This is not my beautiful house...

This is for Morgen..This is for Melissa..
remember this song? remember this song and the 4th of July
bombs bursting in air
Melissa and I..mean teens on the hood of my car all drunk in the Marietta Square and all the cars stopped there in the middle of the road..everyone spilling into the streets like a natural disaster..time stopping and life happening right there
right the fuck there in front of your face
Morgen and I
talking about this song
and of course, the X Files there in the Steak N Shake by our apartment in Winter Park
little kids in love..the first adventures in this strange and brutal kingdom of adulthood

Time isn't holding us
Time isn't after us
Time isn't holding us

letting the days go by...

sometimes the windshield, sometimes the bug..

Today I am definitely the bug. I do not know why.
The world turns and everything burns. Is it the weather? The rumble in my chest as the virus hits and turns my sinuses into a disgruntled union?
I am recording a cd with Greg as Happy Puppet Children Syndrome, and it is turning out to be not so bad. Maybe even good. The art collective is churning with promise and ambitions for finding a performance/practice/etc space. Work is good. Money is scarce but nothing out of the ordinary. No one else has died this month. So far.
What's with the doom and gloom..fingers finding hollow solace in booze and ears demanding the Ipod to replay More Elliot Smith! More Swans! More Sad Shit!
I don't know. I am fucking worthless as far as the social interaction goes, though. Fuck. I need the South. I need collard greens. Waffle House. Kudzu.
I just want to leave.
I want to burn all my bridges and throw my dishes..because I'm always making wishes
on
two stars eclipsed by too much sky..
If I had an epitaph it would read: "eh...fuck it."

Mountain Moving Day

The mountain moving day is coming
I say so yet others doubt it
Only a while the mountain sleeps
In the past all mountains moved in fire
Yet you may not believe it
O man this alone believe
All sleeping women now awake and move

by Yosano Akiko1913


There are days when I forget. There I am, walking along...thinking about a book or worrying about bills or wondering how the hell I'm going to get some pirated music software working...
then:
Someone refers to a girl as a slut, some car slows down and men hang out of windows, a man can barely contain his anger at me in a bar because I tell him to leave my friends and I alone and I realize that if we were not in a crowded place I would be forced to fight him for my life, I see a movie where yet again a woman character is raped/molested/beaten/etc where we the audience understand that here is a depiction of something that happens all the time..every few minutes and oh isn't it terrible but here just turn off the TV and poof it is gone, I find out some guy that used to harrass me at work at my old job apparently fabricated some story where he slept with me, men who turned into monsters still fucking call and leave creepy messages, feminist issues come up and of course..as if I popped out of the womb with a vagina and thus an encyclopedic knowledge of all things woman-related I have to make cases and debate shit when fuck man, I just really want to drink this beer and talk about punk rock of the 70's.
There are times when I feel like guns are the answer.
There are times when I don't give a fuck how you grew up, what your socio-economic backgound is or blah blah I mean HOLY FUCKING HELL this is 2006 FIGURE IT OUT. You should really read some books, asshole. I did. Scientists clone ears on the backs of lab mice but I still can't walk around at night by myself without apparently begging to end up dead in a dumpster? I don't want to deal with this shit anymore. I don't want to shoulder this ancient cause and I don't want this bloody scythe of anger I have to swing through the masses of ignorant fucks just to get to the god damn grocery store! This sexist shit should be over, that rascist shit should be over, fuck it..we should just be working on space travel and organic edible teddy bears at this point. In general, I know that social change takes its geological time and the steps I make today are for the shoes of tommorow. I know that difficult steps were made for my shoes of today. and yes, I want to return the favor. But I get impatient. so there are times when I forget to feel compassion for this bullshit and really I just want you to die. If you don't get this shit then just die, fucker, die.

put down the mirror and pick up the phone..

( wrote this well over a year ago. )

I'm sorry.
I really wanted to be your girl.
and I tried..
to curl into your lap, let my head tilt back and rest
on your long, heavy arms.
Yes, heavy can mean strong but sometimes
heavy is just..heavy.
The weight would irritate and too soon I'd slip out of your well-intentioned grip,
We both knowing that a real girl
always wants to be held.

There were times when I thought
Yes
I can do this
Put me in Spring's yellow dress
I thought maybe my sharp-edged frame would flesh out and jiggle
there were times when I even managed to choke out a giggle
and tuck my fraudulent feelings into a glass slipper.

But the black
the Black
always came back
the hair dye and fishnets
band t-shirts and cigarettes ...my boots begging for a lacing
my black boots stretching for a stomp
I'd pull them back on and swagger around and
Poof
your Sweetheart was gone

gone to corridors that must be explored alone and guitars pregnant with the promise of a fuzzbox drone...for there are monsters to be made, Love.. and dirty deeds to be done (dirt cheap) I can't explain the sullen puddle of beer and jukebox metal I'm in when I turn off my phone.

Maybe it's the lack of dolls as a child
the chemistry set I got instead
the Freddy Krueger poster hung above my bed
where there should of been New Kids.

I'm sorry. I really wanted to be your Girl..
but these trappings of gender are a mystery to me.

But surely...
there is the seedling of a Mother in me
see the same gentle bend in the neck?
Pure Madonna.
My arms can hold a being like that..
you can see it in the way I pet a cat
and whenever I have the chance to make a child laugh
I feel like God.

But
the sound of keys jangling
quarters on the floor and whiskey on the desk
Eyes that stare off too often into a spattering of too many possible futures
The clench in my hand
The door slam..
Absolute Father.

* * *

We tear ourselves up sometimes when we look inside too much and there we are
in a hallway of mirrors..can't see anything but our own funhouse innards..
Where does it all come from? These archetypes looming over Mother Father Girl Boy Lover Independent Doormat etc..
The walls so tight its no wonder we turn away running screaming "that's not me! oh god, that's not me!" of course it isn't, dumbass..nobody fits in there at all
touch the statues and see they are wax. We get so obsessed trying to figure ourselves out that we forget to listen/see/breathe in the people we love and because we make them into strangers we paint them into enemies and then..suprise!
we are alone with our own repeating boring reflection.

"You, who never admitted a public grace
I, who timidly took and timidly gave
We of the half-dark who were unbrave"
-Sandra Cisneros