lacking profundity

There isn't really anything that I have been doing from day to day that has brought me any closer to figuring out what I'm "supposed" to be doing. I can barely form a coherent sentence. The mouth of my mind opens to purge one particular thought, and halfway through I've forgotten what it was that I wanted to say in the first place.

Here is where each day presents itself as a gift with the most elegant of wrapping. Without hesitation we rip into it like five year olds on Christmas morning. For me I'm always disappointed, as if my days are all sets of Ginzu knives when all I truly wanted was an Easy Bake Oven. I have never wanted an Easy Bake Oven, but some days I would kill for one.



Last night I was kept awake by the memory of a person once close to me, so for the first time in years I successfully wrote about it. I wrote about him, and the dissatisfaction of the majority of what is around me.

clusterfuck

I lie on the four corners of my own earth,
sheets tossed to this and that corner of a mattress
sunken in the center where i have allowed myself to collapse,
worn in by endless love or whatever its called these days.

It cricks and it creaks in a lofty booming voice
that's grown raspy from the rush and push of things,
it envelopes me after one or another has come and gone,
and judges not my stark, sad nakedness.

In hot days I let myself seep down beneath the surface,
speaking only with my window and a ceiling fan,
my index finger chasing it in quick circles.
The neighbors are familiar with this sight.

At night in silence I am ravaged here,
my toes curling inward in crackling ecstasy.
I pop and snap like a thousand golden embers
and release you in a sweet, symphonic drone.

Alone with the hum of nothing
I let a dusty smoke hover over me.
Perpetually unsatisfied with this nightly ritual,
I crawl to the floor and stay there 'til morning.

Now and Before

I long for your sticky skin,
your humid breath, the weight of your many bones
upon me.

In darkness, in a bed too small, in a room in a house I hate
I leave myself on tattered sheets, struggling to find
your smell
your hair
it's there and is as soon gone.

In silence I dress myself, covering the places you have been,
inside where you once glued yourself to me,
outside where the ghosts of all your hot fingertips have waltzed.

I am my heart, pounding, pumping hard
with each step you move away

You are my stranger,
now and before,
never anything more.



I am currently watching Running With Scissors. I'm convinced my mother too, is crazy.