Fruitless and Ruthless

Lobotomize me.
Hollow out a vessel of flag-waving anarchy,
A watchdog laps up well-hidden poison, sweet like sugar and savory as T-Bone fat.
Train me to stare at stars like you.
Terrorize me.
When the surgery is unsuccessful.
Fruitless missions, dry baskets yielding nothing but vapors from lukewarm dreampools.
Vandalize me.
Bitch slapping with yellow labels,
They be bridges of hate, so easy for you to cross, and build metropolises on,
Easy access to the places of worship for desecration.
Sodomize me.
Teaching me lessons in humility,
Being humble is reserved for the birds,
Early morning creatures of habit and no hunt.
You long to force upon me wing, but no matching talons for defense.
Memorize me.
In between brusque lines of candor and over-the-counter dime store advice,
There is a grain of salt worth knowing.
A window pane looking out to Jupiter,
Tunnels filled with apocalypse rations,
food for survivors.
Prioritize for me.
Vast lists of finite futures,
All scripted out for melancholy, violin-playing Harpies,
The ever growing list of evil women inside of my head.
Each picking a new instrument,
Each one planting Sage graves disguised as seedlings.
Traumatize me.
Brick walls but completely breakable.
Bodily fluids and fermentation of infancy,
Flowing through my veins is a long line of risk taking and half-battles.

Nightmare on christmas

Right now, I have the house to myself. My music is up very loud, and I'm working out - even though I'm battling a hangover and I'm not burning very many calories. Across the street, I can see from my front bay window a family in their brick Colonial house is having a Christmas Party, because it's Christmas Eve. I always liked Christmas Eve better than Christmas Day. I think there was such a finality to Christmas Day, but not the eve. The Eve was filled with cookies and the sarcasm my family was so adept at. As a kid, I always felt special when my mom or older sisters would allow me to wrap presents with them on christmas Eve. I miss being a kid, but then again, I do not. But now, this Christmas, I feel like the oldest person in the world. I feel completely and utterly alone. Last year, me and my husband drove the 400 miles to Georgia to watch my neices and nephew tear into presents. I felt the first twinge of family ever since my dad had died and my mother decided she wanted a new family. I tried to buy and find everything and anything my sister would want, just so she would want me there and love me and to have a good christmas. We gave my neices and nephew an Xbox and games and whatever else we could find. This year, I got nothing, I gave nothing, there is just nothing. My husband is working, I'm sitting in my living room, listening to music.
There saddest part is my sister's facebook status a few days ago, in which she wrote: "I love my wife, and my older sister!" .... I guess not me. I really feel like I have no family left at all. Neither one of my sisters give a damn about me, and my mother will never understand me or love me, I don't think. I never thought this would happen to me. I always thought I'd be surrounded by this amazing family, these amazing women who taught me everything I know. But I'm not. And I'm scared. Very, very scared.

Cruinne - for the love of love

When I hear the music coming from the tunnel of light, I cannot help but feel humbled, and disgusted with myself. There is a thundering drum going on in my head, (or is it my heart) that is leading a bunch of molecules to an imaginary war that is more alive than you or me. I want to search for hidden clues, and leap over oceans, and kneel at the grave of the Goddess. I cannot help but feel ashamed that I have not paid my dues, and served the world.
When the lights go out and I am naked beneath the stars and all of their eyes, I realize that it is really just me and the Universe - judging each other. We are sizing each other up, valiant knights in armor that protect all of the simpletons - and I just that. A simpleton, a gray brain in a tower of translucent iron. I am reaching for you, Universe. I am sending out my tears as tiny drops of hopeful servitude.
Seeking to protect, to defend, to declare a message that will not just open eyes and minds, but also hearts and arms. I am driven by a force wilder than summer storms that break states apart the seams. The same storm that founded governments and changed rules that did nothing but kill innocence. As long as there are notes on a staff, I will never end this battle. As long as there is grass, sunning itself and catching rays, I will always go further and deeper than anyone else. A career in politics, no. A career folding laundry, no. At times, I wonder if anyone feels this drum also. I wonder if money and deceitful friendship has blinded everyone.
But you cannot blind someone like me. You cannot blind someone who does not see with their eyes, but instead with their feet. Running faster into the distance to make a new world for little babies with tempestuous hearts. Hearts that are ready to earn their place at the throne of the goddess, to be able to put their palms up to the sky and say, "I am here. Make me great, not for myself, but for the great good of everyone." Eager ears, and escalating volumes of the sound of their own voices ringing in the wind, this world is just on loan to us from our children. When I see a child, I see someone I owe something to. I see the light carriers, the torch lighters, the ones who will drift me into my twilight.
Make me great, but not for myself, but for everyone. Make my prayers be heard, make my spells be spectacular nets to catch desires with. Make my feet swift, ready to collect needful things for needful people. And then, let me rest alongside the ocean, when the Universe will send me home - finally.

Mhmmm....?

I am a rare fruit. I am miserable, and I do not want your company.
I aspire to be the 50 foot woman, and topple your city.
The city you made in your desk, the one with numbers.
It does not matter if you are my best friend, or worst enemy, if you anger me,
You will pay for it.
It will nothing, but a good time, long and leisurely
But I won't serve you.
I won't even take your order.

Pale Dreaming

Last night in my dream, I was in a home that wasn't mine, nor ever was. The walls were whitewashed, somewhere between 'shabby-chic' and 'institutional', and you visited me. Not just in a metaphorical sense, you came to this house to see me as a visit, you towed with you a red suitcase filled with medical books. You read these books filled with flesh-colored charts of my insides, and told me I was 'incomplete', if only you knew how right you were. You informed me my liver was leaking fluid that made up one of the great lakes, and my kidneys were full of salt - the salt that God grinded up himself and sprinkled across the unforgiving terrain.
"Fuck you!" You yelled, after I asked why. I asked why everything spins out of control, and I am the epicenter. "Fuck you! It's because you put yourself there!" You yelled, your mouth folding into a smirk, and looking at me like a wild animal looks at strange people that inch closer to it. An ignorant mixture of fear and temptation, almost egging me on to fight you. But instead you closed your medical book, and went over to the window in front of you, where the streets outside swooped and slithered through some landscape that resembled part city, and part ocean.
At that moment, a girl with brown hair and a crimson ribbon dangled from her crown and covered her left eye, appeared at your side. You told her to pick you up in a day or so, and she and you exchanged a private joke I didn't understand, and she left.
"Yes, I'm sleeping with her." You responded with a proud smile, when I asked if you were dating her. And then a piece of me broke all over a again. There was a landslide inside of my chest, and it pinched hard when I tried to inhale. All over again I wanted you. All over again, like some dark, intense sunrise, I missed you. Instead of pleading with you to leave her and to love me again, I just watched as you read another book. Since I've been losing weight, we are the same sizes now. You're lean frame matches me now, and I watched your temples pulse as you concentrate on the words in the book. I outlined your strong nose with my eyes, as I felt my eyes tear up. Your hands were long and pale, and rested lightly on the edges of the novel. I remember when you nervously put them on me the first time, and I remember that night with the painted walls and the smell of clean clothes and whatever the name of that cheap teenage cologne you wore.
I woke myself up. I was back in my room now, it was still dark, and I listened to my dogs snore. I hate it when your picture appears out of nowhere. It is hard to do my best in forgetting you, and letting you live a life you deserve and find the sweetest love I was too selfish to give you. It is hard to do that when you keep appearing online and bringing it all back.
What things could have been so different if we had met after we had finished growing up. What amazing things we could have had together if we had met and fallen in love after realizing who we really were.
I really did love you as deep as you did me. I just didn't know what to do with that and the co-existing darkness that ate everything, that was also inside of me.
From the top of my head to the tips of my toes, it's full of energy. Energy that leaps out in ions and electrons, searching for something to stick to. Great storm catchers, that leap from buildings and cliffs, into electricity. Perhaps being a daredevil, or most likely, looking for a place to scream. I'm not lonely, but at times I get so angry I cannot see straight. Who are these people that call me their friends? Who are they, since they don't even know me? I remember when you knew me, breathing into the small of my neck, illuminating something on tv screens. Something that bore my name and smelling of a place where leaves fall - crisp, and telling of things to be reborn a few weeks later. With assurance.

Cultivation

Rachel was plain.
Like cream cheese slathered over the carb filled bagels she ate when she was depressed. Rachel wanted to know why she couldn't make other people laugh unless she was reciting something she had copied from a movie. Her voice quivered with nervousness, she longed for talent, she wanted some sickness to take her away to a bed that she could pump a novel out in.
Perhaps the secret to finding yourself is copying other people, she mused. The rise from mediocrity to superstardom couldn't be that hard. It is much easier when you put yourself on a pedestal, when you make up lies about how fantastical you are - all when you are not. Human emotions are like fish scales, covering you and making you fool proof and unable to catch fire. And Rachel was saturated with these emotions, all copy and pasted from whatever movie she saw it from, book she read it from, stack and stacks of scripts in hear head, littering her until she sunk to the bottom.
A glass pane facade, her face, speckled with sporadic ticks of honesty - is a map of everyone else's words. She is graffiti, a subway wall, a bathroom stall - although untouched by callus hands. If the sky got any bigger, Rachel wondered, it would swallow me up whole. The wind would sweep her up onto a cross, and she would willingly put her arms out for martyrdom - martyrdom means fame. And fame means a name, one she would have earned instead of inheriting. But even still, nothing got Rachel's blood boiling enough to put herself on a cross for. days went by like blizzards, fast, thick, and blinding her. Before Rachel could find a reason to cry, there was a reason to cry - herself. What is a person but a shell anyways? Do you open yourself to an inhale thinking you are above someone? Rachel believed she was destined for great things. But Rachel didn't realize that great things only come to those who have a spirit.
She should have cultivated hers.

A pile.

Crystal, clear polythelene. Simple-minded, bright colored coat, and Paris in the springtime. You may not love anyone as much as you love this sky, dotted with incandescence and self-loathing, it is wrapped around you like a warm scarf and a ticket to somewhere you read about in books. I hate watching everyone make sacrifices to every day goals. Giving up a good tumbler of exploration for a shot glass of degradation and a good conditioner. I wonder about the yellow cars that drove by weeks ago, with the skinny arms of a child hanging out of the passenger window. His arms glided up to the slopes of his young shoulders, and there was no neck or mandible, but only his eyes, looking out my neighborhood as if it were an island in the midst of a sea he could not swim out of. But it was all hope and and signals of what childhood is made of: losing, gaining, and correcting other people's mistakes. And avoiding traps, bear steel ones that older generations set, with candy inside. The whole purpose of winning is to be heads and shoulders above everyone else.
But not you. That yellow car child, the one that helped to remind me of a why I hate the simple minded, and say a prayer of thanks to the floor under my feet that I have grown without injury to mind or spirit - well ,that yellow car child isn't like you. You are crystal, clear polythelene. Wrapped around yourself, letting only tainted air go in and mix up your mind like a cocktail of cyanide and spoiled orange juice. Highly acidic and detrimental to whatever self discovery you may be making. Are you looking for a cave with treasure in it? A wooden sphere containing your jackpot, the keys that will unlock all of the doors with no numbers, no directions on them. Why not make your own keys? They are not just hard as iron, or as fine and delicate as a young girl's cornflower hair. Drink down the bitterness of growing older without a map, and without a mask, or all of those other first-aid, lifesavers so many count on to make it through a lifetime.
Happy Gold, the kind that you wear around your limbs, the material weight that adds to you. Get yourself into irreversible predicaments. Play in the coffins of others dreams and goals. It isn't as difficult as it may seem to play mean and vengeful. But besides all of the things I tell you to do, I have to wonder if there is even a plan laid out for you. On a cardboard bulletin board somewhere in a hidden room behind a rigged bookcase. Where your fortune is being told by old brujas who see the dead and predict hurricanes. Lay out your outfit for tomorrow. This is going to be the outfit you lose your serenity in. You pause to think about the blue jeans you lost your virginity in, even though they laid as a pile on the floor, and you watched them collect dust as he took his time turning you into a 'real' woman. But there are no real women. They are like imaginary skyscrapers, tickling God's belly like parasites, reminding him to quiet them down, keeping them in their places. So, lay out your outfit for tomorrow. If you open your palms and say a wish that something will come along tomorrow to disrupt your plans, whatever crystal clear polythelene plans you may have. Along the storm drains that dump out in to tsunamis in the Indian Ocean, maybe there will be a rock as solid as a dead man's plan for reincarnation that will trip you. Trip and fall. Lose your serenity. But keep your jeans on this time.