concretekiss: (Default)
Barreling through the darkest hours at 80, the seams in the road rock the car. It gallops in a rhythm. There are long stretches of no man’s land, a thin row of reflectors to guide you, they glow like stars. For moments it is hard to tell where the sky meets the road & dreamlike, you are driving along a constellation.

there was only you & me

My mother kept me, despite suggestions from family members that she have me removed in utero or given away. She was 18. You read the musings of a rescued mutt.

Each mile into town is another memory. Each childhood name spoken, a stone lifted.
O unconditional love )

Ovulatopia

Apr. 2nd, 2008 11:39 am
concretekiss: (Default)
rorschach cloud. the last unicorn

At the raptor preservation exhibit Saturday morning, a baywing hawk flew so low over the crowd his breast brushed across my nose & forehead. It was religious as a baptism. Birds of prey have such intense gazes. An eagle can fly high as an airliner. A great horned owl can take down an elk. I did not know these things before.

Spring. Along with various insects & migratory birds, the city is now infested with hot shirtless boys, running gallantly across fields, making kissy-faces at the stoplights, winking in the checkout lines, messing with my emotions & torturing me in general their stupid shoulders & chests glistening stupidly ogod ogod & everyone is kissing on tv. :(

Exit lease termination & tax refund spent on emergency move. Enter poison ivy rash on my bottom & behind left ear from Blunn Creek Watershed. Exit poison ivy rash. Enter double parent/teacher conferences for both children's misbehavior. Exit pt conference. Enter bottom right wisdom tooth & swollen elephant woman jaw. Enter nightmares. Enter crying at the obgyn's office when asked if I have any kind of "support network." Enter cyclical cramps. Enter low tire. Enter kid with toothache.

I can't tell if people in general are becoming more callous & empty or if I'm just growing up. Today I hate my hair & all my music the way a girl hasn't a stitch to wear & everyone gets everything they want but me & I think I am falling out of love with lj & poetry & am so Air Supply I can barely stand myself.
concretekiss: (Default)
Want new ink, but am unsure of what to get, exactly. I guess this is when tattoo addicts start getting bullshit cartoons, butterflies skullfucking loony toonz characters & their Chinese names in Sanskrit on the backs of their necks.
There is an intense scene in The Man w/ the Golden Arm, where Frank Sinatra, a heroin addict in withdrawal shoots water into his veins to get a placebo effect. I developed strong crushes on both my tattoo artists by the end of each sitting, intoxicated by the endorfins, giggling & giddy.
Do any of you have tattoos? where, what & why?

Coming home from a taxing work day, for the last 2 hours there were construction workers re-siding the apartments, clinging to the wall directly next to me, hammering violently. It was really nice. My skin feels prickly & stings. I could barf.

& Then earlier, I tried to post a poem in GP, but comments began veering into a Billy Collins debate (tip: quick way to incite drama in GP, mention Billy Motherfucking Collins. He's like Beetlejuice), so I got bummed out & deleted it.

& Then yesterday I commented to someone's entry in FoundPhotos & noticed the predictably hilarious procession of assheads who emerge from under their rocks to be snotty. I have to wonder what type of people these are. Those who meticulously read comments solely for the purpose of springboarding with an incendiary, aggressive or competitive one that will top those previous. Scouting for someone to disagree with, correct, stoke into an argument. To gain some badass status? Attention mongers. I rarely go into communities because of these kinds of people. Is it because they cannot gain attention any other way but through opposition?

Anyway, the charming little poem I found on my lunch break:
Mark Halliday's
Refusal to Notice Beautiful Women )

& Then I learnt that this jerk named Riccioli from Bologna mapped out the dark spots on the moon in the 1600s. He named them Seas of various things. Among them, Seas of Rains, Moisture, Storms, Vapors. Thanks you Riccioli the Redundant. & now we have to live with it & say it in Latin to cover up the shame, because they also aren't even real seas!

& Then I'm having these problems with delayed anger
where in the moment I am too dumbfounded to respond, questioning my emotions, the stars, the month, the temperature, my daily water intake before I react. Pathetic. Then much like laughing last, I analyze some situation until yes, yes, it is feasible to feel anger aaaaand [release anger]. Always too late. What is the statute of limitations for validity of anger? Two days after? Minutes?

& Then a Yeti or Chuppacabra of some sort has shat upon my car.
F this Tuesday in the A, without permission.
concretekiss: (Default)
I watched TV for the 1st time in months. Moisture ribbons now? jeeeez.
Moisture pockets, moisture beads, moisture ribbons, what next? Moisture buttons? Moisture swirls? Moisture fuck you.

Mother & Son Negotiation #1458762057724008

Mother - Had It, Up to Here:
No, I said 45 minutes & I'm sticking to it. You say you could be a lawyer well then let's lawyer it up. (premature response. kid 1 - mom 0)

Son - Grounded for 2 Days, Charged w/ Sabotage, Argues Longtime:
Well, then I might as well give up. It's gonna take forever.

Lawyer it Up: Then give up. Doesn't hurt me none...it's my computer & it will take longer the longer you argue.

Sabotager: Ok then, I'm not doing it. It's not fair.

Fine you wanna give up go ahead. You wanna think I'm just being mean, fine. It's not like I never folded 100s of loads of clothes for you. It's not like I never collected & carried your poop. in a trashbag. to the dumpster *daughter snickering maniacally in background*. It's not like I never wiped your stinkin' butt you know what every. time you think I'm being unfair it's when I'm trying to TEACH you something I had to learn myself. You aren't grounded because I'm trying to be mean or unfair or bossy. I've your best interest at heart.

It's 15 minutes! What's another 15 minutes?!

15 minutes means I backed down. How about no minutes? How about you do all the laundry & don't go on the computer at all, because I'm the alpha & omega, because I'm your Mr. Miyagi, Danielsan so WAX ON WAX OFF.

Ok. 45 minutes.

candy lense flare


In which I am like the baby lemur I once saw @ the pet store, clinging to a wire & mesh effigy/emotopia, in which I thought I was finished with my period & that it was Friday as I drove to work today, in which our company hired a tranny:

Lately I am all red buttons & tripwire, more reticent by the day, maybe jaded, in need of a christening, my own genuflection, the ashes of something to scatter, locks to shear, a bow to break my bottle over.
Maybe I should go goth. Maybe I need a good ass-kicking. Maybe I need to kick some goth kids' asses. I have been taking a long way home to feel as though I’m going, as though I’m getting things done. The wind in my hair humors me.
There are things we need to say goodbye & hello to extravagantly, or else we will stay stuck wondering whether or what to quit or begin. The flick of a wrist ripples through generations, falls from yr fingers. You pass it to the next messenger like a baton in a relay race. You blow the kiss along in spite of where you got it. We revere ourselves celestial. Nothing else will on this thrown stone.
Maybe I need a mojo hand, to sculpt the chocolate likeness of you, a band named Voodoo Thunder & the Ceremonious Gestures, to clear history, to defrag, a mean streak, or to just change my middle name to Disappointed. I do not breathe on the dice. I do not light fires for good fortune.
I am too. I am always too something.
concretekiss: (Default)
Why don't you just pull yr SMILING fuckass right on out, TURBO. I was only TRYING to drive around here!

the outlandishness of my dreams suggests to me that i reign my imagination tightly in waking life. yet, my imagination in waking life is prodigal, invasive as ivy. it shakes hands with simple facts, spins them around like a lady's man, waits at the door with a polished apple. imagination is sometimes the bane of my existence. i can't watch the news.

during my "vacation" i found myself sitting lost in coffee shops, dawdling about bookstores thinking "so, this is it," having idealized the whole situation beforehand in turn strapping myself for disappointment. i do this often with parties, relationships, jobs, arriving jaded. & nothing is ever as horrible or spectacular as i’d previously envisioned. there is me before the party getting siked, choosing a dress, painting my eyes, "idealizing." there is me ho-hum at the party asking is this the right party? are we partying? where are the lap-dancers, chocolate unicorns & jake gyllenhaal? why is no one fucking on a pile of skulls? there is me after the party asking, did we "party down?"
but when i stay at home humping the dishwasher i know deep in my heart that everyone is having a better time somewhere else riding zebras over the tundra, jacked-up on opium, & when i show up they hide the good music, pull out the dradle & sit around looking like a bunch of dickasses.

tuesday a boy named Zack walked up to me, pressed his belly against my arm, pulled the scarf off of my hair & proceeded to clumsily lick my face. at 18months, he'd obviously mistaken me for a banana, but i knew too well this party tactic.
1 of my many failed new year resolutions was to officially ask a boy out as opposed to drunkenly grabbing one & much like Zack, aiming my face at his face. i guess it’s fortunate that i’ve never been clobbered with a dump truck as a result. next thing you know i'll have my head stuck in a lawn-chair yelling hep me, hellllp.

fuck you:
central processing unit
high road
guy who wouldn't sell me beer
sunshine
oprah
grateful dead
photos of mars
no turning lane on southfirst
girlscouts
whistling hobo
sanjaya
new leaf

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August 2010

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