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If the time, energy and focus spent taking off my shirt, unhooking my bra, inspecting my upper-back muscles, the roundness of my breast, the flesh rippled ribs, skin sheen and bone density of my body, was better spent on the weaker, meeker and active seekers…my days would be abundant with gratifying productivity. But just as I hate spending so much thought into picking out the mound portion I want his teeth to pierce, I constantly need visual reminders that corporal achievements are ephemeral. I’m rotting as I inflect on my reflection in a mirror. Ah! To be a dying human.
A more beautiful creature I couldn't come across if I spend my lifetime flying the heavens to find it. Even the imperfect slope of your nose, which defies how I find you so perfect... I can't look away from the glow generated by your skin. Even your chicken legs fit you so proportionately. But it was definitely the eyes. Your searching eyes blended with a strange peace. You're so angelic, I can't rise enough to justify touching you. The more reasonable explanation is that amidst delusion I elevated you onto a pedestal, when you're merely human rank walking among us.
My 3D panoramic monochrome view is beginning to pick up tinges of color again. The first discernable color is blue. I'm picking up on higher and lower frequencies and the strange ones I used to hear, much like a glass armonica but from a different realm. My body can again perceive the difference between a caress and a blow, allowing me to engage with the rest of the functioning world. To resuscitate after death is my favorite thrill. That's when you reinsert yourself and recoil me into fetal position, losing my hard-earned skills as a vibrant citizen of the world.
There is a feeling I find more disconcerting than the unknown. It's not the uneasiness of uncertainty, because the unknown itself is a certainty. You don't know and you're sure you don't know.
Indecisiveness! Nothing can challenge and disturb my ground like the inability to make a resolute decision based on a complicated mixture of fact, history, experience and heart. Whatever may evolve or develop after a decision is unpredictable and impossible to exact an answer. I'd rather not have the responsibility of failure due to my choice of action plan. If only there was a better guarantee than 50/50.
Wandering about my little world is a dangerous. It's never hard to find words. It's hard to find thoughts that lead to the productivity that stimulates positive action. Driving, working, eating, even in conversation, my mind diverges into the little loops that bring masochistic comfort. So I've learned how to actively thrust myself into a more disciplined zone, thanks to the Science Channel. I put it into play primarily when I exercise. The military mindset where I can and I will command matter with mind. The physical results of defined and cut muscles symbolizes the success rate of willful concentration.
Today was too stressful to diet. She decided she'll start Monday. Today she'll order the pizza. With her fingers, she scanned the debit card numbers on the dental clients' payment ledger and picked out a name. That one there seemed like she could stand to be out $17.50. The call was placed. Her mouth salivated as she dreamed of her steamy pizza. She stood from her station to let in the delivery boy. A handsome deputy met her instead, turned her around, shackled her chubby wrists while reading her rights. At least one good thing came of this dreadful day.
The problem is becoming clearer
That I zoned out
Because I had been waiting for something
Something grand to spur me forward
Past my large curtain-less window for something beautiful
When in all honestly, dereliction stirs beyond these awnings
Not much fondness in the air I’ve been breathing
And so in waiting, I’ve aged more, temporarily inexperienced
I have to reconnect with the simpler pleasures
Damn the big picture
Or get a new window with a different view
Meanwhile, I’ll write about sipping fresh mint tea
Or I’ll simply tell about the undeniable staleness I stumbled upon
Until further notice
Our love ballads and poetry are different from yesteryear
They spoke through romantic letters with a seal of love on route to a lover
Broad lengthy words expressed one tiny dimple of a smile
Technologies graduated forward with the appearance of the radio and telephone
But now as we document our excitement about the text he sent and the message he posted
The succinct way we tell each other we care, the contrived faceless process of falling for someone
Some of us feel the misplaced affections.
We are awkward walking anachronisms in the time line of love and old soul.
She can knock out E.E. Cummings in a sitting
My brain twists and eyes cross when I attack that monster
Esoteric syntax and schizoid poetry
Maybe once in a while I’ll lift a finger, when something resembles relative rationality
It’s her gift, because she hears phrases in cadence
I used to hear in song, with bridges and chorus
Gradually the volume disintegrated and the static silence was perturbing
If I were dead, I’d be mad, insatiably desirous for the noise
The point … she’s helping me channel the lark.
Melody in the form of lyrics escapes spontaneously, surprising us all
I do it to myself
Low lighting, jasmine candles, scented stillness
Surround sound, bells, crying cellos, wraithlike violins
Steel guitars that wail, wind pipes mimicking breezes that long ago traversed
Booms and taps which daren't defy the metronome despite the gravitational pull of sadness
Sad songs is how I best and worst get by every time you go, every time I get stuck
Any time my misery needs to be replaced with someone else’s misfortune
To remind me I’m not the one who patented tears
I’m not the only one who was abandoned at the doorstop, waiting
Waiting for something
"Lately, you're so… Electric!!!"
He spoke excitedly. She led a focused bee-line path.They stormed down the camera isles rapidly, as if persecuted.
"I mean…I can't get enough! I wanna wrap you in mini-laps, yelling with my arms all flailing!"
His arms shot up, waving in demonstration, emitting a mock 'ahhhh!'.
"What is it about you?!"
He crashed into her abrupt halt. Jittery fingers fumbled over plastic packaging, for lack of bolt cutters. Silently cussing, she yanked out a plastic tube, cracking a half with her sharpest fang.
"It's the lithium." With mercury chin dribble she politely offered,
Nursing my beer, flipping through a music folder for ambient music, minding my own business, I overheard the boys in the kitchen. Four girls, four guys. We got ourselves a party. A love fest. I felt a finger at me. Married guy singles me out, very fixatedly for an inebriated man, and claims dibs on me. I look up at each of them, hardly reacting otherwise, glance at his darling carefree wife on the couch, look back at him. Maybe I should start on my next drink, I say. The guys jeer him on. I peruse the next page of CD's and chant to myself:
Oh My God!!! I'm a homewrecker!!!!
Buzzing, sawing, humming… words imitating the sound it makes. My ears despise them if they're not produced by nature. Electric whirring, metal clanking, pipes banging. It's an unhealthy abhorrence that I cannot build a tolerance to the noise. These intrusions of peace are sometimes necessary to upkeep earthly aesthetics, but can't people mow lawns and blow crap off the sidewalk when I'm not around? Too much too ask, but these sounds are not fitting with anything conducive to enhancing the mental landscape required to thrive. Keep it soft. Like rain patter or two pairs of lips pulling at each other.
There's no reason for me to concern myself too much with the likes of others.
I'll wisely spend my time taste hunting for things to soothe myself, color my spaces
Tending to my sensitive stimulant receptors
Racking up cd's, hoarding words, collecting art in my head.
If my fingers start drumming to all the drone humming
I'll continue soaring and sailing through my impossible mission
Of getting in bed with Jack and sacking his arsenal of trades
It's because in inhabiting someone else's world, I empathize overboard and drown in someone who doesn't understand the importance of the endless quest.
Sex. Drugs. Your weaknesses. Rock & Roll, you added. Since we both revel in spinning lights, maddening euphoria, illicit trysts…you're convinced I will seduce you into the first, offer you the second, and string you along into a party with no exits when it all rushes your head and the brain screams 'detox'. But I didn't acquire cigarette scars on my arms, I've never had to be tested, and cold turkey is just lean meat to me. You assume because I talk wild, desire ravenously, shriek extremely and drive manically, I self-destruct like you do. You're wrong dear. Very wrong.
We live in a world thank speaks thousands of languages, countless dialects. We employ the finest, most qualified and skillful interpreters in efforts to unite nations. Still, we're blowing words to the wind. Our expression transmission methods lead nowhere, but pride. There is no Rosetta Stone for this Babel we inadvertently created. Nobody wants to understand, nobody wants to apologize for misunderstanding, nobody wants to lower themselves to a stance of servitude in order to better aid communication. The mercy God grants us is truly undeserved. For men made in his image, we don't make use of our inherited gifts.
All these sketchy people thumbing out to the interstate. I spy four to eight daily. A lie I'll not tell, I've been dangerously tempted to abduct one to hear their story. Maybe write a collection of highway stories. What's the destination? Why? How they ended up along the asphalt? What possessed them to risk dear life by climbing into a truck cabin or a sedan's seat?
And this new 'couch surfing' rage (Google it): aren't there enough ways to get dead?
Truth be admitted, I wish it were so simple to acquaint a potential friend of unimaginable experiences, enhancing extroversion.
My father was a wetback. Degrading as the term implies, I yet consider picking lettuce heads an honorable job. I've dreamed of working fields, vineyards, anything with rows of fruit and harvest. Cherry trees in particular. Strawberries too, since juicy rubies require pressure control and delicacy to keep the exterior texture true. I've always wanted to test my manual tact. Blazing blue skies contrasting green plains. Breezy hills if you're lucky. The sun baking skin. Earning the toast on my Spanish pigment. Working the earth is not a hardship. It's a boastful, goodnight's rest. I'm proud of my spic daddy.
How do you stop the girl?
She departed the womb with running legs
Upon gaining speed, sprouted wings
Sprung into flight and altered the orbit
Developed gills at the first sight of water
Reversed the currents of the four oceans
Left a trail of fissures for a fifth
She stands on her hands
Sleeps with eyes open
Talks to the sun
Whispers to the stars
Sings to the birds
Decelerates for no one
She conquered the ends of the universe
And will not slow her centripetal course
Until she's ready to return
Buried lifeless into the earth's womb, the core
Some days I need confirmation that I coexist with humans, yet simultaneously I vow for silence. I want to be acknowledged, but not fully interactive, more in my world. And so I plugged my pod body into the headphones, chose highly trafficked streets, passed recreational parks, left behind fire stations and drug stores. Eyes were occasionally on me, cyclists nodded, drivers waved me by. I felt my feet pounding upwards, focused on the rhythm in my ears. By the time I finished up my second source of adenosine triphospate, I felt I traveled 26 miles, yet I only ran 5.4.
The Great Upload of 2008:
The deadweight canister of M's CDs shall be uploaded into Itunes so I can have musical input and inspiration to last at least eight months.
Find online, copy into document, arrange and edit into uniform formatting, print, hole punch and slip the best lyrics ever into a 3-ring notebook for fun, for shits and giggles, for word food.
Start a notebook. Head specific genres or potential mixes, bullet the names of appropriate songs to create well-rounded soundtracks, i.e. Beach mix, Sunday morning mix, Punch the Wall mix, Fuck You Mix.
My trapezoidal edges delineate easily recognized shapes. My rotator cuffs, steel swivels torque forcefully at fixed point to erect and hoist legs, abdomen and torso, shot up from the ground to sky. This latissimus dorsi, built sturdy and strong, tightens isometrically on command to hold it all in place, with conscious control. Theoretically. It hasn't happened yet. Physically I am able, but I have not learned to trust my core. I cannot let my legs replace the head. Being upside down doesn't aid decision making. After incessant practice and having my brain rushed with blood, we'll see about walking hands.
How I will know:
We'll be cross-legged, directly across from each other
My hands cupping massive headphones over your ears
Vice Verse, our sweater covered arms linked
Soundproofing the world's noise pollution from you
Protecting the sanctity of music
We'll be goldfish underwater, unaware of exterior operations
Unless we're finger tapped into the now
Swimming in eighth notes, chords, arpeggios and silent counts
Tuned out to our meticulously selected tunes
I will perceive, measured by song
Whether we listen in the same winding wavelengths
If our hearts are syncopated in the same rhythm
Our chemistry from the same bond strand
It's no coincidence that the brighter the light golden streaks are, the higher the attention rate. Suddenly, biting into an apple is a sensual peep show for horny men to watch. When I was brunette, I was just another dumpy girl watching her weight. The cat calls are louder, more tiger like, a little fiercer. I assume that the fact that the highlights are in unconventional two-toned contrasting chunks, I depict myself as someone willing to be a little more available and experimental. This observation is not to be interpreted as gloating. A narcissist wouldn't feel this attention is undeserved.
Because my own words do not convince me right now, I decided to quote a brilliant lyricist. I'm sure at some point he had to rely on someone else's words:
And if the old guard still offend
They got nothing left on which you depend
So enlist every ounce
Of your bright blood
And off with their heads
Jump from The hook
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise
See, those unrepentant buzzards want your life
And they got no right
As sure as you have eyes
They got no right
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise
Swollen feet hit carpet bristles in the morning. Temples tight, tempomandibular joint inflamed. Nightmares of radioactive colors, imps, and men who can't commit still persistent when I frighten myself awake. Sword penetrating light slices my eyeballs. Lumbar about to snap from discomfit vertebrae trying to reallocate themselves. My bladder about to explode and leak internally. When I zombie-stumble through non-soundproof doors that prevent proper REM cycling, hair in matted disarray, ready for a crimson massacre… they smile. Like psycho tropical birds they break in tune, 'Good morning!'. Then they make me cry because 'I'm an unresponsive, disagreeable bitch'. Every dawn.
I can still smell him on me. Every mundane movement, I can feel him ripping through me. I taste his rough fingers over my tongue, trying to muffle my pleasure and pain. I'm vividly aware of the parts of our legs and hands that were damp and dripping. All the scrubbing and washing, in hopes that my skin would slough off and leave me cleansed, still finds his body demanding mine and subsequently rolling over in silence. What's worse than being filthy with sin is that he didn't care I gave it all up. How could I let this happen?
How I wish the stars in the night sky were a decorative print for the black and blue celestial blanket. How I pray that I could simply reach up and pull it down to shroud myself with the protective coverings of angel inspired creations. Some fear the sky falling, but if it ever became detached from the heavens I venture to say it would ever so gently float down, shielding us from our next self-destructive move. Its warmth would ease our racing hearts. The way I'm crying out now, I might be the one hogging the sparking sheet of consolation.
The pencil scratches furiously on paper. Scratch scratch scratch. The lower part of the palm picks up lead. Smeared words in soot taint skin. Without precision her thumbs and forefingers start tearing at the sheet, completely littered with confessions, letters overlapped a hundred times over incomplete sentences, a page dirty and no longer revealing any pure space. The sound of ripping is unbearable, slicing like a scalpel running down the drum, causing wincing and writhe. She takes these wrinkled pieces of statements she once solemnly adhered to…
and ate her own words.
Turns out I am self-destructive.
I am her.
My fragile frame, dolled up, lit up by shimmers and oils, mysteriously clouded by sweet scented smoke rings. A character in the wrong seen. Body builders, trainers, a Buccaneer and a tambourine man all towered around me. I should've smelled the stale sex in the surrounding bunk and started running away with the heels that would later trip me, more than once. Falling all over myself the whole time. Battling the urgency of a hasty escape. They knew what I was around for. I played the unwitting lamb among the wolves, losing myself in a foreign role. A foreign land.
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