Saturday, May 3, 2014

No One Wants You Anyway, Stupid.

Often, I stare at the aborted poems in my head and poke at their redness, wondering what they would have been if I pushed them out, screaming and bloody. 

But usually, I just poke at them. 

Technology today makes writing hard for me. Is my google connected to my Facebook connected to anything my coworkers/acquaintances may read?

I remember singing a crazy little song when I was a wee one:

Toe bone connected to the foot bone
Foot bone connected to the heel bone
Heel bone connected to the ankle bone
Ankle bone connected to the shin bone
Shin bone connected to the knee bone
Knee bone connected to the thigh bone

Crazy Song here

Anyway, I often feel that my google bone is connected to my blog bone, connected to my Facebook bone, connected to my now headache bone. It constricts me. I don't want the person I sit next to at a desk to know what I write. Or the person whose tables I'm bussing. Or the person I'm pouring tastings for. I don't want the people who I'm chained to by work and circumstance to look at me in a strange light, to feel badly for me, before they bumble home to watch American Idol and bitch about the working class wanting too much, as much as they have. 

I suppose it's wishful fantasy to want to live this way. But there's comfort in you, dark random reader, that I will not see you the next day and look away red-faced. That you could maybe understand me more fluidly, more easily. I know these are silly things to think, that it's possible to find a writing circle or people with whom one can easily converse with. I just don't think it's really possible for me, here and now.

Parting thoughts. 

Burnt Heart 
Scraping toast. His voice is the sound of someone scraping toast. Little bits of emotion crumbling all over the floor, and you should be cleaning it up, but GODDAMN the sound is killing you! 

 His eyes are two round eggs, cracked and leaking. Suddenly you realize you’re hungry, and lift up a knife (a knife! how did it get there?) and his cheeks are so soft and pink, two round Canadian bacons. And this is how murder starts. You didn’t mean it, really. Be American. Go back for seconds. Again and again. He’s crying now. But I’m hungry, you whisper.