Rumors and Rum

If wearing a scarlet symbol on my chest would quiet your self-assured whispers then I would craft one from old elementary school valentines. I would cut them into pieces, the trite expressions of love in the shape of cartoon dinosaurs. But I know that would only provoke you, with your vapid interiors and slow grins. I am sure you know so little about me, and would prefer it to any kind of conversation, because once I break your mold and excite your sterotypes you will be lost. I am your greatest assumption. You are my greatest downfall. In you, I provoke fear. In me, you stir doubt. I am willing to bet that you will be afraid longer than I will doubt your worth.

Scripts

Tell me what to say to make this any less evident,
To distract from the knowledge that is banging against both of our skulls,
And I will recite it back to you with poise and feeling.

Tell me what to gesture as I speak so that I may be convincing.
So that I may not only convince you but me that this is not actually happening,
And I will execute those swipes and juts with conviction.

Tell me anything, anything at all,
And I will listen because it must be better,
Must be a more acceptable truth than the one I have come to realize in this moment.

Lawn Fights and Suicide Pacts

Again tonight that couple next door has decided to vomit their hatred on the lawn,

He is lazy,

But she's a whore so I guess that makes them even.

The size of their hand gestures,

Comical.

The sound of their daughter crying on the porch step,

Typical.

Hands high against a bright purple sky,

Their visceral anger is frozen in its tracks.

The lightning so shamelessly bright,

And thunder so excessively full,

I feared the backfire of a something-caliber.

And yet, maybe it was.

Maybe some winged creatures,

So disgusted with our wasted mortality,

With our hunks of dying flesh and stands of protein hair,

Made a suicide pact.

And then, as this couple so unabashedly bashed,

One decided it was time to end the show.

The backfire bright and the brain spatter loud,

It was only enough to momentarily close a mouth.

This fight, this dirty lawn slander,

Not the last one in Avondale by a very long shot,

So profoundly disturbed those multi-eyed and feathered saints,

And they started up again before any blood could clot.

A Conversation With Myself

I want to be passionately tormented enough to walk into a lake with stones in my pockets. I mean imagine being that passionate about something, so much that you have the force to drown yourself in lake.

Yeah, but Virginia Woolf was mentally ill. She was sick. She heard voices, left a suicide note to her husband, and killed herself. That wasn't passion, that was crazy.

Well, you know what I mean though. I just want to be so consumed with my art that I burst into flames or something.

So you are passionate about passion. Huh.

I know, I know. Clique'. But...what if I lose it? What if I lose this drive? What if it goes away when I start to have a life, a husband, a home?

So you fight for it. Simple as that.

It is not that simple. I have ovaries, which apparently makes it impossible for me to be an author and good wife or mother. If I was a man, I would be applauded for writing into the night alone with a glass of something expensive and sixty-two cigarettes. I would be encouraged to put my art first.


But you are not a man. Nothing short of painful surgery will change that.

You know what I mean. I love having soft curves and long hair and a woman's sensitivity. Not to mention the free stuff and occasional whistle. I just know that as an artist I have a long road of being "neglectful" and "selfish".

Well, I guess being selfish is better than being dead.

Yeah, you are probably right.

The Process

My tennis shoes are dirty

From all the dirt I have been kicking up these many traveling months,

These many traveling circus months, during which I have found myself finding myself searching
All. Over. Again.

I would be hurt or worried or tense, and believe me
I most certainly
AM.


But there is a part of me that has allowed this to happen, allowed the wound and later allowed the scab to drape itself over me like a hand-sewn quilt patched from a mother's anguish and safe intentions.

However, that scab is becoming exceedingly uncomfortable,

And everything in me wants to scratch it,

bleed it out,

and allow it heal just one more time.

All Their Ducks Only Have One Leg

Cause The Queen Likes to Eat the Left Ones..

Now You Know

Ever Wonder What 100 Million Clay-Imitation Sunflower Seeds Used In a Display Against Government Control By a Nobel Peace Pize-Winning Chinaman Looks Like?