Black Tuesday on a Blue Sunday

The sense of rejection
The fear gets lost
The style gets good
The junction is here
There is always a point
The distance is close
I can’t see it now
A gentleman’s cap
A loose conversation
I passed the point
Fuck the silhouette burned
In the lids of my eyes
Your face is stained
Upon the face of my thought
And all that you have
Is the rest of your life
And all that I have
Is a stolen ballpoint
The billiards, the camels
The hands, the scent
The stare, the cats
I never came with intent
The best, the most
I’d never render less
Because I’d offer more,
But then again, you never made the point.

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
Not suicide without note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

The Dust in the Bottle

Motions strong as ever

Notions running thin

The sharp contrast of maturity

Blood trickles from the blade

The lack of suicidal tendencies

Where now do I belong?

Normality the sickness evermore

Cognition sloppy at its best

The light there at the end

A pretty lie, like all the rest

The eye contact examined

Silent rays then marked with “X.”

He kisses like tomorrow exists.

With the blindfold I can see.

Stones come lifted, truth bear and raw

I can do everything but believe

Words take flight, identity dies

But not before he kills me.

Pool Table Tournaments

I used to tell a good story.

Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.

Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.

I was never good with the arts and crafts.

I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.

Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.

But I left dignity long ago.

I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.

The last time I checked, he was cast aside.

There is so much more that I will never admit.

This is going to be a good year.

In the presence of doers,

I aspire to die.

The Cons of Making It to Thirty

With my knees on the floor.
Elbows to the mattress.
Forsaken lovers dance.
Across the lids of my eyes.

I’m not a sinner.
I just came from confession.
One Act of Contrition.
Three Hail Mary’s.

I’m not a heartbreaker.
I came home alone.
One bold, red tattoo.
Three feet of severed hair.

My eternal penance.
For a broken word.
Is a ball and chain.
With a broken lock.

I paid for individuality.
With a happy home.
And unborn children.
The condemnation of freedom.

Antisocial Dating

I can’t remember the last weekend in which an absurd story wasn’t embroidered in the headers and footers. If every day is noteworthy, no day is ever noteworthy. I went on a date with a friend of a friend. Actually, it was rather me inviting him to a show, because I couldn’t get any other poor sod to rise to the occasion. In a dimwitted attempt at giving back to the community, I’ve recently put a stop to the continuous string of one-hit-wonders with strangers. He insisted on driving the opposite direction to come pick me up…to humor the pretense of formality, let’s pretend.

The first time I’d met him was a couple years ago, when I was with a boyfriend. The second time I’d met him was a year ago, with a different boyfriend. The last time I’d met him was a couple months ago. This time I had no boyfriend, just the dress and makeup of the previous evening’s date. I didn’t know him well, but considering the kinds of blinds and randoms I’d been out with lately, you could argue I’d known him a lifetime.

He picked me up at a quarter to 8pm. A 6’5, slender brunette. Great bone structure, perfect symmetry. It was my first time being in a Prius. He’d brought rum in a water bottle and two packs of cigarettes. My kind of date. We dusted the rum in the parking lot before the show. Sadistik & Cunninlynguists. We had another drink or 2 at the bar and got lost in the music. I hadn’t encountered a romance that was not toxic and in some way ugly, tainted, or wicked in over a year. Hell, the last time I’d been out on a date with somebody with a first and last name was over 7 months ago.

The intertwining of fingers to live music in a dark crowd of true fans tends to evoke a deeper kind of connection. Although I’ve held a match to every one of my fingers, I still found myself wanting to get caught up in the whims and follies of the music junkie. We left before the show ended. I was only interested in seeing Sadistik’s set, and he was only interested in seeing me naked. I’ll admit. When I left the house that night, I didn’t see myself inviting him up. Not deviating from the trend of honesty, I still have trouble seeing myself inviting him up.

I’m not sure when exactly I let slip the notion of a luminous love and instead adopted a notion of twisted despair. Maybe it was when I found out I couldn’t have children. Perhaps it was when I found out my husband slept with my best friend. Or maybe it was when I broke the heart of a virgin and felt nothing but relieved. I want two hands squeezing tightly around my neck, as I throw an arm out into the dark and slap the jaw of an unknown. I don’t want to look him in the eyes, and I don’t want to fuck in daylight.

I got him out of the house before 8am. I left shortly after to go visit my childhood best friend. She bartended Monday mornings at a small dive. Sometimes I find it comforting to be around familiarity, even if they do think I’m nothing but a running gag. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Late afternoon I found myself on a rooftop bar in Laguna Beach, with a forty-two year old man. I still don’t remember his name, or what he did for a living. I’d met him at the dive, and he’d invited me down to his house. I told him I’d drive down to meet him. The last thing I remember was excusing myself to go to the restroom, and dipping out the backside of the restaurant to my car. I never spoke to him again.

I’m not sure why I left.
I’m not sure why I ever leave.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him I was leaving.
I’m not sure why I never tell them when I am leaving.

California Killed the Antihero

I no longer search for the ideal candidate for literary immortalization.
So many beautiful creatures—countless magnificent specimens.
As exquisite as they were, their truths never transcended the mystery.

Perhaps duration casts shadows on us all.
Or maybe I was never realistic in my expectations.
Only in the short run can we disregard all fixed costs.

I dismay my eyes have seen too much.
They’ve been blinded by the incandescent radiance of all these obscure wonders.
The colors have spilled together into a pool of murky indifference.

My gripe with reality’s portrait is its copious shades of grey.
Nothing is absolute. Everything is on the fence.
I break anything but character. These characters will break anything but themselves.

Perfection on a platter but it’s alive and it bites.
Nothing surprises. Nothing impresses. Nothing disappoints.
It is all different and that makes it the same.

Vapid. I cast a dozen ideal capstones into the sea.
Alone I sit on the beach with my bare feet on the cold, sharp rocks.
I will never write of my divine dystopia.

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Kamikaze Romanticism

I look over his poor posture and wily smile.
Such mannerisms lay primitive yet deliberate.
Evermore alluring.
I slide his colorless nature up my floral dress.
To contract the most foul and infectious disease of obsession.
The kind of love found only in that of a dying creature.
Dead ahead I lock onto his clumsy web of deceit.
And engage.
I was never trying to make it out alive.
His cruelty will make a martyr of me, but I’m no saint.
I’d kill curiosity dead just to save a few cats.
A heavy heart, an empty stomach, a death wish.
I whimper into the ear of a stranger.
And down the neck of a twelve dollar handle of Russian spirits.
I ponder the source.
The knowledge that I couldn’t commit.
The prospect that he didn’t want me.
Or the fact that this gallon of vodka isn’t enough.
For tomorrow is still going to come.

26 May 2014

Mantelpiece Material

Give the hourglass a turn.
Three courses left to go.
Bromidic conversation.
I hide behind a smile.
His rudeness to the help.
Cuts me off at every word.
Stares deep into my eyes.
Remarks upon my beauty.
I struggle to look away.
From his receding hairline.
A fancy dress.
An expensive car.
A stroll along the beach.
Window shopping on the boardwalk.
He whispers in my ear.
There is nothing you can’t have.
It is the biggest lie of all.