Friday, February 27, 2009


*See the Oxford Ethereal Dictionary for definition.
Today I visited the best second-hand bookstore in the world. Powell's is a close second. But Powell's don't have no cats. Anyways, there was this ridiculously fantastic book that had historically important cat lovers compared to dog lovers, advice on beard cultivation (very important to me as a female), and hobo written symbols.

For example, a diagonal line (bottom left to top right) with three vertical lines through it means "people here won't like you and will tell you to go to hell". Three small circles in a horizontal row means "hobo coin taken here". Just in case you need to communicate with the hobos.

People Digits.

There are hands
and empty.
My mother's have always been harsh with water and soap
cleaning grease from our family pots and pans.
But it's not her fault.
I write words nothing like iambs.
I'm not like that.
One day
i will write you songs
perfect, ordered, green and growing.
But this is life
and it is not
perfect as I hoped it to be.
I weave stories and imposters
waiting for them to unravel later.
They waited till hatching season came
to procreate.
There are hands
carrying weight
and tired.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Falling Through the Cracks.

I take my bra off at you, throw it in your face, you who came and went without respect.

There is this empty space that is waiting for someone but hasn't found what it is looking for. We all want a home. What happens when we can't find it? My home is rarely made up of concrete or beams, but by the people that build me up or tear me down. People appear to hold you in place. But even at age 20 I have learned, perhaps early, that they don't. Something more has to hold me strong.

My reason for not placing my faith in people? The faces they all share with me when they are disappointed in someone. Hurt felt, hurt returned. By someONE.

The very boy that can make me feel as though I'm high as a kite during the summer can make my kite crash down the very next day when fall arrives. This is why I appear to be a ball-buster. I only wish the men I feel contempt for had the vulnerability that would do them good.

But this is my hope for the future...

I dream on. To days spent
days where you and I, we wake up on a boat
shaken up gently
with the rocking motion.
yawn, with seagulls yelling at us to get up
scramble an egg or two
and start the coffee
We'd share a smoke
and I would tell you the dream I had the night before
We would race to shore
jumping in the cold water with no hesitation
beatnik and beatnik-ess
there is food and work and fire
and books and trees and
I dream because I dare
and hope that they do not let me down.

Monday, February 9, 2009


Lately: I have been feeling helpless. I went to read Madame Bovary for a class. I found I was yelling at the protagonist--a wife and mother cheating on her husband with two separate lovers--for being so weak, stupid, needy...

...and after a time I began to feel like I was yelling at myself. She and I need people. Need men. Need to feel cared about, need excitement in life. This book, scarily, hit home. I wish it didn't.

Will be there when I need it...or the next...or the next? Does this mean that I've let other people down as well? Statistics would say yes. Definitely. Oh. no.