Archive for January, 2017

No Caskets, Please

Posted: January 18, 2017 in writing

‚ÄčI want to be cremated. Put me in a wasabi peas tin or some shit. I have a Hello Kitty lunch box… That would work, too. And don’t have a funeral; throw a fucking rager. Pot luck that bitch. Get shit faced. Play music. Be weird. 

I’m not trying to die or anything… But don’t put me in a fancy upholstered box in the cold ground. Just don’t. I’ve been alone in boxes feeling 6 feet under enough during my life.

Posted: January 13, 2017 in writing

I am not myself;

I am shattered bits of a heart

Which loved the wrong people. 

I am a lightening storm

Even on a sunny morning;

I am the charred remains

Of a structure fire,

Black ashes and twisted metal and

Lies.

Stories. 

Assumptions

Passed on a once-proud face. 

I cannot erase the rough, pink scars he left in my memory

Or the way his callous voice sticks in my head

Like a glue trap.

I healed wrong. 

Rewrite

Posted: January 1, 2017 in writing

Ten years–

It hit her like a big, broad locomotive on a track somewhere.

It had been ten years,

Or approximately that long,

Because–almost certainly–not to the exact day

Ten years since she’d left that little one-horse town,

Duffel packed and slung in the truck bed,

Skies widening as she emerged from the opressive, claustrophobic cover of the Ozarks

Like a butterfly escaping a chrysalis. 
Without hesitation, she’d embraced the next life.

A year in the woods was quite enough.

Just one more year existing among strangers, she kid herself, one more year and I can go find a home

A decade later, of course, she scoffed at her young optimism,

But appreciated how it had motivated her. 

Ten years out of the woods and she was still–

Or rather, again–no closer to a better situation. 

And here she was; dredging up a piece of the past.

A facebook friend request approved with a total lack of hesitation,

Some sort of hopefully good person on the end of that,

Because another lousy, unpresent person was the last thing her life needed. 

Even her best friend phoned less than monthly. 

There was a constant influx of random internet acquaintances,

But nothing ever quite satiated the chasm where

Actual social interaction was needed. 

And a decade later, here was a person she’d hardly thought of in those years,

But always as kind and friendly. 

Always. 

She’d found herself unable to muster the courage

To try to be around anyone kind, before. 
Before, when they had every opportunity to be friends,

But chose only to be aquaintances.

Before, in the world of High School, where if someone with tits even smiled at someone with a penis , it would be rumored that they were fucking. 

Before, when they were different people; young and stupid. 
And now they owned a more seasoned young and stupid.

Both purposeless drops in a vast ocean, or a sea, or maybe just a lake,

But Hell, it seemed so big and black and directionless. 

Some sort of question mark pulsing like a waning motel vacancy sign within each of them; 

No real undercurrent to be found. 

The tired result of a generation lacking true opportunity despite its institutionalized optimism.

The sort of generation, which, due to its all-consuming disappointment in a meager reality

Had revolutionized the sale and production of wine.

Because, when your peer group is told by every prior generation to stop whining, 

They begin wining. 
It’s oddly comforting: the feeling one gets while drinking alone

With another, fifty-something miles apart.

Glass after glass of wine while she turned pages

And no telling what he drank or did,

But it was both comforting and less lonely all the same. 

And maybe that was where she messed up; getting comfortable. 
Because she hadn’t considered what she’d looked like to him

Eleven years before, as a shadow, huddled against a bus window that August,

Some new face with a wardrobe not so unlike Tim Burton’s.

Did she look as terrified as she felt?

Of course, he’d seemed to her some impossibly popular designated smart kid
With a side of boredom-inspired smart ass. 

And this one time,  he took his shirt off on the bus

And this one time, he brought a bucket of ice cream for breakfast and shared it

And this one time, he convinced her and a few others to jump out the emergency door at the back. 
That. That exact sort of quality was what she needed more of in her life; 

A little spontaneity with a dash of caution-to-the-wind thrown in. 

That quality was not exactly prevalent in him now,

A more world-weary worker bee

With ghosts in his eyes and scars on his heart.

He was still kind, though. 

Possibly even kinder. 

And that was okay. 

She would learn to become those things; the things she needed. 

Maybe he’d be along for that journey. 
If not, it was no loss of hers.