Turbulent.

The shifty turbulence,
Cruel and purposeless,
A great big oozing lie,
Can’t look myself in the mirror,
At a lie so insincere,
A plight so insecure,
So unaware,
It’s clear.
Until I throw them up again,
The feathers of a friend,
I’ll be choking on what could’ve,
Would’ve, should’ve been,And my smile still represents,
A path of wild turbulence,
Nothing has a meaning,
The words make little sense,
The world oozes petulance,
A tilt that’s off by mere degrees,
Stirs up the fear, hate and cruelty,
It spins the tattered yarn of humanity,
It kills us when we’re feigning sleep,
And worsens the curse of the seed,
Lengthening the reach of power and greed,
It quickens the wound that perpetually bleeds,
It thickens our ties to the lies and deceit.

 

 

 

 

  

Padlocked.

You thought I wasn’t listening,

that your sentiment was lost on me,

you convinced yourself eventually,

that an evil lingered, baring teeth…

Didn’t you write mind blowing poetry?

And used for your muse, a snapshot of me?

Then my mind was confused immediately,

the flip to the switch that turns you on to me…

In no way did I anticipate,

To be smitten by you, for Chrissake,

to be bitten into, til my body shakes,

and left alone in an expanding space…

It’s a cosmically powered vacuum,

sucking the poetry away from we, two,

stealing the essence left that I cling to,

revealing rebellious dissent in high volume…

until the shine of the sun again forces ahead,

the steps of my feet through your head,

the lines in my cheeks as you blush me dark red,

your dreams are ever padlocked in a box under my bed.

Notes to Self: Note 325

Dear Self,

Yes, you are going to become one of “them”… you know who I refer to…you’re closer everyday to fitting the profile dashingly; just go out and get the 23 stray cats, already…get it over with.

Early morning, pre-coffee birthday wishes in the German language when you’ve forgotten it’s your birthday, as well as the fact that you live with a German, can be cause for it’s own follow-up therapy session; just sayin’.

The “word on the street” seems to be lazily conveying that it’s time to go home and put your jammies on.

“Going out” for your birthday isn’t supposed to entail a trip to CVS for laundry detergent.

Maybe this will be the year that you finally accept the reality that you don’t get carded anymore when you buy liquor or smokes.

Yes, you still live (and therefor, must drive) in the Silicon Valley; you can’t, or shouldn’t wonder why you always get home feeling like you just jumped out of a plane.

Try calming the fuck down, somehow – before your heart explodes; you’re not getting any younger.

Under Foot.

Temper-treated,

pressed ‘n pleated,

predisposed and superseded,

diagnosed,

poorly heeded,

over-psychiatrically,

pre-treated,

super-imposed,

pin-up prose,

cake-layer completed,

centrally distributed,

locally re-heated,

self-stimulated,

pseudo-violated,

over-chewed,

nearly spewed,

swallowed up,

oh Hell –

regurgitated,

won’t sit well,

if stacked up to,

the tried and true,

another epic fail,

shoddily fabricated,

horizontally situated,

systematically nauseated,

linguistically free,

tongue in cheek,

verbally inebriated,

an atrocity,

a featherless Crane,

singed into the brain,

of the Herring,

a forsaken queen,

been busy,

out bone-collecting,

well beyond her means,

never satiated,

by her plundering,

blindly placated,

by the obsolete,

of the broken-spirited,

broken down,

rotted through,

to an army paraded,

beneath the sole of my shoe.

Pocket-less.

When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.

Notes to Self – Note # 41

Dear Self,
• How old are you, again?…
• Really, I mean c’mon…you:

a) behave like a two-year-old at an after-school daycare birthday party
b) be a bigger pothead than Spicoli ever was – and forget important shit
c) insist on impossible things – rendering yourself impossible to please

• If a guy has been in your company for 48 hours and only then says something along the lines of

“You know…? You’re fuckin’ hot…”

Time to go ahead and take another inventory of things
• If the same guy makes the seemingly random suggestion of “painting your bedroom” or “gardening” the instant he comes over for the first time, take another inventory of things
• If someone posing as a “poet” seems UNABLE to leave the topic of themselves for very long, they are likely full of horse shit
• When a man believes that he needs lifelong reaffirmation and/or reassurances as a result of being let down a few times by a parent, or being cheated on by his ex-wife – GAME OVER. GET OUT.
• The above described situation is what I refer to as a “Conflict of Reality”…nobody wins
• It’s really too bad it isn’t physically painful to be a fucking sniveler – I think there would be far fewer crybabies in the world, if it hurt
• Plotting to kill someone while you are doing yoga or jogging or swimming still totally counts as plotting to kill somebody; doing it while engaging in healthy activities DOES NOT change anything about that

A Different Line.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” – William Shakespeare

While you can be fine

there are still words left

unsaid, of mine…

I can keep going

into a different sunset,

down a different line…

And I can be good

with so many nickels

made of wood…

I can just disappear

and let you be

like I probably should…

So you can be free

away from the fear

that’s made a hostage of me…

and I can believe

that you’re coming back

to find me, eventually…

Then, you can be strong

the way you’ve always

remained, all along…

while I can continue

to drunkenly scream

the same ol’ love song…

As you start to know

that I’m ever come –

and never go…

and I fail to realize

that my key no longer

fits in the door.

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.

 

Notes to Self # 924

Dear Self,

Firstly, YES…You ARE indeed, a “bitch”.

Secondly, your efforts at being patient continue to be pathetically made in vain; the need to tackle this shortcoming of yours grows stronger everyday.

Next, you should look into a new type of daily human interaction, as you are currently in a perpetual board meeting in a stale conference room with Doom and Gloom, as of late.

Also, just because you are from a place where they don’t add fluoride to the tap water (due to communal poverty), don’t think that somehow gives you an upper hand these days – when fluoride in your tap water isn’t so “special” anymore, after all.

Your own combustible temper (in the context of the courtroom) does you the most severe of all injustices, every time without fail.

Last but NOT least: Lately, your face looks like a tired , scurvy-ridden and soiled pirate’s, after a long decade with the sharks. Moisturize. Moisturize. Moisturize.

 

Do Not Mistake My Weakness for Kindness

This week has been sullen for me, as an individual human being on a solo journey through this thing called ‘life’…I’ve been stabbed once more in my back – the back that resembles Swiss Cheese these days from so many of these trivial betrayals.

Image

“Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness.”

Or so, I like to proclaim quite regularly; but in all actuality it’s much more the opposite. I am a weak individual in terms of emotional control: I am cursed with the permanent role of Devil’s Advocate, as well as the additional layers of extreme and seemingly untreatable abandonment issues that have morphed into rejection issues over time. When I say “rejection issues”, I don’t simply apply that to the context of romantic relationships, either…no, unfortunately my insecurities, leeriness, and inability to commit have crossed all boundaries throughout the realms of my world by now – rendering the recluse, socially anxious and withdrawn “thing” that writes this blog. I know that I am the common denominator in all of the failed attempts at intimacy in the years since I learned the truth about the Real World and how quickly someone can literally become someone else altogether. I have repeatedly been shown the lesson of trusting the wrong individual, but have yet to actually learn it, I suppose.

Image

My worst wounds are the ones people can’t see; the most painful experience of my own survival are born from my psyche, from my perceptions of the world around me as well as the people in it. In reality, this past week has been very minimal in interaction or dialogue or exchange with the backstabber in question; that’s my issue – that’s my symbolic open wound: the ways that others feel so obliged to “use” my weaknesses to their own benefit somehow.

I operate fairly simply and without complexity:

  • If you’ve hurt me in any way, I will let it be known to you – at which point, you have the option to either do right or wrong by me.
  • After a window of a day or so passes by, if you have not chosen to show me the fundamental decency of communication in any sense of the word, you’ve been systematically chalked up with those before you who have acted like a mutant.

In life, I realize that we are each essentially on different journeys in this thing, motivated by varying factors and ambitions; only coinciding to unite forces when the purpose serves each person involved; I get it. I am not some numbskull from whom such concepts escape, trust me; I am however, apparently in some highly masochistic sort of denial to the blatant and repeatedly painful realization that 9 out 10 of the living, breathing, “functioning” carbon-based, human life forms around me at any given moment in time: are quite likely already chalked up to the formerly mentioned category of “mutant”.

Image

I use the word mutant to describe many types of creatures who live under the palpable existence of “humanity”:

  1. People who steal from other people.
  2. People who bully or terrorize others who are unable to defend themselves due to size or restraints.
  3. People who are dishonest with those who are not.
  4. People who think that they are the exception to “the rule”, any rule.
  5. People who are intrinsically satisfied by watching others suffer.
  6. People who are obnoxious in the need to flaunt and display celebratory behaviors at the cost of others in a form of mockery.
  7. ANYONE WHO HURTS A CHILD.
  8. People who believe that a certain social status or popularity amongst the tanning lights will protect them from the dark side.
  9. People who carry a badge or yield a gavel out of an unsatisfied need for control over others.
  10. People who knowingly look the other way when something WRONG is happening, because to say something would somehow affect their pocketbook negatively.

There are many more types of mutants too: pimps, johns, most government officials, bible thumpers, bullies, etc.

This week, I’ve been dealing with #s 3 and 8 on a pretty regular basis…and it’s been rough on me because I am an adult now, and I have to behave like one – but it’s NOT always easy is it? Sometimes, I would give anything just to be able to allow my fifteen year old Self to come out, just for a few moments and say, “Oh really? You think you’re backstabbing is anything new to me? Seriously, because I wanted to know if my back was hurting your fucking knife yet, you little Weaseling Snake…”, or, “Can it seriously be possible that you’re as fucking Princess Stupid as you’re acting, you stuck-up little spoiled rotten Dumptruck?”…

Image

…Jesus, I stomp around my house like a fucking Terra Cotta soldier, cursing and snarling under my breath whenever I’m in the same room with one of them – the 1st of May CAN NOT get here fast enough I’ll tell you that much…because I can hardly stand to look at my soon-to-be former roommate or either one of the little shit-kick dogs that are attached to his presence here in what was a once quiet and calm, easy-going and reciprocally supportive home front. I hate sharing space with such an opportunist; as I am NOT built that way by any means. I take yeah…but I am most certainly far from last to refrain from giving back.

I’m trying really hard to be mature and to just let it all roll off my back like water off a duck’s, but I guess I’m not as mature as I need to be, because things bother me when it comes to humanity. It really bothers me when people use me, when people not only use me, but then carry on as if that were always the plan, afterward. Why does some pompous, rich, pretentious fuck need to fuck with me and take from me when he already has more than enough for himself? Greed. Self-absorption. Lack of substance. All I know is that it’s hard to keep giving like the human being that I am by nature, when those with their hands out have mouths so full that they cannot speak to me.

Ok, that’s all for now…I will step down from the podium now…

 

Notes to Self #93

Image

Dear Self,

* There is no such thing as driving “by Brail”; you’re passengers hate you, the other drivers on the road think you’re under the influence, and it might be bad for your tires.

* When the lady up the road with the shopping cart filled with bags of oranges that she undoubtedly sells for a “living” by the freeway asks you to watch her cart while she runs inside the gas station to use the bathroom – and you agree, don’t act all surprised when she does not find your “orange launcher” the least bit amusing upon her return.

* Orange is NOT tan.

* Hoping to die is the same as being suicidal.

* When you don’t pay your bills, you lose your shit.

* You’re roommate’s bitchy, judgmental and vulpine ex-girlfriend  (whose TWO HIGH MAINTENANCE ASS little yapper, drop-kick style dogs have been fostered by your own hand for the past year and a half while she was away in prison) does NOT deserve your energy or time – She suffers from the Princess Syndrome = she’s been lied to her whole life about her actual worth in the world by over-reactive, under-responsive, superficial and greedy parents who over-protected her for too long – LET IT GO.

Note to Self #7 – Things NOT to do

Image

 

NEVER:

Go willingly into the courtroom – it might make for a bad impression on the presiding judge, but it sure makes you newsworthy.

Misspell the word ‘misspell’.

Confuse the words ‘straight’ and ‘forward’ while getting directions from a passenger when driving your obnoxious 4×4; there is a big difference between the two.

Cut away from “the Chase”.

Swing in super-fast circular motion while holding a giant hammer with both hands out in front of you to balance your quickly gaining momentum – in a small garage – with your brother kneeling in a mechanic’s crouch nearby.

Date a guy from a machine shop.

Repeatedly, and in quite bad humor, joke with your ancient maternal great grandmother (who is full-blooded Shawnee and literally once lived in a shanty made out of tree trunks and animal skins) about cutting her hair (which would touch the floor if she were able to stand anymore).

Flip out one day after allowing years of disgust at your co-worker’s eating habits to build up inside you and yell, “Is there something wrong with your swallowing mechanism?! You must have gotten that from your mother, she should’ve worked harder at swallowing your load!” – as funny as your boss may think it is, he will still be forced to fire you on the spot.

* And remember ALWAYS

when life gives you lemons, dip those mother fuckers in concrete and pot shot them at cars passing you by in the carpool lane during rush hour gridlock.

Note to Self # 271

cut throatNote 271: Conspirator

Dear Self,

Not everyone (or anyone for that matter) is on board with your paranoid conspiracy theories about the US government; actually, you’ve likely made more enemies than friends that way.

…maybe time to try biting back the urges to point out “chemtrails” in the sky or undiagnosed tick bites that you see here and there…

People want CORRECTION people NEED to believe that their government is the good guy at work day and night to ensure the safety of everyone’s family, especially babies…people can be so miserably pathetic and sheep-esque that way in my opinion. Because the truth behind the United States government and its founding motivations runs deep in my own blood, as a Shawnee native (well, 50% at least). There’s no way anyone can tell me truthfully that our nation’s executives have not been crooked, shady and bloodthirsty from the beginning; anyone who believes in the good of such a display is blind and deserves to believe such utter bullshit.

There’s no use in trying to convince this type of person that they are a sheep.