February 2012
12 posts
“I am a man who believed that I died 20 years ago. And I live like a man who is...”
– Malcolm X
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The reward, my lady, I do not desire. Den Dank, Dame, begehr ich nicht.
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mynameisbenhail:
How do I explain to my counselor that I get emotionally invested in TV shows so it becomes feasibly impossible for me to kill myself?
You’re always right. Alright?
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“…and Saigon smelled of tar and motorcycle exhaust and cordite but when I opened the window and turned to my wife, the room was full of a wonderful scent, a sweet smell that made her sit up, for she sensed it, too. This was a smell that had nothing to do with flowers but instead reminded us that flowers were always ready to fall into dust…”
- Robert Olen Butler, A...
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I am an invisible man.
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I remember when summer was just beginning and I told a girl that summer was nearly over and she asked me what I was talking about because summer was just beginning and I shrugged and I remember when summer was nearly over.
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“Well, it’s all downhill from here,” said the man, who’d just felt a calming wave wash over his head, where years of copying and typing and copying had stayed put for years and years more, as he held the rifle to his chest, slipped off his right loafer, and reached out with his toe for the trigger.
January 2012
12 posts
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“On ambush, or other night missions, they carried peculiar little odds and ends. Kiowa always took along his New Testament and a pair of moccasins for silence. Dave Jensen carried night-sight vitamins high in carotene. Lee Strunk carried his slingshot; ammo, he claimed, would never be a problem. Rat Kiley carried brandy and M&Ms candy. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried the...
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Blue
The two of us in her apartment, a wine bottle holding dearly onto stagnant air, the piano player played a song that told me the moon was weak in her knees. That when she slipped, head too heavy, I caught her as sleep would a dream and washed her back, her porcelain wounds, in the blindfolded sea.
I took to carving crescents. I fed the waning tide.
She turned to peeling minutes. So softly she did...
And then the soul wanders.
goldenryan:
Being alone most of the time can’t be good for me mentally. I think it’s starting to take its toll.
Are you okay? Are you okay?
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With all of this I know now; everything inside of my head. It all just goes to show how nothing I know changes me at all. Again, I wait for this to change instead, to tear the world in two. Another night with her, but I’m always wanting you.
Use me, Holly, come on and use me. (We know where we go.) Use me, Holly, come on and use me. (We go where we know.)
With all of this I feel now;...
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“Two aspects of Holly’s character exemplify and dramatize important aspects of the psychopathic personality. One is her emotional impoverishment and the clear sense she conveys of simply going through the motions of feeling deeply. One clue is the sometimes outrageous inappropriateness of her behavior. After Kit guns down her father before her eyes for objecting to his presence in Holly’s...
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Continuation
The pain is persistent. My brain swelling heavy, dull. Digging trenches several months long. Tightening the bolts where artery eats the heart. Tremor. Tremble. My left arm rotting off.
Wasting. I guess you can only do so much on your own.
I hear only the echoes of warm light.
Push me in front of a train. By the door’s crease, the last sliver of breath, shut it closed.
I...
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I hate feeling like this. Fatigued and unmotivated. Cold. The pain is numbing by centigrades.
Empty, weighty corpse. Heart a little heavy. Like being between death. I’m sure you know. Some get bummed out about being lonely. We’re dying down about being.
Though I opened my window. And the air beckons over. I can’t remember what used to be true. I can’t remember
I hope nothing lasts forever.
ninewhitetulips asked: You've been Tagged! The Rules: Each tagged person must post 10 things about themselves. You must choose and tag 10 people by going to their blogs and telling them you tagged them. No tagging back. :)
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New Year's Part II - 2012
Hey y’all,
Happy New Year’s! I was going to hold off this announcement until January 31st, the anniversary of a post called “Fire,” which I consider to be my first swing at consistent creative writing for this blog/for myself, but I am impatient.
I’ve been fooling myself for too long. Starting now, I’m going to stop sharing and reading as much. The plan is to...
December 2011
46 posts
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New Year's Part I - 2011
Because I don’t believe I’ll change any more next year than in any other year, I have no resolutions to make other than “Don’t kill myself,” which will probably be pretty easy to keep. However, I do find that I’ve been especially melancholic for a long while now.
regret has hands wringing against each other. my head like a rag between. its one hand is a desire...
The Wilhelm Scream
I don’t know about my dreams I don’t know about my dreams any more All I know is I’m Falling, Falling, Falling Might as well fall in
I don’t know about my love I don’t know about my love any more All I know is I’m turning, turning, turning Might as well turn in Might as well turn in
- by James Blake / James Litherland
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I suppose that laying still should hurt this much; that emptiness can crush; that this, here, now, the edge of the end is an illusion; and that illusions and stray lights have killed before.
I’m too afraid to take the easy way out; though the weight has been twisting my skin for so long. I’ll risk the cliches for some answers.
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Solid Ground, and the Malleability Thereof
As always, I wake tying a rope, blood red, to the morning post. And as I walk, neck clutched in the day’s crawl, my shadow sprints ahead and secures the rope, red, to my bedpost, sturdy in root as Mesopotamian pillars. And, as with months, and years, tomorrow seems already to have tautened the rope, bled, between days and sealed my bygones into neat leather pouches (the moon and sun inching...
Blasphemy!
Could it not be? All of this, one star (ours) and a million mirrors?
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I’m finding that I’m not much of a morning person. Or a daytime person for that matter. Maybe it’s my windows, but sunlight is stale and overbearing. I’m thinking I only appreciate sunlight in pieces. Like, when cut and softened by the horizon. Or as flecks in the night sky - (not the usual blinking/moving ones, but the more distant, fate-tangled ones). Or when carefully...
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There came a point when I began to wonder if I am defined less by what I know than what I want to know; and, of what I want to know, if I am less the foreign worlds I want to explore and record on fresh paper than the forgotten glances and heart palpitations I want so desperately to remember again.
O, how the world spins on mood swings.
She asked me, Is it wrong to love the death of trees? To admire their wither, the winter. Dance in dead leaves and nipped ice?
I said, Death is not felt. There is nothing to wrong, only the craven to offend.
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Pompeii
I reached for your hand. So far. I swear, my fingers grazed the back of your shoulder. And we can stay like that forever, as we’ve always been, now that time is freed from the clock’s grip, from his clutching hands, tearing, tearing, tearing. Well I’ve been torn open, and though she hides behind grey eyes, the moon fires...
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Two things surprised me: 1. how easy it was to escape all of this and disappear. (I turned off my phone, and when I boarded the plane I might as well have been in India or France. Or even, I could’ve gone to a 7-11, or anyplace aside from home or school, and it would’ve made no difference. I’d be gone. And no one was chasing after me; even if someone did, they wouldn’t know...
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Stop the Presses! [Extension to what I wrote...
I realized late last night that I am much more comfortable labeling myself as a “student/writer” than just a writer. I would say that I’m an “aspiring writer” but honestly I’m not aspiring to be my definition of a writer. I’ve kind of already loosened it and defined it as what I’m doing right now. Still, I’ll always be a...
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I left a plate of cookies for Santa Claus. He said they were too hard on his teeth. When I told her the news, my sister was devastated.
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Watching bits of dust swim in morning sunlight (they look like stars’ travel) and scribing the picture down, I realize how clunky words can be.
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Like paper burnt black I am collapsing Like acid between bones I am collapsing Like father’s tobacco ash
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On "Writer"
Because I still feel a sort of hesitancy whenever I even think about calling myself one, here is more writing on the term “writer”!
I think that before the internet and blogging were things, the term “writer” was more closely associated with professional occupation; you know, someone who writes for a living and makes money and stuff, or at least tries to make money with...
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Customer Service
Excuse me, but I am new to this. Could you tell me: What kind of gift do I get for a ghost? An empty box? Or an open fire? What if I packaged my heart? Could she, would she smile?
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When the sun was gone but the last of his light was still slipping away, the sprites came to life across the town. Please, comfort me, sleepy jungle.
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How are you?
(How r u?)
((h w e ?))
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Hopelessness is like a black sheet over my head, gripping my skull. Hopelessness is like my hair.
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The Spider, the Frog, and the Turtle
Once upon a time there was a spider, a frog, and a turtle. And they were all caught up in a big storm.
The spider could build anything in the world with his web. So he spun a roof to shield him from the storm. But the rains grew too heavy and the spider’s web could not withstand the water’s peltings much longer. The spider was washed away.
The spider caught the leg of a frog and said...
God is always a minute late with the miracles.
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I suppose I’m a stubborn kind of stupid. My arms are shaking and my throat on fire. I’d drop the waterworn woodcuts if it wasn’t for February and a cigarette smoke leash.
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The Sand
The sand on the beach liked to nibble at my soles. When I fell to my knees, I could feel the skin on my shins sinking, pulled by the shore. The muscle and bones licking the seashells.
And while my legs were to the sand, my arms were to the wind. I could feel the sea drawing them in.
When I turned around I could see the stars break in your eyes. Like they did in mine.
We were there a long time....
