"Your name is a golden bell hung in my heart"

I read that in a book today.
may someone turn to you one day and say that low..in your ear..while the world around you swirls at a roar...
that is my only wish for you, dear reader.

Do you see the trash piling up?

A stutter in the mouth and a snake in the nest..this bitter baby flails its limbs against the walls of a labyrinthine chest. Spill it if you can't fulfill it..check the pulse but don't kill it. Questions hang in the air like ornaments without a christmas tree....What..Next?.. I've got my finger on the trigger and you've got nothing..check the cards if you think I'm bluffing. Voodoo vice and a knife in the ice. If you say it once, then you can say it twice. Underneath this sullen moon, well I talk too hard and I pause too soon..the waitress was great, but the food was rude..and the days spill out like Time's got a spout.
* * *
I don't know what I'm writing, sometimes I just like to start typing and see what shows up. I've got a hangover, I've got a pocket of anxiety over the creativity shit. Spent last night at the bar with a friend, we know the bartender so he gave me several free shots and we all hung out there after hours..thankfully he walked me home at 3am, I was so tired and stumbly. Not too shitty though..made myself drink alot of water, and that really seems to be the secret to keeping my buzz below an irrational roar. Alot of conversations about music, writing, etc etc... Feeling so bogged down by too any projects, too many strings pulling and the old wounds ache in the rain and I really need to get away, but I don't trust that impulse. The mess is always there, you look at it..be it childhood parent issues or a pile of dirty clothes on the floor..you want to get out for awhile, take a break, look at it with fresh eyes. But really..c'mon you lazy fuck the only way to to get past it is to head straight into it and GET RID OF IT. I think I'm just pouting around when really I need to pull up the sleeves...
Ugh. Where to start?

Excerpts from old tattered journal 4/03-7/04

6/16/03
There is a bug in my wine
You laugh and say
"Don't waste the protein"
and so I don't.
Somewhere between your choked sobs
and my wandering glass eye
a life fell into my glass
to die.

8/?/03
Ode to Millie Dickinson:

The Sun sat her fat ass down
on hills of bones and wet grocery bags--
sent Light sulking across the room--
like a child arriving for detention
Then Evening tapped its nails on my sliding back door
with a half-eaten bag of heart-shaped stars-
and expectations old as sincere valentine's cards--
But I'm drunk
and on the phone with the Moon
telling her
he ain't never gonna get down my pants--
ain't never.

9/4/03
Coffee is warm. I am cold. I have sickle-shaped eyebrows. You want your hair to grow in ropes woven in sleep. In the classroom heads are counted like beads on a rosary. I do not want my grandmother to die. I would break my body to pieces to keep a tear from her eye. Wonderful, soft woman..may your hands and face never be empty.

11/19/03
I am stranded in a cafe. It is raining. The rain is a philanthropist. The rain dutifully does what it does..falls..needing to hydrate you..it only knows it must wet you..and you must want it you need it don't you?..It knows nothing of lakes and plumbing and temperature..it waits patiently outside every shelter for you to come out and receive its gift and it is a gift a gift a gift..
But I am an ungrateful asshole..cold and weak.
and so I hide in this cafe.

11/24/03
Alot of false starts and misfires going on. I'm suprised my shit hits the hole in the toilet and doesn't fly back up to smack me across the face. Well, at least there's that.
Look at me..parading about as if I were some kind of nice person. Scandalous. I swear I'd sew my nostrils shut and live in a yogurt hut if someone would then assasinate that Jack Ass. Impeachment might do. What to do with rage? Use or Difuse?

12/27/03
Well, saw the sun set very soft over Georgia, I think. Was on the wrong side of the plane again to see Atlanta. A pilot sat beside me. I know this because he said so, wore a leather flight jacket and chewed a toothpick and the woman who sat on the other side of him could barely contain her soaking panties as she went on and ON Oh! You're a Pilot?! How exiting!..etc etc..
She asked him all about his life and thus..I learned this stuff about him as he politely and lazily answered her questions as if he were some Playgirl pin-up:
The Pilot lives in Orlando but works out of the Chicago airport. The Pilot is married with a daughter. The Pilot lives so close to Disneyworld that when his daughter was (is?) 2 years old, he would drive her by to see the fireworks so that she'd fall asleep in the car. His wife is a "smarty-pants" as he affectionately calls her and has her own home business involving vitamins. The Pilot is very proud of her. The Pilot is very solid and kind and would probably look good on cover of a romance novel. You can depend on the Pilot. The Pilot is on his way to work. The Pilot wants you to have a nice trip home.

7/1/04

"How can I use my intestines as a gift?"