I want to know what all the french songs are about, and what that delicate whispering means. I want to be a ventriloquist and speak words of beauty and love, or even ugliness that just sounds pretty. ;)
i want to hold words on my tongue in the back of my throat, i want to unravel at the seams and know that words can be enough
can tell you
with more than letters
soldiers in a straight line
all in a row
i need breathing room now
i need to soar and climb and scream a bit
i need to find a way out of the rabbit hole I've been creating
the delusion that leads me right back to the very same spot
its 8pm and I've wasted the day again
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
8.29.08 Friday
my hands smell of old celery, cheap dish soap and tears
yes i can smell my tears, for though subtle and salty as tears are
they have soaked my face held by my hands.
the day is hot and my body wants to run and hide from the permeating heat
it taunts my flesh, it provokes me to stir and pace unskillfully
the bottom of my right foot is worn and scrapped upon the side,
as if it were an old boot with a tear
i cant replace.
there is no one to talk to, just endless amounts of books starring back at me
my mind swirls with their words
and i cant remember if the one with gold etched print and green glowing ambiguity is suppose to take place in early Ireland, or if the factories are really just from the plain white book that speaks of a man forgotten in Algeria.
im sure they are related somehow even if I cant sort out the meaning just yet.
all of these fleeting characters to observe, and i cant seem to take note of what is just outside myself
the fan is still on, i could swear I turned it off just a minute ago, but there it goes, propellering itself round and round, as if that was the only hum drum thing it could think to do
oh if only I was a machine, life would be simple
i could be loyal and faithful to my duties, and have nothing to ponder or question
but that wasnt meant for this life, I tell myself,
nor was the life of a poor afghani girl being stoned by villagers who have called her shamful for loving a man openly,
or a young soldier preparing for war with a neighboring country with people who look the same as his cousins or uncles or siblings, his own flesh and blood reflected in their desperate eyes.
No this life was meant for me now, and I try not to take it for granted
The bed beneath me is sagging a bit in the middle, slightly lopsided, but not overworn. Its sheets are stained with him and yet he is gone,
a ghost with dishes left behind
I have scrubbed the stale food, which now lingers on my skin with the tears Ive shed for him
and I wonder what it is I am to do next
the telephone rings
it is not an unusual event, but it startles me as if a minature burglar has come to rob me in the night; his laced up trainers making an ever so slight tap upon the wood floors, his breath delicate but fast, so fast infact that I cant help but know that the precense, his precense is strong and dangerous.
It is no one, they hang up, probably a bill collector or a nice lady with a thick hindi accent who's being outsourced from india, telling me that I can upgrade my phone service for just 8.99 more a month.
Its not my phone I think, so why is she talking to me like she knows me.
This little imaginary conversation I have in my head.
just like the one I have with him
the he that does not call me, to tell me that he is alright after a long journey
he that tells me in one week I must decide
or out on the streets I must go
he who i love who loves me not, but says so as if I were a possesion growing fervor
and opinion and thrust
all of which is so hard to describe now, and only more tears
i think i can smell last nights dinner on my hands
the chard and coconut oil
the heavily salted bits that i swallow and shed
and there was some instant coffee at the bottom of the sink, thats left speckled stains there
i think to tell him this
i think to tell him all the mundane little thoughts in my head
i think not to tell him of the way my heart feels all pulpy and shredded and sore
the somewhat whole pieces, brused yet strewn about
but i am not a victim
the image of a antelope being chased down, hunted by a wolf is playing and replaying in my mind
the poor creature is wide-eyed and panick stricken, running for its life, its twig legs seeming foriegn to it now as they push mechanically against the parched soil
the wolf is intent, it, like a rage that grows, shows determination, and it seems like a sad story we know so well, we watch in that grotesque curiosity, that terror of the inevitable
i may know how it plays out, or think i do
but it doesnt make it hurt any less.
yes i can smell my tears, for though subtle and salty as tears are
they have soaked my face held by my hands.
the day is hot and my body wants to run and hide from the permeating heat
it taunts my flesh, it provokes me to stir and pace unskillfully
the bottom of my right foot is worn and scrapped upon the side,
as if it were an old boot with a tear
i cant replace.
there is no one to talk to, just endless amounts of books starring back at me
my mind swirls with their words
and i cant remember if the one with gold etched print and green glowing ambiguity is suppose to take place in early Ireland, or if the factories are really just from the plain white book that speaks of a man forgotten in Algeria.
im sure they are related somehow even if I cant sort out the meaning just yet.
all of these fleeting characters to observe, and i cant seem to take note of what is just outside myself
the fan is still on, i could swear I turned it off just a minute ago, but there it goes, propellering itself round and round, as if that was the only hum drum thing it could think to do
oh if only I was a machine, life would be simple
i could be loyal and faithful to my duties, and have nothing to ponder or question
but that wasnt meant for this life, I tell myself,
nor was the life of a poor afghani girl being stoned by villagers who have called her shamful for loving a man openly,
or a young soldier preparing for war with a neighboring country with people who look the same as his cousins or uncles or siblings, his own flesh and blood reflected in their desperate eyes.
No this life was meant for me now, and I try not to take it for granted
The bed beneath me is sagging a bit in the middle, slightly lopsided, but not overworn. Its sheets are stained with him and yet he is gone,
a ghost with dishes left behind
I have scrubbed the stale food, which now lingers on my skin with the tears Ive shed for him
and I wonder what it is I am to do next
the telephone rings
it is not an unusual event, but it startles me as if a minature burglar has come to rob me in the night; his laced up trainers making an ever so slight tap upon the wood floors, his breath delicate but fast, so fast infact that I cant help but know that the precense, his precense is strong and dangerous.
It is no one, they hang up, probably a bill collector or a nice lady with a thick hindi accent who's being outsourced from india, telling me that I can upgrade my phone service for just 8.99 more a month.
Its not my phone I think, so why is she talking to me like she knows me.
This little imaginary conversation I have in my head.
just like the one I have with him
the he that does not call me, to tell me that he is alright after a long journey
he that tells me in one week I must decide
or out on the streets I must go
he who i love who loves me not, but says so as if I were a possesion growing fervor
and opinion and thrust
all of which is so hard to describe now, and only more tears
i think i can smell last nights dinner on my hands
the chard and coconut oil
the heavily salted bits that i swallow and shed
and there was some instant coffee at the bottom of the sink, thats left speckled stains there
i think to tell him this
i think to tell him all the mundane little thoughts in my head
i think not to tell him of the way my heart feels all pulpy and shredded and sore
the somewhat whole pieces, brused yet strewn about
but i am not a victim
the image of a antelope being chased down, hunted by a wolf is playing and replaying in my mind
the poor creature is wide-eyed and panick stricken, running for its life, its twig legs seeming foriegn to it now as they push mechanically against the parched soil
the wolf is intent, it, like a rage that grows, shows determination, and it seems like a sad story we know so well, we watch in that grotesque curiosity, that terror of the inevitable
i may know how it plays out, or think i do
but it doesnt make it hurt any less.
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