I don't think one can be driven crazy. You cannot get in your car and drive to crazy. The street you're driving is the crazy itself. One who is crazy has always been crazy. Insanity only lies dormant in the brain. Insanity can be awoken, not driven to. And another thing: everyone is crazy. You see flickers of when crazy awakes, as if it is a child who has been roused for half a moment before turning back over into slumber. One split second of unhinged rage. Assured: "You're not crazy; you're just oddly specific in your intentions."
"Tell me you love me," Crazy says. "Give me the world that is already mine and I'll go away," Crazy says. But such cancers of the brain are never truly satisfied.
Ugh I have such a gummie bear craving right now.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Indoor Girls
Dear Indoor Girls,
Your mother claims twins, smugness hiding under her dark circles. I wonder about insemination. I wonder about the validity of twins even; you could not be more different. Well, actually, you both like pretzels. That's a start.
But even I like pretzels, and there's no one like me. No one like me anywhere in the world.
The toddlers scream at the sudden realization of mom's disappearance. Of course she comes sprinting back. This repeats, every time she gets a little farther - like suicide drills in gym class. "Not my problem. Not my problem until she leaves," I think.
Ignored her warning about getting them mixed up. "She gets the purple cup, and she gets the pink." Short, brief, as if labeling boxes. I wonder if they would grow to detest being assigned these colors. How could anyone make such an oblivious mistake and confuse these girls. Splash of red hair on one, dominance, crude innocence is one tiny tongue poking out as eighteen months of motor skills reach for a sticky picture book. Only one sock. I'd love to be back at the point in my life where I wouldn't notice if I had only one foot socked.
Angelic is the other. Beautiful wispy blonde hair frames blue eyes. No distraction is required. She sits and just watches. Everything. I swear, her eyes got bigger every minute. She is perfectly symmetrical. She walks gently, tentatively, as if the polished wooden floor will break like ice bergs if her feet make a sound. I imagine she is so quiet because she's afraid of not being able to hear the sound of her own breathing.
Mom titters about home improvement. Lesson one in white suburban mother chatter. I think the only way to improve her home is paying more attention to her children. Hell, I've been with them for four hours and they've shown me more of a personality then she ever will.
I still like boys better.
Your mother claims twins, smugness hiding under her dark circles. I wonder about insemination. I wonder about the validity of twins even; you could not be more different. Well, actually, you both like pretzels. That's a start.
But even I like pretzels, and there's no one like me. No one like me anywhere in the world.
The toddlers scream at the sudden realization of mom's disappearance. Of course she comes sprinting back. This repeats, every time she gets a little farther - like suicide drills in gym class. "Not my problem. Not my problem until she leaves," I think.
Ignored her warning about getting them mixed up. "She gets the purple cup, and she gets the pink." Short, brief, as if labeling boxes. I wonder if they would grow to detest being assigned these colors. How could anyone make such an oblivious mistake and confuse these girls. Splash of red hair on one, dominance, crude innocence is one tiny tongue poking out as eighteen months of motor skills reach for a sticky picture book. Only one sock. I'd love to be back at the point in my life where I wouldn't notice if I had only one foot socked.
Angelic is the other. Beautiful wispy blonde hair frames blue eyes. No distraction is required. She sits and just watches. Everything. I swear, her eyes got bigger every minute. She is perfectly symmetrical. She walks gently, tentatively, as if the polished wooden floor will break like ice bergs if her feet make a sound. I imagine she is so quiet because she's afraid of not being able to hear the sound of her own breathing.
Mom titters about home improvement. Lesson one in white suburban mother chatter. I think the only way to improve her home is paying more attention to her children. Hell, I've been with them for four hours and they've shown me more of a personality then she ever will.
I still like boys better.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
The River
We are struck, we recover. Our injuries are only broken strings. Snapped, the chords are corrupt and wavering. Replaced, they sing. But the strings are big, almost 5 and a half feet tall and big enough to fit my shoes.
Your strings play off beat and the melodious nonconformity dances and plucks. A twang: that broken, fractured, slice. That bitch of a 4 count. When one person is over-glorified so much and so many times in my mind that if they get too close my heartbeat goes through my chest and my river of blood overflows its banks. So far deserved, I reassure, but am blind to any flaw.
I have to post this before it starts sounding stupid when flowed back through my own eyes.
Your strings play off beat and the melodious nonconformity dances and plucks. A twang: that broken, fractured, slice. That bitch of a 4 count. When one person is over-glorified so much and so many times in my mind that if they get too close my heartbeat goes through my chest and my river of blood overflows its banks. So far deserved, I reassure, but am blind to any flaw.
I have to post this before it starts sounding stupid when flowed back through my own eyes.
Monday, October 3, 2011
What Showers are For
Because God knows we all do our best thinking in the shower, letting the droplets wash away any satanic thoughts that have compounded themselves in our brain stems. Hair is rooted to our heads so it doesn't fall down into the drain with the rest of our dead inhibitions, tucked into the pipes with all other wickedness. I wonder if that's why rats are so evil - because they lurk in the pipes and catch all our awful fascinations. They grow fat with perversion, with lust and rage and sticky heat.
Some are hung onto more than others
"Why do I always think of the best comeback after the argument is over?"
"He deserved what he got."
Rats are only misunderstood. Judged too harshly. So are cancer cells and the end of summer and stepping out of comfort zones. Perhaps rats are our gods.
Some are hung onto more than others
"Why do I always think of the best comeback after the argument is over?"
"He deserved what he got."
Rats are only misunderstood. Judged too harshly. So are cancer cells and the end of summer and stepping out of comfort zones. Perhaps rats are our gods.
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