How I feel after my second glass of pink wine.

I'm so mundane.
I sit here and drink
and I
watch whatever the fuck is playing
on whatever the fuck TV channel
I don't care
I never care.
It's just noise and light.
The real
the Me
it bubbles up silently
while I drink my wine
it wells up and hurts
in my guts.
I need eyes
I need confirmation
that never comes.
But the sun
still shines
and the hours still
tick by slower than is comfortable
and I'm still here,
waiting for something
speculating
wishing I knew more
and cared less.
Wishing.

Lazy

I didn't do anything today.
I wandered from room to room
sat and thought about what I should be doing
drank hard cider before the agreed on 5:00
and it didn't help my disposition.
My usefulness
where ever that part is located
has atrophied.
I can't start.
I stalled as soon as these
lazy feet swung out of bed
ready to waste the day.

And now it's almost over.

Out of place in the waking world

I wish for eternity and solitude,
ache for sleep,
for the world to sleep.
The chords only fit my song
when thunderstorms beat at my door.
I want to fall into dream.
An eerie, rainy, dark trip,
the warm air saturated with humid love.
I want to pull others in with me,
reside there permanently and
never speak aloud again.

Bewitch

Look at me
she said,
just before the rope pulled
right before he was pushed
to the rocks below.
And they looked.
Even when
she never opened her mouth
they heard, knew.
To have that power,
look at me.
I would use it for good,
I swear.
The ability to reach into,
capture
transmit
connect
without words.
LOOK AT ME.

I stay up too late. I ramble.

There's things that matter
and there's things that should matter.
And the difference between the two,
well,
that's my problem,
that there is a difference at all.

The gap between the two,
I think,
is the result of my shitty disfuctional mind.
Selfishness and delusion, maybe a little
hope mixed with depression,
and just a smidgen of insecurity.

I'm keeping myself awake with this shit.

Over-analyzing imaginary situations
and some such,
this can't be healthy.

My brain is a hoarder.
It holds on to Fucking. Everything.
Okay, maybe not everything,
but the useless bits,
the dead cats and turned yogurt of thought.
It collects rusty nails.

Dangerous scrap thoughts.

But what the fuck would be the equivalent
of cleaning the house?
A lobotomy?
No, what I think I've done here
is go too far with a stupid metaphor.

Got the shitties. Not the poopy kind.

I've been lost
surrounded by cotton
nothing hurts enough
the nerves are
so
dull

so
fucking

dull.

I want things.

I thought I did.

I'm ashamed
of being human
and female
and sometimes
typical.

I'm a child
confused.

I'm self-centered
but I'm not important.
Nonexistent.
Ineffective.
Defective.

I've lost connection.

Life

It's so more worth living
When fucks are not given.

BOOM!

Me.

I'm better than I've been.
This outpouring of crap.
Nonsensical soup of sighs.

I'm going for a walk
to see the world
and fall in love with
me.

That's right, bitches.

ME.

OPEN

I want to scream.
I have people
out there
I know I do
Connections
Soul brothers and sisters
Why are you all
Sleeping
When I sit here
Drunk and
Awake and
Lonely
?

Fucking
WAKE THE FUCK UP
MUTHAFUCKAS

I'm more open than a fucking
7-11,
And I've got better shit than
SLURPEES.

Tonight

Decimated.

It's
so
good.

So much
lines up.

I'm putty.

A Poem That Probably Won't Make Sense Once I'm Sober

that little girl
cowering between my eyes
she's got
naked black and blue skin
and
goosebumps
and
bleeding self-inflicted lacerations
across her back
barely alive
stubborn
holding her breath
for what
fate doesn't exist
but she believes the lies of her eyes
her childish prophesizing
inconvenient
intoxicating
torture.

Wasted Jenny Poem

Bauhaus on, drinking as always
I'm not alone in my thoughts
Leave me
Let me dance in the dark.

Blacklight heart,
I can't dance alone, don't
Leave me,
Let me in.

Bela Lugosi's Dead
In my ears.
Let me dance.
Let me in.

So apparently I wrote this last night and can't remember any of it.

Drunk
I can hear myself breathing.
I feel transparent
and I like it.
Newness and
thought transmissions
and and and
I can't even
remember what I was thinking
but I really like this song
with my name in it
and I never would have heard it
it not for the webs
so thank you for that
unknown soul
you are more known
than you think
and I am drunk

Drown

It's really alright.

We all drown a little
around this time.

I take comfort in the thought
no matter how black it is
down here
I'm not sinking alone.

We always bob back up
eventually,
mostly unnoticed
mostly alive.

Look around
grab hands.

Let's not swim back up
just
yet.

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

falling out of step

the alarm bitches at 5
remind me why i'm alive
i go to work
i smile at jerks
just to pay my rent and survive

i stand in line and behave
just another obediant slave
but i'll scream inside
and quietly abide
until i'm in my grave

in traffic amidst the clones
of assholes on their cell phones
i realize,
fuck this

i don't have to do this

and i don't have to
fucking
rhyme.

boom.