Obligatory Poem

It's done and it's late
and there's a job waiting in the morning
to robot my way through.

It's late and it's crazy
what nonsense I get myself into
when sleep should be the
logical choice.

There is, of course
my quota of nightly liquor
and the obligatory poem
about what I'm doing
which is precisely nothing.

There's the epiphany
life shaking realization
that I will promptly forget
in the morning.

Fretting over grades
I no longer have control over.

The wait for tomorrow night
when I finally get time with him.

Obsession over past acquaintances
and old friends, lovers, or a
combination of both.
What do they think
what are they doing
and why do I even care anymore.

I can't shut down.
I can't switch off.
I'm stuck in a loop
until I reach maximum drunkenness
and then the cycle starts again
tomorrow.

Bored and writing a poem while listening to Famous Blue Raincoat

it's 3:23 in the morning
the beginning of august
i'm typing this now
just to stir up the dust

this place is so cluttered
i don't like where i'm living
the music of Cohen
i'm stealing or parodying

i feel that i'm the only one
awake in this house
and i'd like some dessert

i'm looking for ice cream now
i hope we kept some kind of chocolate sauce

yes and jen sits and twirls on a lock of her hair
she writes as if she wasn't her
tonight, but it's painfully clear

that she's wanting a beer

oh, the last time i stayed up
i didn't feel this cold, i guess
my famous blue snuggie
has come off my shoulder
i've been to the fridge and i
checked in the freezer
i'll go to bed
without even eating

and i'll sleep
with my BooBoo
and i'll snore
make him mad

and when he wakes up
he'll be going to work

well, i think i
left some salsa in my teeth
one more brush of the teeth
well then Jen can go to sleep
she'll dream the bizarre...

(okay, that's all I got)

connections

i want people
lovely people
to recognize
themselves in me**,
just their good bits
just the brilliant light
of whatever goodness
that makes them feel
special,
because i've only always needed
connections,
to be identified with,
because i know how it feels
to see something
i thought was uniquely me
in someone that i admire
and feel all the better for it.

**this pertains only to the people that I like. Those I dislike can fuck off -- I am nothing like you.

this is totally not worth it.

i can't pretend to be interested in this shit.
i've got these uptight bitches whispering
and passive-aggressive notes left for me
and nobody gives a damn if their assumptions
are wrong, or if they've been fed misinformation
to cover someone else's ass.
it's all pretty pointless in the grand scheme of things.
that angry memo? pointless.
that glare because apparently i can't read minds? pointless.
even my quiet clenching and seething
my avoidance and hatred
my wringing and hot faced rage.
pointless.

lonely tuesday night

nothing seems right
the sofa cushions are pulled out too far
the dishes, the dishes, the dishes
it's getting late and later
and alone and aloner
silly girl, music and wine
feels like she's somehow missing
everything
like the world has gone
packed up and moved it's things out
while she was asleep
everyone she's ever known
has forgotten her
they've all forgotten me.
i mean, her.
fuck.

obvious

the stupidity around me sometimes
is frustrating and suffocating.
they've all got their heads in the sand
and they're happy down there
hating with a smile and
loving conditionally.
thinking with an ancient
badly written book.
you can spot someone high on god
as easy as spotting a meth addict.
brainless and fucking scary.
reality, people.
is it that hard to see?
it's pretty fucking obvious to me.

things that keep me up

i
am
addicted

to detailed
daydreams.

and alternate
realities.

and long term
obsessions.

and easy
energy

and
angry birds.

the end.

uuuuunngh fuck it

i've got a veil dropping over me again
it's blocking out sunshine
i'm partially removed from my conversations
giving up under the weight
drink one thing to wake me up in the morning
drink something else to blot me out at night
day in day out day in day out
pointless pointless POINTLESS.

me. episode 2.

sometimes i keep myself awake
thinking
what the fuck was ever wrong with me?
i mean,
was that it?
was/am i that...i don't know
silly or stupid or irritating or obnoxious or or or
?
you know what?
none of it makes a fucking difference now
what others' skewed perceptions of me were.
i've had a little too much wine
and a little too much me-thoughts
to be writing shit
that the entire world has access to
anyway.

me

i'm all grown up, you see
though i don't believe to the core
i've changed at all.
i can look back at my reflection
and appreciate that.
i don't waver in my weirdness.
i will live to be a weird old lady
(i hope).
i'll always have the imagination
that keeps me up until 2am daydreaming
of should-have's and what-if's.
i'll always look at myself
10 years prior
and cringe at my naiveté
and proceed to write
narcissistic poetry.

nothing to see here, folks. move along.

i open the notepad window

blink blink blinking cursor

i close the notepad window.

i have nothing to say tonight.

dusty

my dance
my life love dance
spinning underneath such an oppressive ceiling
undones waiting, wants cut up and dead
i'm making movies up here
don't you know
inside underground dark dreams of movies.
gaunt one sided scenes filmed years and years and years ago
canned and pushed to the back
dusty

fuck

fuck, get me out of here

conclusions

sometimes i'm just
late
at getting there
and very self conscious
of what i must look like
when i
FINALLY
show up

antiques

i drive myself crazy
trying to remember
where this antique store was
that i visited over ten years ago
the house that housed
these antiques was an antique itself
and the back stairs were worn down
so far, from so many serving feet
there was a knot in the wood
sticking way up in the middle
of one of the steps
and i wonder how many toes
lying in coffins
were stubbed on that thing
there were so many rooms
and no halls
one room opened into another into another
and so on
it felt like a crazy maze
and of all the ancient artifacts
of times before my grandparents,
the only thing i ended up buying
was a cassette tape of The Clash.
what was that even
doing there?

moral nudist

i'm only getting more naked
the colder the world becomes
the more hatred
the more skin
show me yours and i'll
cringe and i'll unfold
and i'll finally tell the truth
to be found and unbound
band together in reason, lonely
show our cuts and bruises
inhale reality
lick each other's wounds
and bite those who vilify us
help me celebrate
the undesigned beauty of life
the chaos and order
they have no monopoly on
or concept of
love