Sunday, November 22, 2009
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.
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.
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
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.
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
Resolve is like that.
Resolve is like looking into someones eyes and saying:
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? 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
It was like resolve. It was my veins
Becoming easier to find and my food
Tasting like sawdust and my everything-
It was like that.
It was like a story with no end.
Just a “to be continued” and
No second volume.
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
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
Thursday, November 19, 2009
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
And you are
Concrete floors and bruised foreheads.
Vomit and blue raspberry vodka.
Lysol and Walmart.
The best thing about tonight
Is that I got to sleep cradled
By your strong arms and I
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
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
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
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
Sorry this is so short and sort of wierd. Just wrote it, while
extremely sleep deprived. More to follow- I promise,