tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575779068535881402024-02-20T02:15:32.361-08:002 0 0 9 - 2 0 1 2Unfiltered, immature (but maturing) rants, poetry and (current) findings of the first leaf in my adult years: These are mainly stripped of my independent "self". They are projections of myself in the relationships with men, women, art and the earth that I created in an attempt to free myself from isolation, childhood terrors and hurt. I've created a new blog for present/future - much more art - individualized pain - and everyday questionings. #likehoneyburning.blogspotsloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-84168317288263982372013-01-31T00:14:00.003-08:002015-02-18T22:41:41.995-08:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dear
_______________,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Welcome
back to the empty side of things,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It has been three hands too long,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Did you
have fun in Europe? Your mother told me she saw a picture of you in the
newspaper holding a baby, a flower and a gun. She said from the looks of it
your mustache ate your face, and fever came too quickly. I’ve been thinking
about you, you know, remembering the times between day and night that we would
hammer song into wood, teeter-tottering Evan Williams between us, what a
freedom it was to melt into notes and the dead air inside of them. That seems
long gone now even though it’s only been 127 days, yes I’ve been counting,
that’s the hand behind my back, spinning, fingers and wool. Perhaps I’ve
stepped outside of the context, it’s lovely to do that sometimes, isn’t it?
Little hints inside of the body. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My purpose
in writing you today, and not yesterday or tomorrow is because today Landslide
came on the box and I couldn’t take it seriously, the ring on my toe started to
burn and I flailed to the next tavern. I am not sure how much longer Chinatown
can hold me in, old hotel, old sympathy, symphony, and men drudging against the
pavement, the sound hounds at me, free fall downward, I cannot hear my art! I cannot
hear my heart! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Where is
your standing in this? My lovely escape! An untamed horse? Braided hair (but
not for long, not after this August, or the months have passed) I’m not sure
how many I need, but the days almost seem long enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> No, but
seriously about the Evan Williams.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[LETTER WRITTEN TO A STRANGER FOUND ON COMPUTER: DATED JULY 26, 2012]</span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-23880279428953711012013-01-23T02:37:00.002-08:002015-02-18T22:41:17.833-08:00This white is devastating<br />
it has eyelids that have never shut<br />
a careless slam of the door<br />
-- a documented smudge<br />
like a husband's red collar<br />
<br />
It wasn't even two days ago<br />
you stood<br />
and I sat<br />
milking the words from each other<br />
none of them<br />
quite human<br />
enough<br />
<br />
It was with my arms belted<br />
around you<br />
holding my own hand<br />
behind your back<br />
--double security<br />
double checked<br />
<br />
[POST IT NOTE FOUND IN PURSE: DATED SEPTEMBER 9, 2012]sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-30873007470379536182012-08-23T11:36:00.004-07:002012-08-23T11:44:54.600-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLPIPB8Jps-u1n122e6FBrFvMlie5w2XwK07rf_jejiv02RqZkMU9l62Ilj3NJ5JK9Cq9eihD2QqItXeSYNCq9bJd61OIsGNkcqU21iuGIlpEimu8SN0JJ-qcMzxUQRnr_RYr9BjKDw/s1600/fashion156-francesca-woodman07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLPIPB8Jps-u1n122e6FBrFvMlie5w2XwK07rf_jejiv02RqZkMU9l62Ilj3NJ5JK9Cq9eihD2QqItXeSYNCq9bJd61OIsGNkcqU21iuGIlpEimu8SN0JJ-qcMzxUQRnr_RYr9BjKDw/s1600/fashion156-francesca-woodman07.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
once again</div>
<div align="center">
<u>i</u> could never torch it</div>
<div align="center">
but i could stand next to it,</div>
<div align="center">
and bare it<br />
<br />
i like to wear my dolly's dresses because they are tighter<br />
and stiffer than mine are<br />
they hug my legs in a way that doesn't hurt<br />
<br />
i wish daddy hadn't lit my playhouse on fire<br />
it ate up the sky like a big melting clock<br />
three year old spring - the only place with no hands,<br />
gone</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
i fear that i never really had a chance</div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-67103209256647955072012-08-22T21:25:00.004-07:002012-08-22T21:25:52.545-07:00mental illness like a break in the page to spread legs that were never apart to begin with<div>
curves of the women who have passed before me, i yearn for like bleach</div>
<div>
but i'm nothing like them, i'm nothing, really</div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-81721546369052724652012-08-22T11:53:00.001-07:002015-02-18T22:42:02.839-08:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I will
remember the little wooden blades that snuck out of her fur the most, and how
in nature, they would’ve held purpose, to protect her, fury swords, but here,
in the mansion, they inhibited her, shocked her with every step toward the
window, toward the days. I FELT that. I will try and forget the frantic dash from entrance
to exit, screaming for assistance, for mercy, as her head spun, North East
South West, Never Eat Soggy Wheaties, and the final lull that dripped as we
unwrapped her to find her legs pointed straws. I will try and forget that she
snapped her own spine, refused to replenish, and left, without a nudge. I
wouldn’t ask Teresa to understand, but, there was three pounds of me in that
four, a safe reminder to stay present, keep my instruments well oiled, and look out for the helpless
things.</span><span style="font-family: Traveling _Typewriter;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-33224908920771274362012-08-11T20:26:00.000-07:002015-02-18T22:40:51.032-08:00<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been
rich in disaster, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the kind
that breathes but doesn’t move<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">when you
bend the knee, to sit,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and lower your bottom half,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the switch is hit, and <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">violent
musk fills the room<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and then
there is nothing, but you, and it<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">your
sympathy, and eye lids<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">wincing
and waking open, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">to watch the trees grow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the
sun toss coins,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and the bulb wane,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">a</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">nd wax</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">but,
still, time does not exist here <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve been
rich in disaster, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and have saved
many men<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">pumping silver
into a juke-box to play </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the same three songs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"i'll tell you everything about being free"</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">but only when IT comes to Susanne, him and you</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">you can only hold so many pebbles, when it comes to me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Traveling _Typewriter;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Traveling _Typewriter";"><br /></span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-34362433015602280742012-08-09T22:21:00.001-07:002015-02-18T22:42:18.927-08:00<br />
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Thoughts on Noah<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I really didn’t think that it would be like this. I thought
I could somehow fit you into my
perfectly planned night of banter, whisky and art. I’ll get off work,
run and go see you, play a show at Hollow Earth, and then go to DEAD BABY down
hill, and get wasted off my ass, just to feel like shit tomorrow morning when I
go and sell my “art” at the Summit Block Party. When I found out you were
coming, I laughed, and didn’t believe it. Not only that I had to be told
several times, because the second that it went in my ear, I had forgotten it
already. That seems to be how the big things go, I do not hold on to, or
reflect on them, I just meet them, shake their hands, and move on. I couldn’t
shake your hand, you were face down in a tiny crate, tiny arms folded in like
snakes sucking the air out of you. All I could do is touch your back very
softly as you gasped for air, and whimpered the most heinous whimper, like a
bunny snapping its own spine. I don’t think I’ve loved anyone in my family this
much, and you’ve only been here for less than two days. I haven’t cried during
a traumatic event in, well, almost ever. I am the big strong one who handles it
and moves on, I’ll cry about it some other time, sometime inappropriate and around
the people who matter the least in the situation. But tonight, after hearing
the nurses tell me that you will PROBABLY be alright, that there is just fluid
in your lungs, that you cannot breathe on your own, that parts of your tiny
lungs have collapsed, and that your worse than yesterday, but not “getting
worse”, all I could do, was sit quietly on the other side of the room, alone,
just you, and I, and listen to you. And I hope you listened to me when I sang
to you. Monument is the name of the song, it’s about remembering to be alive,
and to fight. I am so scared to love someone so much, I found myself swearing I
would never have kids, and thinking about the people who, not too long ago,
were in a waiting room, or holding my hand, hoping that I make it through. And
that, Noah, it was by choice, I tried to take my own life, and there you lie,
simply helpless, fighting for yours. In, and out, in, and out, in. You came
into this world loving every person you ever met, and to the fullest extent, no
need for fear or hesitation because as far as you’re concerned, everyone here
is good. Everything here is good, no longer surrounded by the warm tissues of
your mother, but objected to harsh sunlight, tubes, and more tubes. Sobbing,
questions and cellphone beeps. And more tubes, yellow ones, blue ones and clear
ones you can see the green from your stomach running through. They took it off
while I was there, and put it back in, and took it out again a couple times,
flicked it and pushed down the orange part until the bubbles that were once
inside of you popped up, and out into the air. I found this to be almost as sad
as the fact that my plans tonight were entitled DEAD BABY, because you see, the
bubble is a translucent bulb, usually made by soap, with a rainbowy smile on
it, and it really symbolizes being a child, and the free carelessness that gets
to come along with it. And you don’t have that right now Noah, and I’m really
scared for you, and your tiny feet. I’ve spent my whole life wanting to hear I
love you, but never letting myself really be loved, or to love. And for some
reason tonight, I felt that, for you. I hope that you make it through this, I
hope that this is one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to go through, I hope
that my brother, and erin take good care of you, teach how to be strong, and
that strength means more than physical force, or the ability to walk away, but
it also means the ability to feel, as much and as whole-ly as you possibly can.
I love you.<o:p></o:p></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-3530953636439748582012-07-10T00:11:00.000-07:002015-02-18T22:42:41.868-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
I'm a fancy bulldozer. (A rambling)</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Perhaps I've just known too many princes, and not enough Bobs.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br />
<br />
I guess it being the day after would explain why I'm wrapped in cotton, with one numb hand, listening to the crackheads chant jungle book sonnets while I think about my next move. In the past, it has been within my mold to abandon, repent, regret, regress all the way up I-5, and all the way back down again. Back down where the flecks of sand whirl, and bite like a stampede of fleas, reminding you to stay alive, and keep moving, perhaps toward the modern, mild north. In the present, I am hog-tied, breaking fibers and stretching to lick a spot on the floor that I haven't already. In the present, I am no longer running incestuous mazes from nipple to navel of the west-coast but standing still, cloaked in rock and roll, whiskey and a fiery fearlessness faced - ice melting.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEykeA-iHG0uTiZWYwtlVipectHHDRfCypIq9VIqnxoPQ7sDK8cpGv3ZsZHg6IHqwO4QTxLH0TyNNUP56gHxEYx0ZKFlAeuyZDqGfX_034TlzsOG14USyDlsdT3g-_RPrzhJ9p0OcCw/s1600/eldermacedo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEykeA-iHG0uTiZWYwtlVipectHHDRfCypIq9VIqnxoPQ7sDK8cpGv3ZsZHg6IHqwO4QTxLH0TyNNUP56gHxEYx0ZKFlAeuyZDqGfX_034TlzsOG14USyDlsdT3g-_RPrzhJ9p0OcCw/s320/eldermacedo.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
I am accounting for every fake, belligerent act of bravery, I've got two toes left and I'd rather keep them. I'd rather learn patience and pace. I'd rather eat cherries like flies do, talk of music and twirl your dna from knuckle to tip, of my fingers. I'd rather shed the dog bites, the rapes, and sombrero nights and crawl inside of the world as if it were a safe place to be, with you there, with someone there, of course. But these things are easily said, and rarely done. Fear is a paralyzing thing, it comes up behind you, like a murky, water god, and hushes you. It takes flight inside of you. It eats what pulsates first. And, eventually, when the pain has it's own address, you will find yourself here, at this two pronged, green sign wondering, 'what the fuck just happened'. It's The First Blossom on a Spring Tree Avenue and Everything's Totally Fine, Wait, Why Are Your Legs Bleeding Street. We are all given chances, rather we make our chances, and this morning, I saw one, a chance, a sliver of faith molested it's way into my logic and now I am here, dry-cleaned of every self indulgent, depreciating, and loathing excuse to get back on my knees and crawl south, so I can finally take step - and open. </div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Open back up to the wind and the peace within it, how it can transform a towel into a magic carpet, ghost or white flag. Open up to the stage again, to the mic, to my font, to my mother. Open up to sea-salt beds of dead fish, and tennis shoes vs. heels. Turn the tv off. Turn the social network on it's back and fuck it hard until it looks just as washed up, as it really is. Open up my calendar to friends I may have overlooked. Open legs to the men and women who make me nervous. Open up, turn on.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sorry, We're Closed.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-80731932420203714522012-06-25T00:14:00.000-07:002012-07-10T00:14:57.837-07:00If you die before your thirteenth birthday, it's a tragedy, if you die on you're 21st, you're an idiot, inside of your 27th year, you're a legend and if you make it past that - you're invincible, the funds for your stone figure in pioneer square are collecting, and getting soggy in their abundance. Well I am 22, 23 relatively soon, that gives me five years and some odd months, five years to break the red ribbon to 28, five years that I need to stay away from knives, people with guns, cancer and a loss that sends me to the dark box where I push myself off the edge, and somehow during these years while I'm busy avoiding all of the catastrophic mess, I need to create, to burn upwards instead of downward, fuck, to burn at all. In my egotistical Leo case, surprisingly, the idea is not to make it past 27 to become legend, but to have the freedom to explore, to shed the too hot wool of imbecile that I pretend to breathe in now. I will lay low for now, hibernate in-between the grey-scales of my own dreams, watch my boyfriend read books on the bed, and on that humid august day, when the second number turns from a 7, to an 8, I will have out ran the intruder, and a new sense of validity to my "work", my "mental illness", my LIFE will rain.<br />
<br />
I want to hear what is between each note on that CCR album.<br />
<br />
I guess I watch Netflix because it is easier, just as I keep flipping back to facebook as I try and sit here to make myself write, what are my FRIENDS doing, what is the WORLD doing, I do believe that this sepration between myself and my writing is largly in part to the speration between myself, and I. These damn keys are too far apart. Too god damn far apart. The air was thick out today, the ground was thick today, barely lifting right, foot, left, foot, out of the blood of the weekend. Gun shots<br />
<br />
gun shots<br />
vulnerablity<br />
somewhere someday<br />
drinking<br />
themental hospital<br />
my friends or lack there of<br />
craft nightsloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-14816074416300792222012-06-08T14:34:00.002-07:002015-02-18T22:40:36.907-08:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It’s like
reading over the shoulder of the flannel in front of you on the only bus left
in town that you can ride 20 blocks for free, the three sentences, page number
and title that allow you to put together that this book is about Miles Davis,
and this book, MAN, is important. It’s seeing the simmering patter of old rain
and counting down the seconds until a drop hits you, as if for some reason it’s
going to change everything, and it doesn’t, it’s not raining anymore, that was
just old dirty water you saw, from this afternoon, from earlier before it all
happened, catching the small lights in the tunnel. It’s like seeing the floral
print of the grandma skirt you got for a dollar on the side of the escalator
turn into Monte and then slowly enveloped by the sharp steps, like a crocodile
and limbs. It’s rushing, still waiting for the sky to spit, head turned
backward wondering if the Pilipino guy behind you has baggy clothes to hide the
9mil and drugs in his pockets. But I’m not racist, man, my dad is black! And
then finally, approaching the building built over and over again, too old to
speak, atheistic architecture amnesia, seeing Dan, the dad playing door guy in
the barred window, mind fucking and playing over and over again my “hey how is
your night going”, I realize I do not ask him this enough but answer when he
asks me, but his head is down, his head is down and his hands are scribbling
like a jack off, like I wish that my hands would scribble. First floor, breath,
second floor, this isn’t so bad, third floor, why am I scared of elevators?
Turn the key and the bed is made. I have to write. I just came up with the best
thing. I’ll be in the bathroom. Are you okay? Of course I am okay, I just need
to write. Can I barrow a cigarette, and the old door, too old to screech, shuts
for the first time. Slam. I need a lighter. Open. Light. Toss. Shut, nope. Shut
again, nope. SHUT. Light. Write. I am ash-ing on an old soap bar, jasmine, my
ass.</span><span style="font-family: 'Traveling _Typewriter';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-2539376318967458892012-06-08T13:52:00.002-07:002015-02-18T22:43:52.178-08:00<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The hands
are a broken place to be when there is nothing to touch, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">my hands
are not hands without something to impress, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">concrete,
bone, teeth, grab, grab, grabbing <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">for daffodils
that no longer laugh, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">for
nocturnal bluebirds, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and
tin-men filled with lemon-yellow moxie<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">in slices
of a pie, I have only had one without weight<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’ve heard
jazz before, but not quite like this<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">it moves
like a woman, like the woman I’d rather be<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">sass with
class, and legs that make walking look like honey burning<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and only
when your breath between words falls on my breasts<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">could I
ever unzip leather, and flush the fear of my inner Marilyn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course I
play in the thoughts that this is abandoned <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">of all the
whiskey and all the wolves, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">that a
greater resolve is held liable, some grandiose gavel beating, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">the
internal clock we’ve been pacing ourselves to, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and it has
been some-time now, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Still, my
hands remain nothing but wrists with growths,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ten tiny
songstresses attached lookin’ to grab<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">ten
minuscule voices stretching for gold,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">met by ten
commandments whipping them back,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">and
holding their outlandish destinations hostage.</span><span style="font-family: 'Traveling _Typewriter';">
<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Traveling _Typewriter';"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Traveling _Typewriter;">[Paying the cost to the boss, BB King - INspired.]</span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-69885513173058870602012-03-01T16:36:00.001-08:002015-02-18T22:44:27.218-08:00Moving Movers on the board.<br />
<br />
The anger anchors me to the toilet seat, <br /> <br /> the one next to the one that USED to work<br /> <br /> on Thomas and Denny,<br /> <br /> (the anger) it blindfolds me but I can still hear you <br /> <br /> walking by, talking about the "PRISIMS" you folded, <br /> <br /> oragami piano, oragami sandbox, oragami sandbox<br /> <br /> with little oragami shells of women birthing <br /> <br /> little oragami orgasms<br />
<br />
restless, that's what I am, as I sit, rather SQUIRM<br /> <br /> anchored to the can watching you jack off onto each other,<br /> <br /> no one cares if it gets in their eyes here,<br /> <br /> tears mean MOVEMENT, the more, the merrier, <br /> <br /> well I MADE the mold, breakable,<br /> <br /> I was the first to CARE about not giving a fuck,<br /> <br /> and just when I think you might be doing it<br /> <br /> with just a little more jazzzzzzzzz than me <br /> <br /> I realize I've climbed up and over, <br /> <br /> chimmied up a fireplace, and found a holding cell <br /> <br /> somewhere between a satalite dish and Mt. Rainer<br /> <br /> Let's see if you can MAKE IT here.<br />
<br />
<div style="clear: both; font-size: xx-small; text-align: center;">
Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.4</div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-62247412783480943232012-01-31T20:33:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:44:40.209-08:00It happened with the speed of the fluids that flood the body, mimicking your emotions when your words cannot, pink to the cheek, sea to the eye, acid in throat, urine seems to leak as the lips curl into each other, ying, yang. I walked home tonight with two bags full of food for the hungry fever I live above, heavy and tugging at my arms, the bottom breaks, and the soup fills the cement cracks and steams. I missed you then. The rest of the walk home my headphones were pointed outward, singing to the world, all I could hear was muffled speak. Like you laughing into a pillow. Like taking a step back from your painting, I could see the edge where the canvas stopped, and there was nothing but air, translucent and ominous, such a teasing mystery. And I'm angry because for the first time I see it all. I see the beginning, tinted purple and full of fear, and the end, quite the same. But the core, the waist of it all, was flawless, "a tumbling muse" found hers. 8 good months padded by five weeks to start, and five weeks to end, of selfishness. I was certain that this was it, the soft hands I'd curl into each night, and rise from for each new day. Every pair I had met prior to these, my blood in their veins or not, were too coarse, or suede, permanently damaged by my wetness. Like a delicacy, they just wanted to taste me, grope me while they could.<br />
<br />
i thought i had it<br />
i thought i had it<br />
i thought i had it<br />
i thought i had it<br />
i thought i had it<br />
<br />
She decides to leave the blow up mattress next to the twin bed, it's not a body, but it's something. Barefeet, barefloor, bare heartheadfuck beating. I was supposed to end the show with our song, I was supposed to end the show with our song, the soul purpose showing that jaded, is not jaded forever. But once again I stand here, rather sit and watch myself part from myself, put on a leather jacket and walk out.<br />
<br />
He's gone. Is the room half empty or half full? [hahaha]sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-20405299855454745822012-01-29T22:35:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:44:49.906-08:00in the end of a spark, there is a void<br />
where even god and space are defeated, trampled<br />
an unholy mass of lead, laughs<br />
and that's where i found you,<br />
and continue to find you,<br />
there, in the sleeping belly of the months<br />
there, in between the waxing and waning<br />
of your wayward whims with witty wackos<br />
<br />
i stay up haunted and hunting for you<br />
nostalgia of a time you <a href="http://thesaurus.com/browse/loved">"gave a damn"</a><br />
anchors me to self indulgence like<br />
some fucking thirteen year old twat,<br />
dear dairy, today i was robbed,<br />
i didn't see it coming,<br />
we thought she was full of light, touched by god,<br />
and untouched by man<br />
she came in with three swords<br />
gave me ONE and challenged me<br />
oblivion seemed softer than<br />
witnessing the execution of your senses<br />
you walked back to the coast blind<br />
with two numb feet<br />
a humiliating sight, but you just<br />
could,<br />
not,<br />
see,<br />
it.<br />
<br />
So I held up silver two times heavier than me<br />
with one paralyzing but rhythmic point to god<br />
I KNOW THE TRUTH<br />
I know the gutters in which your mother shat you out into<br />
and that you've been trying to climb back up the pipe ever since,<br />
that you settle for the mundane idea of love because social acceptance<br />
and your animal are just a little too fucking real for you,<br />
Betty Paige and Betty Crocker are one in the same, to you,<br />
I know the original font of your words,<br />
and the mores code of your walk,<br />
I know the truth<br />
<br />
grass. wet. sky. green. lawn chairs. the unseen. temples and gypsy queens. forget about it. yellow wallpaper blues. fucking cause it's hot outside. forget about it. wet. grass. green. sky. chairs. lawn. seen un the. queen gypsy temples. and yellow wallpaper BLUES.<br />
<br />
Just another box inside of a box inside of box inside of a profile with another name of someone you met once at the bar who has an uncanny resemblance to the first girl who sucked your dick in eighth grade. How good it was to be young! How good it was to hang suspended above responsibility, moving your pieces around the board.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-78562192889765909182012-01-22T20:54:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:45:08.465-08:00DJ Too Fresh.<br />
<br />
we were all too drunk to see,<br />
we<br />
were<br />
all<br />
too drunk<br />
to see,<br />
tripping over our tongues,<br />
fisting with every stranger,<br />
gumming words together, twisting<br />
egos like a dictatorship, the children bake on the burner<br />
here at the cha cha split level, feed your belly upstairs,<br />
feed the demons down<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>we've met before? oh, yeah, yeah, what was your name again?</li>
<li>Steve.</li>
<ul>
<li>(the shadow tamer)</li>
</ul>
<li>Oh right, right, you're the guy who showed up to my last show and ate shit hella bad, huh?</li>
<li>Uh, yeah, that's me... the shit eater</li>
<li>Right, well I'm going jump in, my blood is growling... but uh we'll catch up later</li>
</ul>
<div>
we were all too drunk to notice, drooling into our miniature glasses </div>
<div>
and shooting it back into us again</div>
<div>
our shape is a circle, </div>
<div>
we never go anywhere we haven't already been</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Your name is Pete, right?</li>
<li>Steve.</li>
<ul>
<li>(the articulated artist's dream)</li>
</ul>
<li>Oh, right, right... WAIT, you're that guy who showed up to Frankie's last show and ate shit super bad, huh?</li>
<li>Yep, that's me... THE SHIT EATER</li>
<li>Well cool man, I gotta piss</li>
</ul>
<div>
we were all too drunk to see, grinding and hoping to lead this carcass to sheets</div>
</div>
<div>
where we will fuck ourselves back into our mother's arms, </div>
<div>
the little hand stabs 2</div>
<div>
and the herd coagulates quickly,</div>
<div>
like oil in water, finding its self again,</div>
<div>
the rage machines!</div>
<div>
the rock and roll hermaphrodites, sadists and idiot savants unite!</div>
<div>
hike up your tights hunny, burn some pavement, this is Saturday night!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Dude, did you what happened to that one guy the other night?</li>
<li>Who? Steve?</li>
<li>Yeah...</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-77476200019117511252012-01-22T01:46:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:45:28.669-08:00(s) jenn ghetto<br />
in a basement,<br />
i saw her fins hatch from her bare lace back<br />
and plea to transform the atmosphere around them<br />
but<br />
she sent ripples of nothing, and shards of defeat, to her knees<br />
as the crowd in the back absconded faster, and faster,<br />
a nearing winter in their eyes, and the flocks buzz muffling,<br />
jenny was left alone there, newborn, thirsty, stillborn, thirsty,<br />
<br />
there is no catching up, when there is no breeze<br />
in this place where only the air-born,<br />
right-brained, HE's with fringgged extremities<br />
are sanctioned to exist, to own the ground,<br />
to own the air, and every inkling to sea, port, pond, and coast,<br />
feathers beat scales, feathers beat -<br />
<br />
their swagger is two inches behind sound,<br />
including jenny's caterwauls,<br />
the poor game---(s),<br />
you should've heard her swim.<br />
<br />sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-53142478805913263752012-01-11T17:39:00.000-08:002012-01-11T17:39:29.382-08:00simple child, why did you stay so near?<br />
now your hands have exploded lemon<br />
a sour tang that pries your thighs apartsloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-51488150852477762312012-01-11T00:04:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:45:43.128-08:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[enter the void here]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">i did not raise you, you have no place in my womb<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">though you reach for it, thrusting yourself closer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">holding back tears like a little bitch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">WOULD IT HELP IF I SANG YOU A LULLABY, SISSY BOY?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">i keep riding you, pulling my own hair to remind myself I'm still alive,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and i moaned at your lobe for three weeks, waiting for an alert alarm sound</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[[]]</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">it's paSSST midnight so i'll switched to the unplugged record</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">turn it down real low and rub one out about, but not limited to,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">that time the bookstore on the ave shut down, and how hard it made you when i cried,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> three gallons of salty, sappy, eye piss due to the lack of people READING anymore, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">thank god i am a writer, everything i say stays a secret<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> [hahahahaha]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">[enter the side door in the hallway of the second void here]</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">spoken without being spoken, I see it all, this thing, that thing, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">those things that bounce of that thing and go ting, ting, ting, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">one fire breath melting skin, and sand, forming glass, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">forming windows that look onto NO-thing. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And this is the age we live in, execute our limbs for minimum wage, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">choosing a different way than the corporation so we can stay “green”, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and create “green” in a way that is “green” , </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">occupy renewable resources outsourced inside sustainably, collectively in solidarity <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">against <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">them <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">who are against us pre-teen “green” fiends<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">We stand still while the upper-class BITES the HANDS that FEED them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-1483200961183776312012-01-08T20:34:00.000-08:002012-01-08T20:34:30.070-08:00there are angles<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>this lamp, sits</div><div>day in, day out</div><div>nipple twisted</div><div>light up, light off</div><div>i take in account what i have done to this lamp, tonight</div><div>not once have i dusted it, </div><div>it's hat still cooked from the drunken waltz i had with the walls</div><div>and last week it's bulb ran out, no flicker or flood, just.... never came home</div><div>this lamp, sits</div><div>used hard to hardly used</div><div>collecting my dead skin cells</div><div>as i stare and sit</div>sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-48591995060934029302012-01-03T19:02:00.000-08:002015-02-18T22:46:11.390-08:00she hides inside of me like a woman,<br />
wanting more, waning more - the less i give her<br />
a serpent, slithering, a slinky and lanky slut begging,<br />
just like her sister and mother<br />
before her, did, for more<br />
bloodstream elevators cater to her,<br />
never skipping a floor, half floor, or bone<br />
three times the speed of limbs to lips<br />
she digests more steadily than she demands<br />
so i can never quite seem to hush her scream<br />
always fornicating, but never lovers<br />
she, and me.sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-89473412283448231392011-10-02T22:59:00.001-07:002015-02-18T22:46:33.583-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">There is a time when the moon cracks in half</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">the apples pour out like balloons from a child's hand</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">and the atmosphere swallows all reason</span></span>sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-11974689499345008032011-10-02T22:56:00.000-07:002015-02-18T22:46:39.700-08:00my hair has grown out, it breathes on it's own<br />
the strands are thin, and collect grease<br />
like an apron, or the underside of a fingernail<br />
after a shower it's light liveliness dies down,<br />
weighs me down within hours<br />
this is ironic to me, since i normally take my showers with you<br />
my body never used to take to filth this quickly, perhaps<br />
i just never really get clean anymore<br />
or never was, but in comparison to you now, i've noticed<br />
opened a lid or two to spot it, and spitsloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-35094068260415154252011-10-02T22:41:00.000-07:002015-02-18T22:46:48.595-08:00it hurts, and it's hard<br />
going through the profiles of women you barely know<br />
women are more like you thought you would be<br />
smaller thighs, brighter lips, darker eyes<br />
it hurts, and it's hard<br />
spending the nights that he's away<br />
picking the perfect woman out for him<br />
the one he probably thinks you are, or can be<br />
the one who'd fuck the way he wanted<br />
taste the way he wanted<br />
have the outcome he wants after a fifth of jack<br />
one who had a bad childhood but didn't cry about it<br />
it hurts, and it's hard<br />
but it's necessary to take charge<br />
when you love someone this much<br />
and when he's gone you'll be gone too<br />
back where you belong between a rut and a hard dick somewhere<br />
writing about that one time at jade gardensloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-37572306163477840862011-09-25T00:18:00.000-07:002011-11-10T19:27:38.213-08:00"she was looking to hug the moon, cause he was the only one without hands"well, he made it, and that's all that she was really asking for in the beginning. it was hard at first, the science of moving one leg in front of the other. there wasn't alot of time for that now, though, at the end of everything, when all that mattered to her were those sounds. to the left, the cloth they had boughten together slightly swaying with the indian summer breeze, and beyong that jailhouse rugrats fighting over wild turkey. in front, in her future, the blades of a fan chasing each other almost as fast as she was chasing it. to the right, a hallway that lead to the rest of the house, thumps, thuds of duds drooling on a saturday night, and behind her, the wall touching someone else's wall, was the lust she hadn't felt in weeks, hell with every new roar she was beginning to think maybe she had never felt that. out of body, out of mind, out. of. heart. sex. these sounds making a full life from a dozen half ones. where was she supposed to start, at the end, at the end?<br />
<br />
my hair can almost fit back into a pony tail now, i've gained a bit of weight and i'm desperately trying to steer this winter away from last. but the ground seems to give when i take a step, and my body is growing older, the air seems thicker, harder to swallow, and even harder to exhale. "it'd be nice just to take care of something", she thought, and someone is what she meant. soundcloud, tell it everything you can't say.<br />
<br />
i am a disgusting thing, a contradiction, from birth, to then, and back to my rebirth<br />
i was used, i was used over and over, and then i used, like they said i would<br />
i laughed along with punks in leather jackets about the girl in the room<br />
the girl laying there half conscious that they just gang banged<br />
the girl laying there, wiping herself clean, trying not to cry, trying herself to laugh<br />
the pit of my stomach gnaws it'self alive for the moment she steps out of the room<br />
her clothes fitting a little looser, her face a little more worn<br />
i know the look, the one i'm about to give, that i too have been given<br />
"i've been there, you disgusting thing"<br />
we're sisters, and I may have helped skin you alive<br />
and i may not know your name<br />
but when i get home I will shower, i'll light the candle, i'll call my best friend only to stay silent<br />
the heavy buzz of angry fists laying on the line, until i give up, and ask HIM how he is<br />
right<br />
along<br />
with<br />
you<br />
and i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry<br />
there is no excuse, i should have been there, i should have ran in that room<br />
and pissed on the jellies to stop the sting, but i couldn't, i stayed put<br />
my feet tied to the ground, screwed in even, like a christmas tree, leaking life into a bowl<br />
i couldn't move, i drank my beer, and i pretended to care about Guns and Roses<br />
that was years ago, yes, and here i am trying to piece together how i let it happen<br />
and it wasn't just you<br />
it was taylor, the fat girl with the pizza, sarah, megan, robyn, ashley, the junkie who died a week later, what was her name? it was my co-worker, the one who didn't get out that much so i said, "come with me, I'll show you a good time", it was callie, and my best friend<br />
I fell asleep when I was thirteen years old, put on a suit of armor, crawled inside of a peach and slept<br />
I fell asleep right there on the matress where my second offense happened,<br />
the one that bust me open, and i oozed, and i crawled out of my own ooze,<br />
my hands covered and fingering<br />
the matress, a cave wall, dark figures of a tale that no one,<br />
aside from me, and him, the ARTISTS, will ever be able to decipher,<br />
his lackey threw that mattress in the dumpster in the ally of the apartment building<br />
and that's where i've slept<br />
and that's where i woke up<br />
two years ago<br />
when patty, shared her story<br />
the story that lead her to razors and hostpital beds,<br />
a story where the lead role was the man i had slept next to every night,<br />
the man i feared, banged wrists for, made pork chops for, swallowed cum for<br />
a man i had denied capable of this, though aborted the child, because of his hands<br />
we walked amongst the abandon buildings of an old factory, the beams still high, but the insides gutted<br />
the sunset and we watched the shadows of the empty skeletons disappear<br />
like we had watched ourselves, so many times before<br />
that was two years ago,<br />
maybe even more, and i'm sure if whiskey wasn't my best friend i'd be able to decipher,<br />
what have i done? i don't laugh anymore but have i unhinged my jaw wide enough?<br />
what can i do, how can i think, breath, go on knowing that a girl is raped every three minutes?<br />
and that's just IN THE UNITED STATES<br />
and those are JUST THE CASES THAT ARE REPORTED<br />
and maybe if wasn't for the disgusting things like me, more people would report<br />
maybe if Seattle would stop wasting our tax dollars on fucking up our metro system<br />
we would more funding for women's support groups, which they offer... EVERY SIX MONTHS,<br />
children's safety outreach programs, education classes for men on HOW TO BE MEN,<br />
quality rape kits and counseling<br />
PERHAPS IF PEOPLE STARTED TALKING<br />
perhaps if i hadn't laughed, but i did, i laughed just like i was laughed at<br />
maybe if i could just find one.<br />
fucking.<br />
thing.<br />
to.<br />
blame.<br />
for.<br />
our.<br />
pain.<br />
<br />
But there isn't any room for blame, is there?<br />
i'm done laughing, i'm somewhere inbetween rage and tears<br />
i'm praying for forgiveness, and a collaboration, a revenge, a retreat, a release,<br />
these are our daughters, sisters, mothers, aunts, nieces, friends, enemies, roommates<br />
and ourselves, our own bodies<br />
maybe if we can't prevent,<br />
we can prevailsloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57577906853588140.post-602285085238766542011-08-14T23:22:00.000-07:002015-02-18T22:47:05.989-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCQ2DfXPP6-n98wLJLv28pt_Vij30klG1rAKCAO5EbLe7ywZ6EZcFQc5FcPl6_eKIxZd9XxVXmMjhOXMCCNDH4W6ykzGaYNycWwhF3qyphquoWRW0BPmkK_0v6E4-XpkP0ZJNFtfxiQ/s1600/2011_08_14_21_13_05_233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBCQ2DfXPP6-n98wLJLv28pt_Vij30klG1rAKCAO5EbLe7ywZ6EZcFQc5FcPl6_eKIxZd9XxVXmMjhOXMCCNDH4W6ykzGaYNycWwhF3qyphquoWRW0BPmkK_0v6E4-XpkP0ZJNFtfxiQ/s320/2011_08_14_21_13_05_233.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>there, there, little winged, little bird</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
not far below is the black,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
which you fleet the sky to avoid</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
but beneath concrete is the dirt we all hatched from, <br />
the dirt we peeled away from,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
like maggots from the smile in the wallpaper,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
squirmed toward each other and formed a black dress, <br />
or hot-air-balloon, massive and moving,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and we will return to it once we've sucked and capped off this era.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlxJ2jcMhIrh_z0pyy_mTXEtafltl9hiEl1_tAlx54P_lEBXrlZjmJhspiW0CGjuUPQPKjjN-aoT3lCvuYt1SgvD4_u2_UIsNjm0z72uUmk7dFP8aXwxCy1iVR3YgOXG7t9ieA3nIEQ/s1600/2011_08_14_21_13_32_883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlxJ2jcMhIrh_z0pyy_mTXEtafltl9hiEl1_tAlx54P_lEBXrlZjmJhspiW0CGjuUPQPKjjN-aoT3lCvuYt1SgvD4_u2_UIsNjm0z72uUmk7dFP8aXwxCy1iVR3YgOXG7t9ieA3nIEQ/s1600/2011_08_14_21_13_32_883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlxJ2jcMhIrh_z0pyy_mTXEtafltl9hiEl1_tAlx54P_lEBXrlZjmJhspiW0CGjuUPQPKjjN-aoT3lCvuYt1SgvD4_u2_UIsNjm0z72uUmk7dFP8aXwxCy1iVR3YgOXG7t9ieA3nIEQ/s1600/2011_08_14_21_13_32_883.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlxJ2jcMhIrh_z0pyy_mTXEtafltl9hiEl1_tAlx54P_lEBXrlZjmJhspiW0CGjuUPQPKjjN-aoT3lCvuYt1SgvD4_u2_UIsNjm0z72uUmk7dFP8aXwxCy1iVR3YgOXG7t9ieA3nIEQ/s320/2011_08_14_21_13_32_883.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
From the organic make up of our wool socks, <br />
to the smell of my pussy last tuesday, <br />
we're all from the same dirt,<br />
thriiiiiiiiiiiiiive, and thirst for the same thing.<br />
<br />
so, hey, baby, blue baby bird<br />
do not hold back from flame <br />
because you're weary of the fall<br />
dance with the rest of us, flail those feathers,<br />
clap those legs<br />
marigold, satin, crimson, hotpink & pastel,<br />
doing dizzy spellings of love-sonets backwards, <br />
we're like a god damn disco,<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
greet the earth with your ass, not a face plant.</div>
sloanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05112433495888429979noreply@blogger.com0