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F. Scott Fitzgerald

It's time again, time again, time again. To write. To be again. To dive into my subconcious and do some ice fishing. What will I pull out? I'm looking forward to the journey not the destination and I'm going to fill this empty bone with something. With something.

The Null Result

My experiment (searching for the ether of your voice, that encompassing fluid that carries my electric soul from planet to planet) returned a null result. But, the forces are there, acting at a distance, inverse squared, attractive repulsive, fundamental, empirical.

My husband is lost at sea. I've made it safely to your shore, your light-eye beaming, stellar, bright as fusion. But, I'm dead, dead, dead. Walking without breathing, numb to the sense of touch, stunned at the supernova failure of my life. Walking dead. Zombified. Painted zombie life; daily motions machined into the brain with screws and rivets, clicking, ticking, worm gears rotating.

It's a predeterministic world. Born with a fortune tattooed under my tongue, an equation ruled by dark matter and unknown forces, and no universal constants to keep me bound to anything but this null result of a life.

El Fin

It's time to put this journal to rest.

My audience of one has evaporated anyway, and apparently I am too practical a person to be a poet, writer, dreamer, or otherwise.

So, just fuck it anyhow.

sad Friday's

it's Friday, once again, and he's gone, gone, gone--paying me no mind, not a kiss, not a touch, no sweetness for me on Friday nights. Friday nights are tough.


I've become a long forgotten vial of insulin.

I am a raindrop suspended in his sky never to refract his light again,no dispersion,or reflection off these walls,

I am the forgotten sister of his new muse,
With dirty lips,
Chaffed thighs,
Elbows like tree trunks,
the seventh sister he'll come back to when his light goes dark again.

Rabbit, Bear, Dragon, Horse, I am a Rat

i am feeding you, feeding you
in the dark, i know you're there
across the map, through those blue-veined
interstates, through that rolling topographic
appalachia, down to the parabolic curve
of the gulf of mexico, it cups you,
it keeps your brandy warm in its snifter,
almost cuddling you to cozy,
but you don't get too comfortable there
you're always hungry and you've come to me
for food, it's not enough to overnight
ship freshly baked, hand pressed
cookies with pink sugar frosting,
nor is it enough to hang my most delicate
lingerie onto the diffraction spikes of Vega
in hopes that you'll grab it when she tip toes
across your meridian, way down there, way over there
and I cloud-stared yesterday thinking I was you,
those strange stacks of flat bottom clouds
shape shifted from wolves to bears, to a pegasus
and finally to a graying mushroom cloud
that was ready to engulf my rabbit with stopwatch

Aug. 24th, 2008

To me one of the nicest things about being in my thirties is that at clubs/bars, etc. I don't feel like I have anything to "prove" anymore. I'm just there, comfortable in my own skin. Quite ok that I don't have the "coolest" outfit on--you know the right shoes/hair/corset/stockings/band tee shirt.

I really like being 35 at this very moment. It fits.

PR today

Although I was up 'til 3AM waiting for George to come home, I managed to get up by 7AM and had a banana and bagel to fuel for the 5K race. I feel like I had to run this one after all of the races I traveled so far to run--this 5K was in my neighborhood. And the money goes to families who lost family members in Iraq and Afganistan.

I managed to get my personal record (PR) today! I finished the 5K in 25:14, which is an 8:08 average pace! That's my fastest yet! I'm happy with my time and feel that I am definitely improving as the summer goes along.

Tonight, I'll be in Raleigh doing a show with Nightmare Sonata who is opening up for Wednesday 13. Should be interesting.

Widmanstatten Patterns

hot wicks, incense, cedar, and now I bleed when I give my love to him
i am sick with it, anemic with it, going into sugar sock with it,
i am a magnet dropped too many times to ever stick to his hot metal again
broken or rather opened with dull fingers like a blood orange, but he
has no ribbon left to tie across my chest, no poetspeak left
to save the planet from the attack, no planet left to bury your talisman heart
that smolder-burns, but burns all the same
i am feathers and wax fashioned into a flying machine, run
on water vapour and sunlight and the spherical drops that suspend
themselves between our two planes: in parallel
they do not intersect,
so send me a comet with a trajectory that can actually hit this skin
inject me with some primitive rock and radiation, make this bloody
pit inside of me heal, this wound close from the soft decay
of his body as the crater and the impact mend us into one.

you don't try anymore
to catch me in your musical snare
to stretch my belly, these alabaster scars,
like a tam, tap, tap, tap, tap
out a tune, a rhythm, a jingle, a far fetched
shoothing star that you photographed
(with only your memory, but isn't that all that matters
anyway?) So I'm renting out clouds and raindrops
and sending them your way, not in the way that you think,
but in weather patterns that create subtle cloud
stretches and strands that you'll tie around your wrist
'cause that's something you'd do fer me, yeah,
and then ask for a lock of hair
and send me the crescent moon in a locket
to gaze upon when the blue hour comes
hot and cool, sweating, freezing, needing
lonely as lonely as sweet bruises from my kneeling
and prayin' and my running from state to state
and forgettin' that there 50 of 'em.