Hello strangers.
Too long, no write.
Bleed Like Me by Garbage is playing. Good song. Look it up. John Mayer's next, I believe.
Lately has been. . . crazy. Drama, food, love, and other pieces of debris that make up the whirlwind of Annie.
This is a Winter Solstice/Christmas present for my man, who should never, ever, ever eat soy again.
Batman, this is for you:
Diet cherry pepsi and rum that’s spiced
Reminiscent of blue raspberry vodka and
Lysol but this time it was McDonald’s fries
And you tried to force them into my mouth
Like straws but they bent; flexible and salty.
Sucked on the salt you said but I remember
CALORIESCALORIESCALORIESCALORIES
Everywhere and you said it was ok and again
You whispered beautiful. But beautiful is a
Fucking lie and so is this hope, love, oneness,
Togetherness and good. Good is a lie, right?
Ran after deer in the moonlight in a cornfield
And I didn’t twist my ankle because even drunk
I’ve got immunity against accidentally hurting
Myself so that I can have more time to purposefully
Hurt myself. Oh you said it’s funny now and I
Just want to take care of you but what did you
Say when I was begging you to kill me with
Fries suspended in the middle of the orb of my
Mouth and tears floating like a blanket above
My eyes. Even now with rum and vodka not
Running through my system I can’t begin to
Tell you how sincerely honest I was about death.
“What’s one word you would use to describe
Yourself, JP?” Protecting, you said and broken,
I thought. Maybe strong, but mostly broken most
Of the time. And I was a toddler stomping out a
Temper tantrum Morse code message on your
Dashboard with my muddy flip flops but I’m
Not sure what I was trying to communicate.
Alcohol inhibited and uninhibited my brain.
Like your cigarette and deodorant smell
Uninhibited my eyes to you. And how will
This end?
I have this sense of knowing how this will end, almost like I skipped to the last chapter just to peek because the mystery and intrigue was too much to handle.lo The ending is good. It reeks of green beans, mixed tapes, rockband and most of all love. I like the way that sounds, how about you?
Sometimes life takes my breath away, wraps it in Christmas wrapping paper and a pretty bow and hands it back to me. Those times are amazing- and they are neverending when I'm near you.
L<3ve.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
"oh, how pretty is the middle of june."
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.
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.
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.
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