all the time.
one another.
whipped cream.
purple dinosaurs fed to toddlers.
and
there is panic in the air.
as the girls all flee to the hills and leave the boys to defend their man-hood against ona another.
and all of the dead people are in the hills laughing and waiting for us all to figure it out and stop fleeing and fighting and scaring one another.
there is hope in holding hands.
butterfly kisses didn't die with your grandmother and the dandilions will grow until the end of time.
beautiful weeds.
was the printed word on the t-shirt I got my dad for Christmas.
WAS AWESOME TODAY.
Everywhere I went; the juke-box at the BAD WAITRESS, the banjo-strumming roomate at home, the mixed cd that Sean made me, the patrons at Liquor Lyles and their selections this evening, the songs I sang in the shower.
Everything sounded perfect.
You know when you have those days?
Too many things,
when all I want is to write my own story.
And I keep thinking
"call someone"
after all, there is the threat of the bird flu pandemic.
We could all be dead tomorrow.
So,
Please,
come get the bird.
And tell me we are safe.
We are all so safe here.
With teddy bears and home-made stuffed donkeys you will never know.
I had a revelation the other day, maybe even two weeks ago, that all we really will have in the end is one another and our stories.
As we are running out of food in the cold, and confused, as we were during the code-red drills in jr. high school, pressed together and feeding one another with the stories that cannot be starved out of us.
I'm the only bimbo you don't know?
Or, I'm the only one you know- not a bimbo...
you said it wrong.
and you look like you're going to cry.
You were likened to a wet puppy-dog without the hat.
And my heart has been broken,
before.
Or I guess that's what they call it.
That thumping organ has been ripped out and sacrificed and nearly gone bad but still remains somehow like and extremity attached by a whithering umbillical cord uncut, not entirely tained.
This is not an untreatable blood disease.
And the bird was dead when I came home, face down in the snow,
still there now, frozen.
And I'm and on my way out. Saint Paul today for breakfast and coffee and bloody marys. And we are all always on our way out, headed accross some river, to some other unknown or previously visited place where you may or may not be able to smoke indoors.
What the fuck?
Is with the defective blog site??
The last few entries I tried to post about very important matters such as suicide and black holes have disappeared.
Where did they go?
To the dark side of the internet?
To someone's mailbox on the other side of the globe?...possibly in Argentina.
I've been having lots of conversations about productivity and wasted time these days... I think it's all relative.
But then I guess, so is everything so maybe that makes my arguement null and void.
Truth be told, I don't really want to argue about anything these days but maybe it's the stars. I seem to be under fire alot lately.
Or,
that is how it sometimes seems....
when you fall into that dark hole, get swallowed up, eaten up by your own mind.
The color is no longer something you see when you look at the ocean from behind tainted eyes.
The waves are trying to eat.
Swallow you up more so than you've already been swallowed.
And there are no sunfish.
Only sharks live in these waters.
The ocean is blind to your pain.
And, these are the seasons...
whether warm or dry, humid or covered with a foot of snow.
This is when madness runs loose.
The vampires are biting with reckless abandonment.
Lock your doors up please.
Don't go out looking to eat.
Learn to cook.
And use garlic in the mix.
I'm dead serious here.
I can't watch any more of you drown or succumb to the ocean you have dreamed up.