Oh June.
You are hot and cold and warm and fuzzy and you are you.
You come and you go, just like all months do,
And you bring good and bad, like all things do,
But still I like you more than other months.
Why, June, why?
June you are apple martinis and caviar,
You are a hometown boy with Budweiser and chicken fry,
You are home sweet home and miles away
But still you are with me, with me still.
How can you do that, June?
Magical, magical June.
You weave poems out of thin air, June,
Poems about July and sometimes August.
You tell us of whats to come,
Of crisp air and tangy breaths and clouds that form our words.
But not yet, not yet- first there must be
The burning out of the old before the
Coming of the new.
"Oh how pretty is the middle of June,"
He sang, and I listened and waited and imagined
The pretty things that come with sun and ocean and
Sky. How pretty you are, June.
But I'll forget you when I fall in love with
July.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
stillness
Stillness is terrifying.
When I was young I used to imagine Wizard-Of-Oz-esque witches waiting to grab me and turn me green like themselves. They’d lurk in the corners of the darkness, where the stillness bounced off the silence. Sometimes I’d scare myself into a weird kind of crazy where I thought that those same witches would reach their hands up from the dark caverns of the toilet while I was going to the bathroom. I would pee really loudly, to get rid of the nothingness then.
Stillness is home.
While music is home, sometimes silence is home too. Night is comforting; it wraps it’s heavy blanket around me and bids me rest for a minute. It’s comforting. Sometimes within the nothingness of crickets or leaves breathing I piece molecules together and they dance around me and assure me life will go on. Sometimes I believe them.
Stillness is God.
Be still and know that I am God. Listen. Shut up. Forget the mundane. Watch the trees sway, they’re speaking old truths. Stop your mind from turning. It isn’t a prayer wheel. Let it rest. Let it meditate on the touch of the air against your cheeks and the ground beneath your feet.
Stillness is death.
Rigor mortis leaves you cold and hard and unfeeling. You’ve been here before but this time it’s so final; so eternal. Even hope doesn’t pink your lips.
Stillness is life.
Sometimes we find newness in the strangest places. Birds’ nests grow amidst dead leaves and hope springs eternal, even amidst death. Treasures in hidden places, you know? Just don’t forget to remember the stars.
Be still.
When I was young I used to imagine Wizard-Of-Oz-esque witches waiting to grab me and turn me green like themselves. They’d lurk in the corners of the darkness, where the stillness bounced off the silence. Sometimes I’d scare myself into a weird kind of crazy where I thought that those same witches would reach their hands up from the dark caverns of the toilet while I was going to the bathroom. I would pee really loudly, to get rid of the nothingness then.
Stillness is home.
While music is home, sometimes silence is home too. Night is comforting; it wraps it’s heavy blanket around me and bids me rest for a minute. It’s comforting. Sometimes within the nothingness of crickets or leaves breathing I piece molecules together and they dance around me and assure me life will go on. Sometimes I believe them.
Stillness is God.
Be still and know that I am God. Listen. Shut up. Forget the mundane. Watch the trees sway, they’re speaking old truths. Stop your mind from turning. It isn’t a prayer wheel. Let it rest. Let it meditate on the touch of the air against your cheeks and the ground beneath your feet.
Stillness is death.
Rigor mortis leaves you cold and hard and unfeeling. You’ve been here before but this time it’s so final; so eternal. Even hope doesn’t pink your lips.
Stillness is life.
Sometimes we find newness in the strangest places. Birds’ nests grow amidst dead leaves and hope springs eternal, even amidst death. Treasures in hidden places, you know? Just don’t forget to remember the stars.
Be still.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
and the air is just too still
You know when you’re walking and all of a sudden it’s not you walking anymore, it’s a figment of you. Your feet pound the pavement and avoid the cracks but you can’t feel the vibrations. That’s what numb is.
She was only seventeen.
Seventeen and two weeks.
Seventeen and negative two years.
Plus two months. It was like numb.
It was like novacaine. It was like heroin,
It was like forgetting and it was like remembering.
Novacaine.
Bars on the windows foreshadowing the soon-to-be
Preacher staring between two metal bars and
His holey underwear. Briefs, not boxers,
Because boxers let his junk just sit
There and he didn’t like that.
But he liked.
She was only seventeen.
Seventeen minus two years.
Seventeen minus two years plus two months
And minus the novacaine and remembering.
There was no need to remember then.
You know when the rain hits your face so hard that it stings and sometimes it even hits your eyeball so
You squint for a few steps and readjust your umbrella and then the world is okay again? That’s resolve.
It was his blue Mazda.
His blue Mazda and him.
His blue Mazda pride and joy.
With pictures of him when he was
Just her age and needing a passport
Tucked into his glove compartment.
He was climbing in and there were people
Everywhere and they were saying farewell and
Goodbye and we’ll miss you and have fun and be
A good boy and good riddance and hold your breath
And promise me you’ll kiss me one last time before you leave.
Far away.
Have you been here before?
Have you sat in these cold blue seats?
Do you remember the November you carried me?
Was that you or was that just a figment of you that was
Numb.
I’m sure you’ve brought your little one her before,
When she was bleeding from the head after she fell
Off the metal chair in the gym and I carried her-
Screaming, twisting, contorting, bleeding- to you and your arms.
You brought her here in a hurry.
There has to be resolve.
Dear Judgie said the Larry, Moe and Curly
In her head. Say Dear Judgie but she couldn’t.
“Honorable Judge Sharon Armstrong,” she began.
How do I describe this? Just tell her how he ruined your life.
Ruined.
You know when you’re chopping vegetables and you’ve got a rhythm going and it’s taptaptap and then suddenly it goes out of synch and there’s blood on the sink and on the carrotcucumberlettucetomato and
A steak knife.
From the wooden cube knife-holder thing.
Up on the shelf away from the children and
Still close enough for me to grab
And asfastasIcan make three, four,
Five, okay maybe ten cuts, gashes,
Lacerations, mutilations. Wash it
Fast with Ajax dish soap and put it
Back.
Resolve is like that.
Resolve is like looking into someones eyes and saying:
Numb.
Numb is what he made me feel.
Or maybe I felt numb before, she said.
Maybe I was always numb.
Maybe I slid out of my mother
Completely bloody and numb and
Crazy from the beginning.
At four pounds seven ounces I
Was already crazy and bloody and
Fucked up and numb, she said.
What else?
What else? How do you say everything
Without writing an plethora of words and
A million pictures that speak a thousand words
Each? How do I describe that everything
Inside me went
Numb.
It was like resolve. It was my veins
Becoming easier to find and my food
Tasting like sawdust and my everything-
ThighsarmsstomachasswristsribsfaceFAT.
It was like that.
It was like a story with no end.
Just a “to be continued” and
No second volume.
No resolve.
You know when you write and write and write until your fingertips hurt from hitting the keys too often and too hard and finally you don’t know what to say or how to say it. That’s called numb resolve.
People say it’s easier after you remember,
After you fold it into an origami masterpiece, seal it with a kiss
And listen to it’s metallic ridged self bounce around the bottom of the
Wishing well.
But, she says, I’ve remembered.
I’ve remembered his fucked up hands,
His fucked up face, his fucked up erection,
His fucked up smell and the way he wrapped me
In his coat and carried me to the emergency room.
I remember too much.
It’s all good and it’s all bad and because it’s both it’s
Nothing.
Numb.
<3
She was only seventeen.
Seventeen and two weeks.
Seventeen and negative two years.
Plus two months. It was like numb.
It was like novacaine. It was like heroin,
It was like forgetting and it was like remembering.
Novacaine.
Bars on the windows foreshadowing the soon-to-be
Preacher staring between two metal bars and
His holey underwear. Briefs, not boxers,
Because boxers let his junk just sit
There and he didn’t like that.
But he liked.
She was only seventeen.
Seventeen minus two years.
Seventeen minus two years plus two months
And minus the novacaine and remembering.
There was no need to remember then.
You know when the rain hits your face so hard that it stings and sometimes it even hits your eyeball so
You squint for a few steps and readjust your umbrella and then the world is okay again? That’s resolve.
It was his blue Mazda.
His blue Mazda and him.
His blue Mazda pride and joy.
With pictures of him when he was
Just her age and needing a passport
Tucked into his glove compartment.
He was climbing in and there were people
Everywhere and they were saying farewell and
Goodbye and we’ll miss you and have fun and be
A good boy and good riddance and hold your breath
And promise me you’ll kiss me one last time before you leave.
Far away.
Have you been here before?
Have you sat in these cold blue seats?
Do you remember the November you carried me?
Was that you or was that just a figment of you that was
Numb.
I’m sure you’ve brought your little one her before,
When she was bleeding from the head after she fell
Off the metal chair in the gym and I carried her-
Screaming, twisting, contorting, bleeding- to you and your arms.
You brought her here in a hurry.
There has to be resolve.
Dear Judgie said the Larry, Moe and Curly
In her head. Say Dear Judgie but she couldn’t.
“Honorable Judge Sharon Armstrong,” she began.
How do I describe this? Just tell her how he ruined your life.
Ruined.
You know when you’re chopping vegetables and you’ve got a rhythm going and it’s taptaptap and then suddenly it goes out of synch and there’s blood on the sink and on the carrotcucumberlettucetomato and
A steak knife.
From the wooden cube knife-holder thing.
Up on the shelf away from the children and
Still close enough for me to grab
And asfastasIcan make three, four,
Five, okay maybe ten cuts, gashes,
Lacerations, mutilations. Wash it
Fast with Ajax dish soap and put it
Back.
Resolve is like that.
Resolve is like looking into someones eyes and saying:
Numb.
Numb is what he made me feel.
Or maybe I felt numb before, she said.
Maybe I was always numb.
Maybe I slid out of my mother
Completely bloody and numb and
Crazy from the beginning.
At four pounds seven ounces I
Was already crazy and bloody and
Fucked up and numb, she said.
What else?
What else? How do you say everything
Without writing an plethora of words and
A million pictures that speak a thousand words
Each? How do I describe that everything
Inside me went
Numb.
It was like resolve. It was my veins
Becoming easier to find and my food
Tasting like sawdust and my everything-
ThighsarmsstomachasswristsribsfaceFAT.
It was like that.
It was like a story with no end.
Just a “to be continued” and
No second volume.
No resolve.
You know when you write and write and write until your fingertips hurt from hitting the keys too often and too hard and finally you don’t know what to say or how to say it. That’s called numb resolve.
People say it’s easier after you remember,
After you fold it into an origami masterpiece, seal it with a kiss
And listen to it’s metallic ridged self bounce around the bottom of the
Wishing well.
But, she says, I’ve remembered.
I’ve remembered his fucked up hands,
His fucked up face, his fucked up erection,
His fucked up smell and the way he wrapped me
In his coat and carried me to the emergency room.
I remember too much.
It’s all good and it’s all bad and because it’s both it’s
Nothing.
Numb.
<3
Thursday, November 19, 2009
snap, crackle, pop
Snap, crackle, pop.
Frosted flakes in your clear cereal bowl float like bloated bodies on the foam of the sea.
“Do you want some?”
I want it all. I want to eat the bed and the comforter and your fuzzy blue blanket and
The walls and the music and most of all the air.
“Sure. I’ll have a bite.”
Food is nourishment, or so they say but I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
It is a lie and it engrains itself into my very core and chokes life out of me.
You seem so comfortable around it, like it is your friend,
Like it has never hurt you, and it probably hasn’t.
Life is so unfair.
There’s us- the Barbie dolls and Twiggy’s and porcelain doll skeletons
And you- the thick, the strong and the immovable.
While we’re supposed to fly away in the wind; be the wind,
You are supposed to be the earth- never moving.
There was a time when I was the wind, and I was happy
With my hollow bones and my clavicles and my basket-ribs
Sticking out through my clothes.
Eighty whole pounds, I said. Eighty whole pounds.
It was too much but it was the least.
Snap, crackle, pop.
Crack your wrists and your knees as if they were dislocated and had to be brought home.
I wish I could break.
You said that you agree, flying through the air would be tremendous.
Flying- and for once we’d be weightless and free and I would be the wind.
What about you, Mr. Earth?
You should save yourself, because falling for you would mean the
Destruction of a beautiful soul, and I, Mr. Earth, I love you.
Snap, crackle, pop.
Bounce like lightning bugs shot out of a lightning bug cannon on the concrete.
Bounce- the fat encompassing me making me
Bounce- higher and higher until I
Bounce- evaporate into thin air and I am
Wind.
And you are
Strong
Beneath me.
Frosted flakes in your clear cereal bowl float like bloated bodies on the foam of the sea.
“Do you want some?”
I want it all. I want to eat the bed and the comforter and your fuzzy blue blanket and
The walls and the music and most of all the air.
“Sure. I’ll have a bite.”
Food is nourishment, or so they say but I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
It is a lie and it engrains itself into my very core and chokes life out of me.
You seem so comfortable around it, like it is your friend,
Like it has never hurt you, and it probably hasn’t.
Life is so unfair.
There’s us- the Barbie dolls and Twiggy’s and porcelain doll skeletons
And you- the thick, the strong and the immovable.
While we’re supposed to fly away in the wind; be the wind,
You are supposed to be the earth- never moving.
There was a time when I was the wind, and I was happy
With my hollow bones and my clavicles and my basket-ribs
Sticking out through my clothes.
Eighty whole pounds, I said. Eighty whole pounds.
It was too much but it was the least.
Snap, crackle, pop.
Crack your wrists and your knees as if they were dislocated and had to be brought home.
I wish I could break.
You said that you agree, flying through the air would be tremendous.
Flying- and for once we’d be weightless and free and I would be the wind.
What about you, Mr. Earth?
You should save yourself, because falling for you would mean the
Destruction of a beautiful soul, and I, Mr. Earth, I love you.
Snap, crackle, pop.
Bounce like lightning bugs shot out of a lightning bug cannon on the concrete.
Bounce- the fat encompassing me making me
Bounce- higher and higher until I
Bounce- evaporate into thin air and I am
Wind.
And you are
Strong
Beneath me.
vodka did this
Blue and green and mustard.
Concrete floors and bruised foreheads.
Vomit and blue raspberry vodka.
Lysol and Walmart.
And you.
The best thing about tonight
Is that I got to sleep cradled
By your strong arms and I
Felt safe.
Forget the heaving and the
Lettuce leaves and the
Cucumber slices floating
Around like baby green
Ships on your floor.
Forget the headache
And the unsteady legs
Because you were
My safety.
No, no. I am too
Vulnerable and I
Want to die and I
Shouldn’t be weak-
Lamb eyes, doe eyes-
It will get me ravaged and
Torn and broken again and again.
Listen, listen. I just wanted
To forget that I shouldn’t
Remember. And remember.
I cried to you, you said.
I told you about malformed hands
And bug-eyes and holey underwear.
I cried. I haven’t cried about that
Ever. Ever because I had been weak
And I needed to be strong. Stronger.
But I cried that night.
While you held me and
Breathed in my vomit-crusted hair.
Beautiful, you said.
“Beautiful,” I cried ”is a fucking lie.”
And you exuded truth, but I am scared.
You and your soft, baby-blonde hair
And white ear whispers.
Maybe if you told me the truth
I will listen. Maybe if you told me
The truth and held me in your arms.
Because safety is in honesty.
Concrete floors and bruised foreheads.
Vomit and blue raspberry vodka.
Lysol and Walmart.
And you.
The best thing about tonight
Is that I got to sleep cradled
By your strong arms and I
Felt safe.
Forget the heaving and the
Lettuce leaves and the
Cucumber slices floating
Around like baby green
Ships on your floor.
Forget the headache
And the unsteady legs
Because you were
My safety.
No, no. I am too
Vulnerable and I
Want to die and I
Shouldn’t be weak-
Lamb eyes, doe eyes-
It will get me ravaged and
Torn and broken again and again.
Listen, listen. I just wanted
To forget that I shouldn’t
Remember. And remember.
I cried to you, you said.
I told you about malformed hands
And bug-eyes and holey underwear.
I cried. I haven’t cried about that
Ever. Ever because I had been weak
And I needed to be strong. Stronger.
But I cried that night.
While you held me and
Breathed in my vomit-crusted hair.
Beautiful, you said.
“Beautiful,” I cried ”is a fucking lie.”
And you exuded truth, but I am scared.
You and your soft, baby-blonde hair
And white ear whispers.
Maybe if you told me the truth
I will listen. Maybe if you told me
The truth and held me in your arms.
Because safety is in honesty.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
lately every breath feels like i'm kissing death
Ah, Jon Foreman. He always has something that goes perfectly with my
mood- always.
I'm back. Hello, world.
College is crazy. I feel like I've learned so much and yet nothing at
all. . . It's strange. Maybe it'll sink in.
This'll be a short blog, since it's two in the morning and I've got to
get up at 7:25, but I felt like I couldn't put off writing any longer.
It's in my blood, after all.
Here's a short piece, more of a reminder really of all the things that
were (gasp!) happy about my childhood that I'd like to give my future
children.
mood- always.
I'm back. Hello, world.
College is crazy. I feel like I've learned so much and yet nothing at
all. . . It's strange. Maybe it'll sink in.
This'll be a short blog, since it's two in the morning and I've got to
get up at 7:25, but I felt like I couldn't put off writing any longer.
It's in my blood, after all.
Here's a short piece, more of a reminder really of all the things that
were (gasp!) happy about my childhood that I'd like to give my future
children.
When I have kids, I'm going to tell them to sleep tight and to not to
let the bed-bugs bite. I'll say "later gater" and "after a while
crocodile". I'll tell them that the stuff in their eyes when they wake
up in the morning is called sleep. I'll take them to the ocean every
chance I get. If they're scared of the seagulls I'll hold a cracker in
my hand and feed them to show my kids that they should be afraid of no
living thing. I'll let them take risks; let them fall and get back up
again and I'll kiss their boo boo's and they'll know, for sure that I
love them.
Sorry this is so short and sort of wierd. Just wrote it, while
extremely sleep deprived. More to follow- I promise,
<3 Annie
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
they say i fall in love too easily
Hello, world.
If I had to describe the last few weeks in one word that word would be "new". There's such a sense of urgency and freedom, and brand-spankin' new "newness" about life.
I haven't handled it all too well, honestly. There was the whole three-beers-gets-me-drunk-who-would-have-known thing, and some other stuff I'd rather not discuss, but over all, I love college.
Oh, yeah. I got a tattoo. It's a trinity symbol (you know, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit) but it also represents earth, wind and fire. It's on my shoulder. Get on facebook, there's pictures.
What else? Well, Will and I broke up. Well, no. I let Will go. It was obvious he still liked his ex, and who can blame him because she is a really pretty girl and seems sweet, from what I heard.
Now, I'm talking to a boy named Casey. I'm not a whore, I swear. . . things with Will just didn't work out, and Casey is a gentleman, most of the time.
Life just blows by so fast though. One day it's Sunday and I have free time and I'm doing laundry and next thing I know it's Thursday and I only have one class. . . or it's Monday morning and for the life of me I can't get myself up and running.
Don't forget me, world, because I haven't forgotten you.
<3
If I had to describe the last few weeks in one word that word would be "new". There's such a sense of urgency and freedom, and brand-spankin' new "newness" about life.
I haven't handled it all too well, honestly. There was the whole three-beers-gets-me-drunk-who-would-have-known thing, and some other stuff I'd rather not discuss, but over all, I love college.
Oh, yeah. I got a tattoo. It's a trinity symbol (you know, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit) but it also represents earth, wind and fire. It's on my shoulder. Get on facebook, there's pictures.
What else? Well, Will and I broke up. Well, no. I let Will go. It was obvious he still liked his ex, and who can blame him because she is a really pretty girl and seems sweet, from what I heard.
Now, I'm talking to a boy named Casey. I'm not a whore, I swear. . . things with Will just didn't work out, and Casey is a gentleman, most of the time.
Life just blows by so fast though. One day it's Sunday and I have free time and I'm doing laundry and next thing I know it's Thursday and I only have one class. . . or it's Monday morning and for the life of me I can't get myself up and running.
Don't forget me, world, because I haven't forgotten you.
<3
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