we're uncomfortable

There should be some creation from a to z, beginning middle end.  The world isn't fit for consumption. A wrecking ball should sweep through the bricks and mortar of institution and impulsive wasteful inventions. For all the things we take for granted like toilets and contact lenses and 90 degree angles and thread and food that arrives in bulk on trucks from other countries which don't have trucks. Existence in comparison from face to face lets go of sticky connections, quickly moving apart, gaining momentum in disintegration. Disintegrating life as it fizzles out in one large electrical ball of organic fury. Human beings rage though their 100 years like terrorists raping and pillaging from their own destiny, taking everything away from it, leaving it to die somewhere in a back alley bruised, beaten, nodding off with a slur from the fatigue and toxicity which once kept them afloat with a puppet show of elixirs and secret potions designed to push the punch card at the library. Check out that book, that story of your life. Make it a good one. A real nail biter. Something you can't put down because there is no beginning or end. It's just hunting and chasing sprints of madness with crescendos of speed and lust. Sex and violence squeeze into the cracks of each brick crushed against another brick with any protruding concrete, anything to hold onto while climbing the side of the building waiting patiently for the wrecking ball.

get out

great escape window
so hard to open
look outside
see street people
lift with legs

crack with screeching
open window wider
painful exit
warmth into cold
breeze skin knees

last breath raising pane
effort plus control
no more inside
window go outside
scream silence
loud relief

Funeral

I spend more time in envy than I do in greatness. Hearing music. Seeing art. Enjoying comedy. Watching stirring film or television. Reading something great. Amazed by conceptual design. They live and breath it. I breath settling dust.

What I do is great. What I can do is greater. I am and always have been a force to be reckoned with even though in my head I am currently a pea under a thousand mattresses.

What I have will BAM! and splatter like a quarter stick of dynamite sparked by one solitary moment of ignition. Or maybe like cum on a celestial thigh. I don't know. At least that's the way I picture it will be while still melancholy in mourning the person I used to be, growing into the person I would be if I weren't the person I used to be.

I've got faith. I know I'm a great idea God had a while ago. There are a lot of bad ideas out there, like wearing white after Labor Day or eating a 2AM chicken burrito from Erick's. But this one. This one is good. I know I'm not here to sit around and punch numbers into a machine or mope around because I've given up. I'm not a pussy.

I'm 17. I'm an anarchist. I am a feminist. I am a ball buster. I am a dreamer. I am a fighter. I am someone who doesn't know what the real world is like yet. I'm a style monger. I'm a truster. I'm an ambivalent omnivore. I don't know what to say unless I'm around people who know what to say. I'm an energy generator. I'm a photographer. I'm a writer. I'm a good cook. I openly hate my parents. I'm a nature lover. I'm a spiritual searcher. I attract weirdos. I dye my hair every color and pierce myself. I get all my clothes at the thrift store. I carry a lunchbox. I write on my shoes. I get crushes on bassists and drummers. I drag my best friend around to awesome local shows; eh, most times by myself. I carry a journal with me everywhere I go. I'm a serial obsesser. My first love. Oh, my first love. I break in to the church house to make out. I want to disappear with razors and will kill myself, then I stand on dangerous cliffs and will live forever. I will tell you everything and not even know I'm doing it. I'm fresh out of the gate, smart as hell and I've got a future like an avalanche.

Listen to what happened in between that and this during the eulogy. I'm so tired of this funeral. It just goes on and on and on. If you need me, I'll be in the back telling everyone they don't have to go home but they can't stay here.

Spilling Over

In the bustle of city life constantly in close proximity to at least 20 people at at any given moment I sometimes suddenly get sensitive to the human condition. In moments of medicated thinking I look at people around me on trains, in lines, in public places and I start first sentences of stories. That old man fought in the Korean war. This woman fled Mexican slums with her blind son. That man is a convicted arsonist on probation. This woman's mother was Miss America 1980. Some are less elaborate. More about what she ate for breakfast or if he flosses. Usually a melodramatic story involving all of us ensues. The perfect song will come from my headphones and it gets even more intense because now there is a soundtrack. Then I spill coffee on myself and it's gone.

Genetics

Some physicists say all life on Earth is comprised of how the elements of the universe have settled or are settling and changing over time. Understanding and explaining how all that works is a huge responsibility. The task is first being out-to-lunch enough to come up with something like gravity or relativity or a multiverse - unlocking some mystery long since unsolved by any other explanation. And then telling everybody about it. What a messy job. Part of it automatically includes admitting you could be wrong. There has got to be a chromosome linked to some fancy hormonal neurotransmitter that blocks the anxiety of admitting a mistake. I do not have these genetics.

Finish Me.

The secret was once hot and juicy inside a red and white paper bag now crumpled into a ball and thrown in the back seat. It was shoved beside the console making translucent oily splotches. It was being picked out of teeth by a tiny wooden spire controlled by nauseous regret. It wafted out of a car with the scent of hot fabric and vinyl every time the door swung open and slammed closed again.

It was packed away inside a neon colored thermal lunch-bag and floated above the parking lot dangling from a hand with short bloated fingers. It went into the community refrigerator and every time the bag came out and went back inside, it was lighter. The secret got heavier upon mixing with saliva, breaking down into less complex structures while shooting into mouth reactors that caused tiny explosions of joy, pleasure snapping and popping between ears.

Jingling money went into a slot on a machine with a clear glass window and the secret inched forward in a shiny bright wrapper, falling a few feet into a contraption where it landed with a crackling crash. It took flight through an escape hatch in the clutches of its defiler. It later got stuck to office doorknobs and keyboards and adding machines and made appearances during staff meetings while handing out documents.

It came to the doors of apartments and houses in flat square boxes and the gooey masses arrived in perfect rounds to deliver the secret on cardboard platters. Cut into various shapes and sizes, it was too hot for fingertips and burned delicate skin on roofs of mouths.

In every instance, the mechanical motion of jaw clamping and moist rapture mixed with salacious gurgling ...and the secret made itself known with a tiny voice whispering, “Finish me.”

Letting Go

Daddy never gave her no discipline. Daddy never gave her nothing to keep her there, to make her feel safe, to let her know that she was secure and protected in his house that he owned, not her mama. Daddy only gave her a ball of twine and a knife and said go for it honey I love you. Into the wild she went out with bushy tangled hair and a dirty mouth casting nets into every bay catching all the fishes she could, scaling them one by one and gouging out their eyes like $5 cubic zirconia studs.

Along came the man with the bowler hat and the walking stick and he said baby I’m gonna give you the world. I’m gonna knock you down and drag you back to my cave by those sweet silvery blond locks. I’m gonna toss you on your ass and hold you down until you surrender and beg me to give you the loving home you deserve. I’m gonna take care of everything, picking out one little thorn in your soul at a time.

She felt the sting of a strong hand smashing into her buttocks like a crash cymbal at the grand finale of a great symphony. Vibrations of the sharp cracking sound resonated through her backside up her spine to her ears and out in flickering sparks through the top of her head and she whimpered stretching her fingers like webs on the edge of the bed. Letting go with a moaning exhale, she felt it again. She was a bad girl wild child who needed to know her place in this world - right there, bent over and crumpled like a sleeping new born underneath his hot face as he thought baby I’m gonna make you come home.