I want to peel back the skin
to see if I'm inside the wet, tangible mess
clinging to the bitter bone
like teeth gnawing through,
little catatonic fingers
suffocated below the surface.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Living in Dreams
Ever since I was a child I have been fortunate enough to remember, and often times re-dream, many of my night wanderings. Sometimes I would wake up from a dream, believing I was still exploring the made up spaces of my mind only to feel the grip of reality pulling me back down toward my pillow. Most often I sadly realized it was all a fabrication.
Not to say all my dreams are good...
The worst nightmare I experienced when I was a kid involved a maze and the villain of the popular Popeye cartoon...I think his name was Bluto. Several times over I would find myself running through the maze, its walls glistening with tessellations as the villain chased me further into confusion and absolute terror. I never understood the reason I constantly found myself in this situation, why as I ran through the maze I was bombarded by Bluto's voice echoing off the walls, screaming my name and threatening to "get me". Not once did I ever escape his wrath, but not once did I ever actually face this character.
It's been a while since I had that dream, which I'm very glad for because even today I think it would still wow me. Although, now I often experience a rising of the dead in my dreams. As of late, it's been the reappearance of my childhood dog. I still wake up believing he's still alive and have to remember that he's been gone for four years now...five this coming September. But in my dreams he's still there, placing his head on my feet.
I don't really know why I'm writing this, it has nothing to do with my bad poetry or my short stories, but it's definitely something I've been pondering lately. I've recently had two people talk about horoscope to me, and while I don't believe in that sort of thing, I do however believe in the power of dreams to not only tell you what's up in your own mind, but also what's coming for you.
...if that has any truth to it, then I suppose it means that I dislike seeing things I love disappear (something occurring more often these days) and I'm about to find a wind tunnel underneath my house...
Just a small thought for the moment.
Not to say all my dreams are good...
The worst nightmare I experienced when I was a kid involved a maze and the villain of the popular Popeye cartoon...I think his name was Bluto. Several times over I would find myself running through the maze, its walls glistening with tessellations as the villain chased me further into confusion and absolute terror. I never understood the reason I constantly found myself in this situation, why as I ran through the maze I was bombarded by Bluto's voice echoing off the walls, screaming my name and threatening to "get me". Not once did I ever escape his wrath, but not once did I ever actually face this character.
It's been a while since I had that dream, which I'm very glad for because even today I think it would still wow me. Although, now I often experience a rising of the dead in my dreams. As of late, it's been the reappearance of my childhood dog. I still wake up believing he's still alive and have to remember that he's been gone for four years now...five this coming September. But in my dreams he's still there, placing his head on my feet.
I don't really know why I'm writing this, it has nothing to do with my bad poetry or my short stories, but it's definitely something I've been pondering lately. I've recently had two people talk about horoscope to me, and while I don't believe in that sort of thing, I do however believe in the power of dreams to not only tell you what's up in your own mind, but also what's coming for you.
...if that has any truth to it, then I suppose it means that I dislike seeing things I love disappear (something occurring more often these days) and I'm about to find a wind tunnel underneath my house...
Just a small thought for the moment.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Her eyes focused above the water as she soaked in the bathtub, her toes poking above the water next to the faucet, hurriedly pouring water down her legs. She lived in an old apartment that came with a short tub with lion's feet, it curled her body at her torso into a sitting position on her back.
The water ebbed and flowed over her eyes, unflinchingly she peered up toward the tiles; pink and moist. She thought about the bacteria and tiny worms that were crawling around on them, mating and eating above her head without making a sound. She thought about the neighbors next door who fell into the throws of passionate sex every Friday evening, which she could hear faintly if she sat in her living room with the lights out. When she heard them, she enjoyed thinking about what position they were in, if they made love on the embroidered table top she saw when she passed their apartment when the door lay open. Could they smell the sex on it when they ate Martha's potato casserole? She knew that was their favorite dish because she smelled it flowing through the vents almost weekly.
Her nose caught the last moments of air before she was sealed into the watery womb. She listened closely as the water continued to pour in; everything always seemed louder under the water. The pouring, the creaking of the house, her thoughts. Beside her, her arms moved freely, lifting upward as if an invisible hand was pulling her to the cold safety of the bathroom air. She thought that this must be what it's like to be in a car as it falls slowly to the bottom of a quiet river. She closed her eyes and imagined herself sitting in the passenger seat of a 1968 Chevelle with leather seats and an old dial radio as it drifted into wet darkness.
Her body began to quiver, reacting to its lack of air. She stopped dreaming, opening her eyes and pushed herself up, her nose hovering above the water that rippled from the gust of her hungry breath. Drops of water collected on her eyelashes. She looked down at her body idling in the tub. Her skin was pale until it got to her nipples, which covered most of her petite breasts. They were the color of ground nutmeg, soft under the warm pool. She stared at them as they peaked above the water with her breath, the sticky bubbles gathering around them. She shut her eyes, wrapped in warmth.
The water ebbed and flowed over her eyes, unflinchingly she peered up toward the tiles; pink and moist. She thought about the bacteria and tiny worms that were crawling around on them, mating and eating above her head without making a sound. She thought about the neighbors next door who fell into the throws of passionate sex every Friday evening, which she could hear faintly if she sat in her living room with the lights out. When she heard them, she enjoyed thinking about what position they were in, if they made love on the embroidered table top she saw when she passed their apartment when the door lay open. Could they smell the sex on it when they ate Martha's potato casserole? She knew that was their favorite dish because she smelled it flowing through the vents almost weekly.
Her nose caught the last moments of air before she was sealed into the watery womb. She listened closely as the water continued to pour in; everything always seemed louder under the water. The pouring, the creaking of the house, her thoughts. Beside her, her arms moved freely, lifting upward as if an invisible hand was pulling her to the cold safety of the bathroom air. She thought that this must be what it's like to be in a car as it falls slowly to the bottom of a quiet river. She closed her eyes and imagined herself sitting in the passenger seat of a 1968 Chevelle with leather seats and an old dial radio as it drifted into wet darkness.
Her body began to quiver, reacting to its lack of air. She stopped dreaming, opening her eyes and pushed herself up, her nose hovering above the water that rippled from the gust of her hungry breath. Drops of water collected on her eyelashes. She looked down at her body idling in the tub. Her skin was pale until it got to her nipples, which covered most of her petite breasts. They were the color of ground nutmeg, soft under the warm pool. She stared at them as they peaked above the water with her breath, the sticky bubbles gathering around them. She shut her eyes, wrapped in warmth.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The Silly Reason
She sifted her fingers through her pocket, the cold coins warming in her hands, making awkward music as she walked down the sidewalk peering into the windows of the old Victorian-style houses. She thought for a moment, what it would be like to run around in the well-kept gardens, traced with bushes short enough to show off the landscape yet keeping it closed, private. She thought about the warmth of the sun, radiating through the canopy of the tall oak trees, bending over the delicately painted relics dangerously, like old men leaning on their canes; their bones cracking under the breath of the wind.
It was raining, so she hid underneath her hood and wrapped the scarf around her nose, breathing in and out, the moisture from her mouth collecting in microscopic beads on the cloth. She was half-way to class, but had not completely convinced herself to attend. She was becoming wet from the rain and the coffee shop on the corner emanated a warmth welcome to any cold stranger walking along the street. Come in, have some tea, it said simply.
She laid down a dollar and two quarters by the register as the young man behind the counter, his beard hovering above the steam from the freshly brewed coffee, prepared her cup; she wondered what it smelled like. She thought about a woman nuzzling his face at night, her nose receiving the smell of warm, buttery coffee as she fell gently to sleep. Perhaps the aroma was enough to ignore the acne scarred face beneath it; the enticing scent of a french roast mingled with a whiff of faint vanilla. People fell in love for weird reasons.
Whenever she skipped class she thought about the lesson she was missing; what were they talking about? Was it noticeable that she was gone? Did they think she was sleeping and not fully awake, experiencing the earlier hours of her morning exploring directionless thoughts on the bearded barista? She hoped they didn't find her useless or dumb.
She noticed her pocket no longer jingled; it was a silent hole with a silent, sweaty hand coiled inside it, sleeping like a rabbit. Sipping her coffee, she held her face above the steam, letting it cling to her; the moisture warm and suddenly cool. Perhaps she too could be loved, perhaps she too just needed to offer a silly reason.
It was raining, so she hid underneath her hood and wrapped the scarf around her nose, breathing in and out, the moisture from her mouth collecting in microscopic beads on the cloth. She was half-way to class, but had not completely convinced herself to attend. She was becoming wet from the rain and the coffee shop on the corner emanated a warmth welcome to any cold stranger walking along the street. Come in, have some tea, it said simply.
She laid down a dollar and two quarters by the register as the young man behind the counter, his beard hovering above the steam from the freshly brewed coffee, prepared her cup; she wondered what it smelled like. She thought about a woman nuzzling his face at night, her nose receiving the smell of warm, buttery coffee as she fell gently to sleep. Perhaps the aroma was enough to ignore the acne scarred face beneath it; the enticing scent of a french roast mingled with a whiff of faint vanilla. People fell in love for weird reasons.
Whenever she skipped class she thought about the lesson she was missing; what were they talking about? Was it noticeable that she was gone? Did they think she was sleeping and not fully awake, experiencing the earlier hours of her morning exploring directionless thoughts on the bearded barista? She hoped they didn't find her useless or dumb.
She noticed her pocket no longer jingled; it was a silent hole with a silent, sweaty hand coiled inside it, sleeping like a rabbit. Sipping her coffee, she held her face above the steam, letting it cling to her; the moisture warm and suddenly cool. Perhaps she too could be loved, perhaps she too just needed to offer a silly reason.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
The Unhappy Woman
Her eyes focused on a hair as it floated before the stagnant air beneath her nose. She didn't so much as sigh, in case the hair would begin to billow and plummet to the carpeted floor like a rogue atom bomb, disappearing from her sight. Her hand hunted for it gently, caressing the air in an effort to leave the hair undisturbed in it's invisible floating sanctuary. Landing blissfully on her finger and caving into the fleshy pillar, she squealed. It was soft and airy, like an angel's hair but unclean; this hair belonged to a breathing animal of completely mammalian nature, completely feline in nature. Griswold stood at the stairs peeping like a an owl from a dark corner, wondering what the fuss was about.
Nadine looked Griswold in the eyes as she placed her hand into a plastic bag, letting the hair roll gently from her finger and into some old bean curd she had just thrown away. It no longer looked like angel's hair and became something vomitous, unclean as it truly was; the way it was meant to be seen.
"That will be enough of that, Griswold," she spoke to the cat, now cleaning it's paws. She heard the cat's saliva flicking between its stretched toes. The bristles of its tongue penetrating and working diligently. She removed herself from the room, envisioning behind her eyes a hawk, swooping through the living room and snatching the creature away from her sight.
Nadine looked Griswold in the eyes as she placed her hand into a plastic bag, letting the hair roll gently from her finger and into some old bean curd she had just thrown away. It no longer looked like angel's hair and became something vomitous, unclean as it truly was; the way it was meant to be seen.
"That will be enough of that, Griswold," she spoke to the cat, now cleaning it's paws. She heard the cat's saliva flicking between its stretched toes. The bristles of its tongue penetrating and working diligently. She removed herself from the room, envisioning behind her eyes a hawk, swooping through the living room and snatching the creature away from her sight.
The Institution
the dust settles beneath the flames
billowing from the clutter
of the iron structures.
an industrial cage
the bars penetrating the sky
as the coals scream
dying, the history agonizes
and hisses into submission.
the smoke cluttering my lungs
as I stand there
watching it burn,
its violent end
reflecting in my eyes.
billowing from the clutter
of the iron structures.
an industrial cage
the bars penetrating the sky
as the coals scream
dying, the history agonizes
and hisses into submission.
the smoke cluttering my lungs
as I stand there
watching it burn,
its violent end
reflecting in my eyes.
The Hunger
I do not wear the ugliness on my face.
The creature I am beneath,
the separate entity that knows me.
It grows inside the womb of my heart
unresting, feeding
replenishing its lust for blood
through my veins.
Curling its fingers around the bars of my ribs
pounding against the walls louder than my pulse,
jagged teeth grinding through the muscle
invisibly tearing me from the inside out.
Feed it, it's always hungry
before it consumes me.
The creature I am beneath,
the separate entity that knows me.
It grows inside the womb of my heart
unresting, feeding
replenishing its lust for blood
through my veins.
Curling its fingers around the bars of my ribs
pounding against the walls louder than my pulse,
jagged teeth grinding through the muscle
invisibly tearing me from the inside out.
Feed it, it's always hungry
before it consumes me.
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