the strong silent type

i've got this huge, aching burning spot, right inside of me, just under the boobies, kind of nowhere near the solar plexus.

i am scared because i've made the journey this far before, and i felt like it was all deja vu except that i am just a tool right now, a total tool.

breathing is cool.

[submerged for how long?]

yes, your honor. i will agree to life in your submarine. (could it be the yellow one?)




not this time, i'm afraid. you gambled your life away. again.



something about honor. your honor.

land in rain

what i thought i was supposed to do was
come home
and get caught in some butterfly net
so i did.

home though is nothing more than
a certain arrangement of chemicals,
certainly not an individual or individuals
not a structure

more of a stricture,
points of no return established
crawling with seams
that don't rip but more splinter


my best friend
dances on the inside of Sleeping Sickness
this time;
i can't bear another hour.

plenty deep i've dug myself...

get rid of me

blogging may be the route of all evil (according to patton oswalt) but i'll do it anyway. not taking up much space, not hurting anyone (intentionally).

depressed as hell. watching "the piano" on tv, the ultimate killer chick flick. want something to cry about other than me. every day brings on the possibility of going back to square one, fighting again, having to re-direct my placement in this world. it sucks.

i hope my gratitude comes across as sincere, as i believe it is. i can't find comfort tonight at all.

inspiration and hope seem far away. i look down and see my arms out in front of me. i look through the veneer of my eyes and see lots of little shit floating around. i feel like i might explode from guilt or fear or just heat inside that doesn't want to leave.

we don't dance

somebody bought us a thunderstorm today
a nice, lazy one at 2 in the afternoon on sunday

everyone else's lives sure look good.

i can't wait to dance at somebody else's wedding
because we
sure don't dance
and
dancing with myself is a-ok


sky roars
rain pours


i don't even mind the Great Mystery, now!
i just want to know where i belong,
what i can do, how to navigate
why i'm not dead and what i can do about it.

(which is all wrong, but oh well)

i'm wasting time

my mind's in knots

i've been eating croutons for the past 3 days

omitted and be-shitted

i'm a trove of telescopic fury
which rhymes with allegory
but isn't.

i break still
on every bough
i've been falling since i can't remember.

what's safe

is maybe a special pen in my bag
and my hands have the memory

hearing his phone go, *ding*

being slightly fluid
like sap
down the side of an old tree

i won't give up

unwitting soldier in the war without a name

too hot for myspace

what happens when speaking becomes the only way out?

writing gets scarier, for one thing..

some milky weirdness in my eye,
left over from a star

i couldn't sleep at all last night.