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2004-05-30 4 1:10 a.m.
spitting the poetry of placeholders:
it hears her...
its ears are more attuned to
the gauze on her knuckles soaked with
blood on her fingers &
she will drip suffering wherever she goes.
sometimes i don't know who i am. & i find myself sitting in front of keyboards, trying to type it into grey or white or whatever boxes...like this one, trying to type who i am...into being, into existence, into a manageable box & theory & concept & definition. something i can tote around w/ me & proudly whip out when in doubt or challenged or insecure. but it doesn't cure anything. it's just stumbling in the dark, y'know? 'cuz all too often...much much too often, i don't like myself & i hate where i am & who i am & the decisions i've made...& it terrifies me b/c it means i must have failed. i must have failed & there's so much more room for failure, so many more things to fail at. & i type this in the dark w/ the airconditioning on & a nose filled w/ phlegm & eyes watery & a bin filled w/ tissues i stole from mcdonald's & wendy's & mcdonald's again...& i'm not even crying, it's just my nose, but only americans get frickin' allergies, right?
i'm so tired of running sometimes.
it seems like i never stop running.
& i want to. so very badly...
words for worlds, her sentences are
superstructures & she wails them,
hair in her eyes,
spittle on her mic,
a banshee bruised, she is the
queen of barstools & alone. there she sits,
in bubblecoat of shadows, strumming
stories to the darkness.
agony tones than the three drunks at the bar
each nursing Corona number six,
muttering mayhem &
scorning the wisdom of those
homeward bound. queen of
barstools, yet herself bound.
the wages of the night:
burgundy they were, burgundy they are.
tattoos on her toes...