March 20, 2018 § Leave a comment
we have gotten very into planting things from seeds. you can imagine telling a 3-year-old, look, that’s the sprout, that’s the stem, that’s the dirt filled with invisible minerals.
but outside is covered in ice. it’s a perfect miracle world or a D+ poem by Frost. there’s a perfect plumpass robin on the branch. he’s looking at me through the window. is he cold? do i have food on my face???
this motherfucking bird. this bird right here. i think he’s stuck on the branch. someone! get a bucket of hot water or call in the far departmin. or call in somebody’s nephew– he’s got a pickup truck and could use the money.
on next week’s episode on THIS OLD CAT:
the team holds the cat up to a window and says “look, it’s a bird” in a fucking disgraceful baby voice while the cat sniffs their wrists.
the cat gets full black crazy eyes like she used to, showing the team that you’re never too old to become possessed by that playful spirit/demon. but instead of running up the stairs and screaming at empty corners, the cat just swipes at the team’s ankles while they walk by.
i decided i can’t buy my k-beauty snail face cream anymore because i feel too bad for the snails. and then meanwhile last night in bed i was reading about the cambodian genocide until 1 am? miles to go before i sleep etc.
oh this world! it’s so silly.
March 17, 2018 § Leave a comment
i am going through letters and it’s awful. seeing my trashfire life through other people’s eyes. also it’s great to see and know that people still wrote to me and loved me through my trashfireness.
here are some phrases that i wrote on a piece of paper. i wrote them while driving to Gainesville from Sanford, FL where the Amtrak dropped off me and my jalopy, The Mongler (RIP). the phrases were from signs i saw along the way. the paper is a print out of google maps. it is dated 7/31/2006.
Free truck showers
We bare all
The UN wants to take your gun away!
Heartbeat at 18 days!
Wishful Thinking Western Wear.
Chrome: passion or obsession?
October 11, 2017 § Leave a comment
It’s finally fall, break out the pumpkin spice mothballs and the cinnamon heartworm meds
paint your nails with mauve formaldehyde and mash a highlighter into your corpse-like paleness, the blue grey undereye slices
recline on the floor.
I dreamt of New Zealand with the landscape of north Florida. Sandy soil and gravel, dry grasses and dirty lakes.
But IRL there was no fall there. I spent my days kneeling on the warm ground, snatching any bit of red, orange, rust, ochre, saffron, blood. I strung them up like clues.
if there is an upside to this government nightmare, it’s made all of us more conscious of our side profiles. neck tightening exercise bands are selling like hot cakes, hot cakes are selling at an average pace.
My head has been hurting for a few days straight. our television doesn’t do dark colors well, so i can focus on the pixelated edges when i am suffocating under cousin Matthew’s smooth cheekjowls, waiting for him to die already.
If you try and think about your uterus stretching, your body sinking. I sing the body neglected. Why have children? Google it.
The bathroom feels dirty at all times. The ghosts in the crumbled urine cake floor. The family before us lived a joyful life and it did not involve sealing the tiled floor properly.
each decision is a conscious delay: the floor will rot, the house will undo, the body will decay, but if we leave in time, we won’t have to see it.
August 4, 2017 § Leave a comment
The other night, I was standing and eating Cap’n Crunch. I have some tarot cards on top of the bookcase and sometimes I stand there and pull one card out and announce it’s the day’s theme or something. I love the images and reading into them, and they might be reading me back.
I received the queen of pentacles, or, as it’s called in my splendid weirdo feminist witch deck, the priestess of discs. I imagine a glorious topless pothead with a frisbee, for sure my alter ego.
The book I have that explains the art in the cards pointed out that this lady in this card is the mistress of craft, the money queen, an earth goddess of compassion. “She respects her body as a vehicle,” book whispered.
Dis lady is sitting in front of a marijuana bush with a fucking parrot in it, dis lady got a baby just sitting on the ground. She takes care of her body– I’m laughing with a sloppy mouth full of Cap’n Corn — till I read that she is called Corn Mother. You know how it goes with da cards.
The cards don’t want to be mocked. They know that when it comes to trusting them, I’m half a single raised eyebrow and half a stoned parrot in a mystical tree.
But let’s be for real here. The highest truth is in play. That’s why all my characters tend to cry and fart in equal measure. AND why I eat Cap’n Crontz when I’m contemplating the void. You can roll around on the floor dying all you want, but you add a pair of rollerblades, and baby, you’ve got a stew going!
February 25, 2017 § Leave a comment
the question isn’t why was he such an embarrassing artist and so terrible to you, but why did you let such an embarrassing terrible person inside you? you were so worried about what he was worried about, his peepee. standing curved over, knees bent, wearing his birthday suit and a hemp choker. a catch for the ages, the paragon.
the ladies before he existed and the ladies born after his ashes turn to ashes–they don’t know what they were missing with his humped back, bare feet on the tile and the vanity lights half burned out.
understandably, it’s hard to know what you’re doing with your life when you’re concerned with how much your pubic hair has grown back. you can’t see at all. i mean see the situation with him for what it is, but also the pubic hair that’s hiding from the mirror hung on the back of the bedroom door. and if you try and lay on your back on the bed halfway across the room, if you try to crane up and see your valley’s forest layout in the mirror, you won’t get the details you’re looking for, only an image of a wounded animal knocked on its back with its legs curled up, rocking itself to get back on its feet.
he was such an unrepentant pyschopath it’s a wonder the universe has forgiven you at all for shtupping so low. even all these years later you’re still trying to figure out what about all that could have possibly felt right.
May 22, 2016 § Leave a comment
Angel Olsen is killing me. today all of a sudden not really i remembered music and how that is. we drove to the library today. the whole ipod on shuffle, liberal with the skip.
the other thing was that earlier i looked through every photo of me on facebook in hopes of finding a new profile picture. to re-enter the fray. but why look to the past to represent the present, if a profile picture represents anything, anyway? no answer yet. i saw a picture i drew on mspaint of a moment i had with julian casablancas during a strokes show. we all agreed it was very much a moment, that his dead eyes and stylish husk stopped longer than normal in front of me, and the bouncer was very kind to let me touch his hair.
so today somewhere towards the library the strokes came on. that combined with the mspaint scene. i remembered who i was when i was 19. i am not that person anymore so here is an elegy to that scattered mess of a proto-woman who loved with her whole body but directed said love like an orange rolling blindly down a curb gutter. that person who schemed in her pea coat and new balances and crafted aim away messages for the boy in irish literature who never seemed to do any work but tucked his shirt in.
a person liberal with the eyebrow tweezer. dedicated to and untalented with her nikon camera, steadfast to film, not that digital crap. who tried on a cancer wig and saw the rough arc of the human experience in 7 months and rode the bus to the hospital. who illustrated vulvas on t-shirts for the upcoming performance of the vagina monologues.
that girl drank a lot of dasani, drank whatever else was available, wore a black tanga, made forts, slept on uncapped pens. feng shui-ed the dorm. schemed and schemed. signed an ex-nothing up for scat porn emails. lived in a thick layer of self-hatred, charmed her way around, begged for suggestions as to what to do with her appearance. saw silence of the lambs and secretary. none of her various idolized tools deserved her but she persisted anyway thinking perhaps the right man had taken the form of a pretentious gaslighting asshat.
she was an underbaked shiksa blogger (called livejournaler?) with doughy promise and such squeezing, pressing unmet needs. a sloppy wobbling superstitious ingénue. such an unrolled, obvious, glowing idiot. you were quite a sight.