Saturday, September 29, 2007

Go away?

Today I picked a moist dandelion, and drew a gusty wind into my lungs. I stopped outside of work, and exhaled, pulling out its tiny hairs and thin gray fibers, leaving my jacket splattered with petal carnage.

Two hours later, I'm fingering my Día de los Muertos ring and nervously gnawing at my chipped red nail polish. I'm wondering and pondering and pacing inside of my organs. My heart is clanking against my chest like the floorboards of The Tell Tale Heart and the wrinkles in my palms flood with hemp-scented sweat.

I'm anxious. Anxious about life, for fucking once.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Redeemable: 1 Secret

There was a high squeal as I stared at the yellow corduroy coat. The hum of the projector minimalized the squeal, but it was still a presence. A Frenchman with a long nose teetered to a map of the solar system. He explained why Pluto wasn't a planet any more in a tone that made it sound like he was to blame for its banishment. All I could think about was how, perhaps, there are billions of solar systems in his yellow jacket, hanging blissfully beside me.

It smelled like clean honeydews.

"Whell, eet seems we are out uv time," said the professor, in his syrupy accent. I walked out, almost unaware of my legs moving semi-swiftly beneath me.

Onward, ho.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

a poem I found in the in case of fire box!

It was a stout bee-- the one hovering over the flower's lavender tongues.
The wings worked so fast he looked like a mere black and yellow cotton ball.
It was 1993.
The second-hand stroller scrapes the jutted cracks.
A pink baby with twiggy arms and marble eyes caresses the patterned roof.
Like it was large-printed Braille.
Lace dances on the backs of my calves as I kneel to the plant.
Fat fingers snatch at the violet, and I squeal to my mother with the gift.
It was once the most indomitable of all the worker bees.
And it died with a mere splinter
His magic sword
In the palm of my hand.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Hey Josh please do me a favor and copy/paste this post and print it for me... I need it to move in.

Certification of Completion

Thank you for completing the Wildcat Safety course. Print this form, complete the information below, and submit this form to the hall staff when you check-in to your residence hall.

Your personal password is FW101_F2007.

Name ___________________________________________________________

Student ID # ______________________________________________________

Building _________________________ Room ___________________________

This certificate verifies that the resident listed above has successfully completed the Wildcat Safety course and may be admitted into his/her residence hall on move-in day.

The resident acknowledges that he/she is responsible for knowing and abiding by the University policies described in the course and may face disciplinary action is found responsible for any violations of University policy.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Wednesday, September 12, 2007


The past four hours of my life belong to two-minute-long advertisements for 1970s compilations emblazoned with top-and-bottom heavy font and entitled (aptly!) FLOWER POWER between the channel changes of Iron Chef (who won) and reruns of comedy troupes sporting Flock of Seagulls hair do's and even the rare, yet beloved anime. I wondered/pondered if my spine would contort to mold the paisley three pillow pillar beneath & behind me. I picked far too much at my rubber salt lips and listened to the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, and thought in a trifle glee that it, in fact, was the midst of Virgo and just twelve days away from nineteenth birthday.
I am sitting and reminiscing in this citrus lather (I am in the shower!), waiting the unwritten 10 seconds for the soap to sink in. The shower's been running for an hour now and I've accomplished the following: smoked 3 bowls, assembled the shampoos to surround me according to my intrinsic feng shui, and reflected on the past four television shows I saw. A girl I don't know with Humphrey Bogart movie eyes ritualizes her day in an obsession that some existential power keeps her mother alive. Maybe I do this unconsciously.

(written a night ago)

Letters from Grandma's House

And I end up here, in a Mediterranean coral pink kitchen with two plaster roosters and an "I love you MOM" plaque embedded in tacky, dated plastic hovering over various Dollar General frames filled with baby pictures of grandchildren with husbands and wives. And I get this pen the color of coffee creamer and write on this egg-shaped table topped with mesh flower cloth and day-old chicken. It always seems that I "cannot not be cryptic," Abe the Salesman tells says into my laced eyes. He's always got advice for me; I wonder if everything's cryptic because he doesn't know me.
There are two tiny, rubbery white chairs for tiny mud children watching flourescent puppet shows underneath the desk. The same dishes I ate upon as an aspiring everything and a self-proclaimed prodigy of nothing sit in a double-shelved bamboo drying rack like time hasn't passed and I'm less of a no one.
Familiar T.V. trays depicting obese clowns balancing their curled shoes on beach balls the size of a small mess jut out from five unfinished bags on stale chips and a box of Generic-o's. I grab a saucer and a new pen and consume enough in caloric energy to propel thousands of thoughts, yet it seems that I have just plain eaten, and nothing comes to mind, and I'm back in the days where I planted squash and knew I'd be a scientist.
An assortment of trinkets are on my old armoir--a metal shoe tongue, my grandfather's antiquated razor, a meritime head scarf the perfect width to fit behind my ears but before my front tresses that I sometimes imagine resemble anime or Tank Girl.
I'm at the age where my head reaches the tops of the poorly painted knobby chairs and I don't know if the euphoria of leaning back is from spinal fluid leaking into my lower back or if it's because I'm sufficiently stoned (italics, to quote Emma). About ten hours ago, I was in a room in a bark-colored corduroy chair. The scene pans out to Aunt Clara, 57 and pulling up her lime green tube top, yanking at a 4-foot long telephone cord and ordering Aunt Vickey to return Grandma's Xanax. Uncle Sonny's beer belly reminds me of a malnourished pregnant cat. He raises his thick, coal miner's fist, and, trembling, "it's no 'un's business" flees from his lower jaw like a hiccup or when you cough too much after a big hit. Mom's soaked eyes shrink into her weathered face and I blur my eyes on the floral wallpaper and conveniently matching curtains.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Sagittarius (probably not as great as you hoped, Emma)


Observe the carbon copy.

(Garfield Comic Strips, October 23rd 1989-October 28, 1989)

One dull Hallow's Eve, comic Jim Davis overstepped his three-panel's worth of creative liberty by mocking the transcendent beauty of existentialist mini film Allegro Non Troppo: Valse Triste. Davis claimed that the basis of this was to expose the greatest fear of all: dying alone.

He continued to say he never had seen Valse Triste.

(side note: With this insert, it can be assumed that Garfield is dead, and all comics following October 1989 are Garfield's hallucinations.)

You, Sagittarius, are the famished, lemon-eyed cat. Your unsurpassed creativity attracts carbon copies. Garfields, if you will. These rotund, lurking striped cats leisurely absorb your thoughts and inventions, and then whimsically apply said creations to themselves. Today, and from this blink forward, Saggitarius, you must stop this insanity. Don't remove yourself, just distance the thieves. It is your mind to share! Not someone else's to take.