she tried to convince herself for years. This place is ~ was ~ emptiness filled with hate. Rage.
But now it just stood empty.
Warped time in the mind, remembering what she forgot to hide. Here. HERE?

It can’t be undone it can’t be undone it can’t be undone
She isn’t broken anymore.
Little grrl trapped inside, the door won’t open. Mass of tangled red curls fall in her eyes. She can’t reach the handle, it’s a million miles away. Terror filled shrieks, pleas for help go unheeded.
Now then and always.
Balled in the corner, swimming down further into herself. Tiny little angel, running from the eight legged demons. They swarm from the ceiling floor walls tub sink window under the crack in the door.
And she’s alone, with herself. Disassociate. The scary can’t get her if she’s
Not
By
Herself.

Now she’s with herself. Staring at the boarded up windows. Cracked porch. Still. Weeds in the yard reaching up to the sky. Still. Trash littering every inch of dirt. Still. And the gate is broken. Still

And her heart cries for the little grrl that dies there. Still.

Vanilla Grrl With the Sleeve Tattoo

2011-09-02T16:50:00.000-07:00

She sits across from me in her NOTLD shirt. And flowy skirt. And flip flops. And glasses. No makeup to hide the crows feet. Laugh/cry lines unabashedly visible.
No manicure. Or pedicure.
Not much intention to conversate either, it would seem.
Litany of questions, barrage of forced laughter. She looks the part. Maybe she’s a stand in?
Talk turns voices swirl. Clatter of utensils against the shabby chic dishes. The thai place was my idea.
Hot waitresses.
She continues to whisper her one wurd responses as I probe. Ever vigilant to find common ground.
Beyond the obvious there is often nothing.
So it is as the revelation occurs. Me, morally superior in such an authentic way that I do not even find myself ashamed at the thing.
Lies, deceit, no remorse, no conscience. Not even so much as an excuse. It simply is. To her. And to them.
To me it is more. Indignity on their behalf breaks in me like a strong tidal wave. Ripped from the bottom of my female soul DEMANDING that she feel the pure wrong of her actions.
To treat them as such, as if they were not even! Inconsequential! This, this, this ~ this is more than mere discord. In this we are separate.
In this, the vanilla grrl with the sleeve tattoo is a world apart from what I know and hold true to be self evident.
She picks up the tab and I let her. I smile at the dreadlocked waitress with the snake bites. I wonder if she’s 21?
Or faithful.

Weird Scenes Inside the Dirgible

2011-08-20T08:42:00.000-07:00

Working on a short story these past few weeks, and I came across this today:

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424053111904006104576504800438864370.html#%2F14

Kind of exactly what I had in mind for the command center. Interesting.....

(((Then she was alone as the others faded into the background. Their outlines became watery, and the air around them turned to smoke. Her vision was hazy and the world had a soft floating rim to encompass it.
She was falling back into her own mind. Speeding fast at first, a dizzying venture that made the colors melt and ooze and melt and ooze.
Then she started to float slowly without a gradual adjustment from the breakneck speed. The vertigo this caused was excruciating and brilliant.
She hit the ground running.
“Where are you going bitch?!” she yelled at herself.
“I don’t fucking know! That way?” she answered, panting slightly from the free fall and the sprint.
Calculating her destination, she veered left and ran toward a 7 story tall computer type device that had cables and live wires spitting blueish flames in every direction.
The command center.)))

Unwell

2011-08-16T15:47:00.001-07:00

She looks unwell. Thin, cracked lips stretched tightly around naked gums. There are dentures somewhere. I bought them for her.
Hair uncombed. No makeup. Bags under her eyes the size of a carry-on.
Her shirt is old, the color a faded shade of what may have been pink 10 years ago. The stains are the prevalent theme today. And the holes.
No socks. No shoes.
She grimaces and her eyes well up with tears. Real or pre-fab I can’t tell. They would hurt me either way, and I suppose that’s the point.
She can’t get off the couch without help. When she does make it to her feet she is out of breath and sways in tiny circles, eyes shifting in and out of focus.
Her movements are slow and anguished. She gasps for breath and reaches for my arm to steady herself.
I loathe this person and love her.

Coffee with Boy

2011-04-19T16:35:00.000-07:00

She checked her powder and lip gloss in the rearview mirror, smiling despite herself when she caught a reflected glimpse of her hot pink and black zebra striped seat covers. “Wonderfully tacky and obnoxious, just like you babe!” her husband had said about them on more than one occasion. This thought made her smile, too. She took a deep breath, repositioned her rearview mirror, and stepped out of the car. Walking across the coffee shop parking lot her new $300 phone chimed a pretty note, alerting her of a text.
“Oh thank Gods” she mumbled to herself, fishing the phone out of her red patent leather Lux De Ville handbag and setting it to silent. She then shoved the phone to the bottom of the dark depths of her purse, careful to cover it with the Gaiman novel she started reading last night before bed. No need for him to see the phone….
Walking into the coffee shop, she scanned the room quickly. He sat at a far table, hunched over and seemingly engrossed in a tiny electronic device. She headed his direction and when he saw her he stood, stretching his lengthy arms out for a hug.
“Hey sis good to see you!” he said with false excitement, his eyes darting every direction except her face.
“Where’s Leann?” she demanded, accusation loaded in every syllable of the inquiry.
“Huh? Oh, I took her home. Couldn’t deal.” he rubbed his face and shifted his weight back and forth from left foot to right foot, then back again.
“I really wanted to see her. I miss her Dave.” he had lured her to the meeting with promises of bringing his only daughter, and her only Goddess-Daughter, with him. She wasn’t surprised Nola wasn’t there, but she was disappointed.
He didn’t respond, just stood there, shifting his weight. And his eyes. She sighed.
“What do you want to drink?” she asked, noticing he had nothing in front of him on the table.
“Huh? Oh, nothing. See this? I can’t drink shit. Or eat. Fucking sucks.” he pointed to the bottom right side of his face, which was horribly swollen and red. She tried to mask her revolted shudder by taking off her thick black winter coat, and tossing it on the chair opposite his. He sat back down and immediately became engrossed in his electronic device, which upon closer inspection was an old slide phone with a shattered display.
She adjusted her pinstripe pant suit and walked toward the counter, high heels clicking a quick cadence that almost matched her accelerated heart rate.
She ordered her drink, chatted with the cute barista with flesh tunnels and side swept hair, then returned to their table.
He launched into the tired old litany of talking points that he always made sure to hit upon: he wasn’t using Boy this month, he thought he was only going to have to serve six months this time, Nola was doing great, everything was finefinefinefinefine.
But it wasn’t.
It never was with him.
He made sure to mention that he was living in his car, that his parent’s had kicked him out. Again. He also mentioned, several times, that he had a script for antibiotics. But no way to pay for them.
She listened to most of what he was saying, but more than listening, she looked. This was a different person sitting across from her at the tiny coffee shop. This wasn’t the David that played a bass solo so heavy it could make your ear drums vibrate. Nor the David that would sit up with you all night, sharing a fifth of cheap whiskey then wrestling and laughing and moving furniture at 4 in the morning for no damn reason at all. This wasn’t the Dave that would sing every.fucking.wurd to Hank III’s Straight to Hell album at the top of his lungs with her. And it definitely wasn’t the David that she had for so many years called brother.
This was a sad, filthy, lonely, broken man. Someone she had never met before. His clothes were wrinkled and stained. His beard was overgrown and uneven. His teeth were broken and greenish gray. His hands had an odd coloring about them, as if he had recently laid a tar rooftop. The stench emanating from him was a foul mixture of rotten trash and desperation. She couldn’t quite tell what his eyes looked like, because he would never look at her face.
His monologue continued. He talked about Boy and what a grip He had on his life. How he was sure he would be thinking about Boy the day he died. He said he wanted to go back to jail. That he was SURE he would get clean there. This time. How the first week of detox was the worst. How he had caught Hep C from sharing needles and the junkies he ran with called it The Little Aids.
He talked.
And her brain shut out his empty wurds. She smiled and nodded, and allowed a gentle buzzing noise to fill her up. She had to carry herself away from here any way she could. Being with him and his endless talk of Boy made her nauseous.
She stood up and gathered her coat and hand bag. He jumped up and scurried to the door.
She had one thing to say and was relatively sure it was inappropriate. Since when did that ever stop her?
“David, I want you to know I’m sorry.”
“Huh? Oh, what?” he said, confused.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t contacted you all this time. I want you to know that I love you, WE love you. We love you very much.” she thought about the program at their wedding. Groomsman in Absentia, it had said next to David’s name. He was in prison then, too.
“We love you and we’re sorry things are like this for you. I had to step back from you because it hurt me too much to see you, to talk to you. It’s too painful for me Dave. I worry about you and it’s not a healthy situation for me to be in.”
“Huh? Oh, uhm. Ok yea. Dude can I have a cigarette?” he said, scratching his arms and shifting from foot to foot.
“I quit smoking.” she said aloud. Over a year ago, she said to herself.
“Huh? Oh, uhm ok. I gotta get outta here sis. Oh, uhm. Can I have 17 dollars for a late birthday present? I gotta get my script filled before court tomorrow.” he was rubbing his face again and his eyes were darting around faster than ever.
“Sure Dave.” she said, handing him a 20.
His eyes light up and for a second, it was him again. The kid she knew and had grown so attached to all those years ago, a lifetime ago. Then he was headed toward a car. Mumbling something to himself, or perhaps even to her.
She stood there looking after him for a moment, but saw only a ghost. The tears started in her chest and welled up as a lump in her throat then began streaming from her eyes.
Her coffee with Boy and David was officially over.

Like a Good Serial Killer Would

2010-06-26T05:53:00.000-07:00

he wrote a book for her

she couldn't read it the wurds were smeared. with

sweat

tears

blood

And years.

time passes. your life happens. and you wonder.

what if?

if the mountain climbs and the log cabins. if the fireworks and the

shooting stars.

had been real. had been with him.

could she read his book then? would the wurds sizzle on the page

catching fire

then exploding with their meaning ~

meant for her eyes. maybe then she would know.

and the memories would change. and the pain would stay the same. because she

can never be satisfied.

she'd rather he'd written her a song.

2010-04-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

11*22*09

hollowing out
moving on
feels good to feel this empty.

she hasn't been here in a long time. she's been
away
she's been with her. and that makes her different
made. made her different.
now she's not sure who she is. an other. someone referred to in the past tense.
someone referred to less and less often, until the stories aren't relevant.

until she's gone. not even the memory remains.

long ago and far away. they were sisters. she thought. she thought the wurd "friend"
didn't cover it.
wouldn't do justice to their bond.
sisters.
yes.
the sex was never that good. the physical aspect to placate. she didn't mean it.
she wanted to help her of course. of course! she knew she could open her eyes.
let her see herself the way she never had before. let her in on the secret of
self ((love)).
she loved her for who she was. then. at that point. in that time. in that life.
the sex ended and they were sisters. lovers of a different kind.
exploring. musick life ego scene thoughts ideas gods fashion lust drugs unity pain
ink eviction laughter death the other side of tomorrow. and love.

fast forward.

now stop.

where did it end? looking back she couldn't see the end. a destination wasn't clear.
no fork in the road. no u turn. no turning back.
just fog. soft fog. swirling like the stories that are no longer important. the
inside jokes
that she's now on the outside of.
the fog ascends and she's on the other side. somewhere.
she's moving on. and so it is. so it must be.

growing out of a friendship is not art. losing her sister to the
other
to the hollow part that once was

she doesn't have her anymore

but she is not alone

Leaning toward forever.

2010-04-02T19:04:00.000-07:00

leaning on the kitchen sink in a nightie. Betsey Johnson peekaboo flats snug on her feet.
garter belt, check. thigh highs, check.
it's 2:30pm.
nov 14th. the window is open and the warm air makes her reminiscent . of what? who?
she inhales the sunny breeze. her hair, loose around her shoulders, floats lazily in the air like a copper cloud.
peter steele's voice caresses her. she feels happy. she feels complete.
she feels~

perfect

eyes closed, head turned toward the sky. mind devoid of the anxiety and misery
that's usually there
no clouds today
she loves the rain. but today the clear blue twinkling off the stars wrapped around the fence are much more.

more?
fitting. fitting her. filling her.

she leans to look at the street when the cars speed by. waiting.
he's on his way back
back home
on his way back home to her. his love fills the space around her. this reality is someone's dream
it must be.
heart beating out the rhythm of forever. calm peace serenity. not normal.
but neither is she.

this alien feeling of perfection is horrifying in its promise of forever. ascending.
ascension.
the cosmic realm drags her to where she needs to be.
can this be tomorrow? can it be today? can it be forever?
it's now.

and that's enough.

Inspiration

2010-03-31T16:51:00.000-07:00

it is raining steadily as we rush out of the movie theatre.
it's close to midnight, the witching hour they say. we're giggling
with abandon as we scurry down the concrete ramp toward her car.
fog clings to the lights planted in the ground along the path.
it hangs suspended in the air, heavy and thick ~ like my lust for her.
we are all soaked, she the only one without a jacket. the thin
grey top she's wearing offers no protection; but offers my greedy
eyes a veritable feast.
despite the wet and the chill, she runs to the passenger door and unlocks
it so i can seek refuge from the rain first. such chivalry, always the gentleman.
i lean over and unlock her side. she jumps in, shivering with the cold.
she busies herself lighting a cigarette, and i stare. absorbing all
of her that i can. tight black curls seeping with rain. droplets snaking down
dark golden arms. her face dewy and soft, as i imagine it might be when she is sexually satisfied.
i'm dying to touch her. to reach out and feel the soft slant of her purple rimmed eye. to trace a finger down the soft flesh of her arm, following the rain as it drips down to her thighs. to wrap my hands full of those curls.
to feel her.
i shake from my daze and try to fight off the hypnosis she unknowingly wields
over me. i look out the window into the darkness and think only of the starshine in the car with me.
and live to love another day.