| (no subject) |
[Aug. 27th, 2006|11:23 pm] |
everything relating back to angles,
i went out to pick flowers to put in a jar
by the refrigerator
for you to find when you woke up searching for orange juice
but you woke with me only
one foot in half a shoe,
and pulled me back towards you.
circular motions are a mystery to me.
day-old breath and fresh bread
the sun slices through at 115 degrees
you are in the corner on the 3-legged chair
i am on the floor trying to catch your attention
between scribbles on tracing paper.
i tried to tell you:
"the truth is, i sort of love you"
but all that came out was
"blah blah blah"
and i think its best i leave
before you have a chance to.
-------------------------------------------
so, all is better and all is worse all at the same time. i am resigned to give up, to stop worrying about it, to stop wating anything....because i dont get things. i dont need a companion of any type.....ive done well enough without one for a while. i dont even remember quite what its like...to be kissed and all that shit. so why go through it all again to end p in the same place? i am focusing on vindictiveness. on making them feel as shitty as theyve made me feel. maybe i could be the bigger person.....but i just cant resist the idea of twisting some balls now and then. haha.
in the meantime, i am (obviously) writing bull-ship poetry and shattered prose. its an incredibly embarassing purging of consciousness. that is the only reason i share this with you....a warning sign: "dont become this person"
all broken up in pieces,
like porcalin dolls.
making new tapes to tell you what i mean to say
what i meant to say
what i meant to say but didnt know how.
wearing your words like sweaters to keep me warm,
swimming in the tension like a
beached whale.
----------------------------------------
stuck outside feeling the air
whispering all the lies that have since been made truths
watching her, asking "what am I not?"
knowing you to be only
fragmets of the words you use.
this is a storyboad for disasterous comic strips
or equaly useless things.
-------------------------------------------- |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 21st, 2006|06:45 pm] |
ihello?
is anyone out there?
if anyone was out there then theyd notice.
something along the lines of paper mache torsos and dusty old bookshelves...
sitting barren in the dimmer lights of past-six.
something that looks like rain falling on surran wrap....
and children jumping on trampolines.
something sounding like the low hum of an electric fan
and the blowing of a sleepers hair as it turns 180 degrees.
if anyone was out there then theyd notice
the words scrawled on a part of an old paper bag then taped to my door
"no one is home and
its doubltful that
anyone will
be home
ever again.
sorry for the in-
convenience,
I am just tired
of answering to
greedy assholes
and lazy boys
incapable of
manogamy.
thanks." |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 28th, 2006|10:04 pm] |
and it doesnt even matter, anyway...does it?
you're still not listening. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 28th, 2006|12:42 pm] |
long time since ive written.
the words arent even hitting paper anymore. they are like liquid, staining and distorting and then seeping through onto the ground.....or evaporating at hyper-speed before i have proof that they were actually mine....my descriptions of what was happening. my ideas, beliefs, realities. all gone to oblivion because i cant seem to make words anymore.
i am here now. i am here working and slowly wasting away to a bony mass of dissapointment. i am dreaming about returning....about getting out a second time. this country was not built for me. or rather i was not built for this country. i need more chaos, more flippancy, more realizim, more of a barrier. i am totaly broken hearted over my lost loves....the jungles and cities that forced me to embody the person i am....the girl who has been so confused with everything for so long is now capable of self empowerment.
but then....maybe i am just as fucked up as before....just better at hiding it. because i still battle the same strange demons when i am left alone in a house....i still cant keep from being sick, always out-running my bodies next death threat to itslef.......and most of all, i seem to be at a loss for fucking words about my entire existance. what are you, anyway....if you cant write things down? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 4th, 2006|11:33 am] |
after too many days in acidic mexico city rain and sleeping in a tiny room in a (very cool, but after too many days exausting) squat in the middle of extreme uglieness....anyone with a soul has to leave. so what do you do? you stick out your thumb and hope for the best. unfortunately, sometimes your not quite sure whats the best and you end up with something close to the worst.... cornered in front of some convenience store by a man whos got your knife in his hand very very close to your neck and is reaching down your pants. i guess maybe i got some luck.....coz originaly i thought he was reaching down my pants for something else. but he just saw "the pocket" .
why does "the pocket" need parethesis around it? because its the important pocket. the pocket where the only things i have of value are. i dont know if just my skin means i have things of value....because i havent bathed in a week and i only carry one change of clothes, a sketch book, and my blanket. but he saw the pocket when i bought some water. and when i came out my stuff was thrown out of his truck and he had me there....against the wall.
moments later i was alone aproximately one hour out of Districto Federal with a change of clothes. a sketchbook, a blanket, and a bleeding neck.....but no passport, money, or identification.
so where to go from here? the us embassy? thats what i was thinking....but obviously it was a lapse of judgement....never trust the government to help you. i went....and to them it seemed more likely that i was here illigaly running from the law in the U.S....so that was a fun six hours passed in a big cement box with bars.
eventually they gave up the search for the crimes i had so obviously commited (I mean, look at me....i have tattoos and peircings and i am smelly). I spent half of the money i have left for two months for a new little blue book....and i went back to the road, thumb out. get me the fuck out of this shit hole.
atleast now there was nothing they could rob. what do you want? my smelly clothes and blanket, or my paper?
then i got to guadalajara....where i could find a sweet mexican boy who i can give a little sliver of my heart in exchange for a pillow and some anticeptic cream.
and tomorrow...we go for the friends....and then we get the fuck out of this country.
guatemala
honduras
nicaragua
GO! |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 19th, 2006|03:00 pm] |
so, i am here, and there is complete chaos around me. and mexico city is the biggest city in the world stopped by a million angry feet held steadfast in the streets. only moved by the worst types of tear gas.
and sometimes i think about what it will be like at home and who will speak spanish with me all day so i dont forget. and i hear there is a flaming lips concert the day after i get home. and thats weird because i will probably be to scared to go. but if you wanted, you could totaly make me.
and i am alone sleeping on a cold concrete floor in a big old warehouse in one of the two biggest cities in the world with a bunch of other punkers wondering if throwing a bottle through a window is actually going to help Daniel and his bew baby in the autonomous zone right outside of san cristobal.
i dont know. right now i dont feel like i know much of anything. but i hope anything ive done was not done in vain.
and i really miss loving people....not that i dont love people here....but i miss loving people who i have already been loving for many years. its very then loving someone rapidly and having only known love for them for a few weeks.
especially when loving boys. there is old love that never goes away no matter how hardyou try. the kind of love that makes you remember funny or sad times in the past and sigh, even though you know you dont get to touch that person again....and then theres new love....which is so fast you dont understand and you want to keep saying you dont love them, but you do, and you dont understand and then add to it that you dont speak very good spanish and you live on streets out of a backpack.....
its all very confusing. i feel like maybe i am an irrational drug addict. because i never seem to know whats going on but i just do things anyway. |
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| hormone inducers and more warm corn...coz i cant stop talkin anbout it. |
[Mar. 2nd, 2006|08:02 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | old man with guitar | ] |
corn cakes breast milk,
things i never thought id have
broken womb, clumsy handed girl
on early morning corn press watch
and afternoon baby-to-breast
learning that if you take pictures,
it could just steal a part of your soul.
whats that touch?
tiny hand more intimately true
then the roughness and urgency
of any full grown man.
mama take baby, rock her on the porch,
pretty black hair moving with the motions,
one year older....picking names for babies
but
ill never know about that...
but i can always roll the yellow dough.
always big holes in the dirt
growing other things
in a bigger womb
and i can always learn,
along with the newborns,
about growing up
with revolution
in my blood. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 20th, 2006|07:49 pm] |
|
my grandmother is dieing, and where am i? |
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| hello daddy hello mom its a LIVEJOURNAL bomb |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|06:35 pm] |
its very important to all owners ov vw bugs that they are quite ornate and unique.....i have a WHOLE collection of pictures of them. i am considering a latino slug bug zine....
this is just one piece of the aproximately 3 blocks of amazing graffiti that surrounded my house in oaxaca. great thing to wake up to. totaly inspiring.
i tried to contribute, but with little success. this says "not one assasination more". located on the wall of the municipality in san cristobal where many famous trials of indigenous political prisoners went down.
this is my pet. he likes trees.
YAKI. the protector of the underworld and my gaurd pup.
mama turtle
baby turtles
dinamicaly dastardly daniel
hes not feeling me up, no really.
this is almost as high up as the walls of the grand canyon....only here theres CROCODILES. woop woop.
anyway, sorry bout that. but it was fun wasnt it? theres a ton more in my photo book from a few posts back.
this man is the love of my life. god. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 16th, 2006|06:04 pm] |
sometimes people need to just sit down,
say they arent going to follow
with guns to their backs anymore.
revolution is not the same
as neo-libralism.
referees are not the same as
pirates....
even if they both wear stripes.
and have a temper.
what is rebellion drawn inside the lines?
words instead of action only
lengthen a vocabulary
and nothing is done for the people with no voices
and nothing is done for the people with no voices
when words are just words
and usually fall on deaf ears.
sometimes laws are broken
but what laws are just?
you ask me to shut up and sit down
or in the same breath
stand up and shout with
hand over heart.....
speaking praises of a country
which never gave me anything....
but when i want to scream about the truth,
walk the path that leads me to freedom and
equality with people from
any other nation, any other creed,
you aim your guns.
free thinkers will be
systematically bred,
taught
an d exterminated
our of society
in the 21st century
if we do not instead choose
to breed and teach equality and self expression
exterminating prejiduces and
national boundaries of
wealth and control.
so dont put a sign on my back
reading heathen or fuck up
beacause i write my own morals accordingly
and maybe soon youll start listening
and maybe soon youll start listening....
and then youll want to fight too.
and maybe youll find yourself
holding that line,
recieving the fire
and sending it back
"and no bullet will break my will,
no bullet will puncture my resolve
no bullet will stop my heart
from beating true,
no bullet from you....no bullet from you"
and who will be the voice for the voiceless
and who will be the voice for the voiceless? |
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mavienoir's journal