Theme # 5: Old Pomes

For posterity, or something, a few old pomes I think aren't absolutely horrid...

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To begin with, a rare rhyming pome. I can't tell if I like it, but it rhymes.

(Written 2/12/1990)

let us go then, you and i

away from this wasteland deep

go where all you see is sky

and angels watch o'er our sleep

this place of ours won't be too far

i can almost smell the air

all we do is wish on a star

and soon we will be there

so let us go far away from this

where we can at last be free

and i will sleep rememb'ring a kiss

deep where no mortal eyes see

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Here's a super cheesy one I wrote in Santa Fe, with the raw pitiful emotion only a 15-year-old female can feel. My broseph made it into a song that his band performed, I think.

(Written 10/30/1987)

i look out the window

and see your face

then it's gone

tears fall like rain

when can i see you again?

why is the world this way?

always the punisher-

never the punished

i want you with me

i need to feel you next to me

your love keeps me alive

where would i be without you?

life is so confusing

why lock people up?

too young to make a difference

too young to vote

magic age-

twenty-one

but what of sixteen?

why?

how can you be good

and happy

when the government considers you

dead?

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Here's one I wrote about mild schizophrenia, a few months later.

(Written 1/15/1988)

i have voices

echoing inside my head

not mine

there's someone

telling me i'm nothing

just an illusion

CRAZY

my nightmare has returned

it wants to control me

something inside tells me to let it

let it run my life

destroy my sanity

if any is left

i must know

am i crazy?

or is it all in my mind

is it the life i've led

is it the way i see

the lies i've told

or is it all a lie

has my mind really gone

am i really insane

help me to sort out my mind

help me to be sane

to be young again

young and innocent

while

amidst the confusion

a baby cries

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About a one night stand.

(Written 2/7/1988)

it begins,

frantic touching

confused kisses

cold fingers, feet

stripped bodies, minds

making quick love

or fast fucking

"thank you"

it ends

as suddenly and hopeless

as it began

"goodnight"

goodbye

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About loneliness.

(Written 5/21/1988)

*of someone*

i don't know what you see

yet i find myself looking for you

i don't know how you live

yet i'm always near your home

i don't know your views

yet i always miss you

i don't know your smile

yet i think of it and am content

i don't know your voice

yet i often hear it call my name

i don't know your touch

yet i long for your presence

i don't know you at all

yet without you i'm lonely

i must find who you are

so i may be whole

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A self portrait of sorts.

(Written 7/11/1988)

*i, me, my, solo*

so you want to know me, then i will tell you who and what i am.

i am the void. i am the moon. i am the sky. i am the sword that severs. i am your coffee. i am the first lucky in a pack of cigarettes. i am the last country conquered in a game of war. i am the last building to fall in the end of the world. i am the pen you write with while it runs out of ink; the pen you toss aside in frustration. i am the song that you hate, but gets stuck in your mind. i am the wood you burn to start a fire; the branch broken off a dead tree, the burning flame, struggling to remain bright and alive. i am the first bite you eat in the morning, the food you enjoy yet take for granted. i am the dream you remember when you awaken, yet forget after you've spoken. i am the broken ring in your pocket, the one you put back together when bored. i am the teacher who put up with you in high school; the student alone in the front row. i am the quiet between songs on an album, the dreaded silence, the momentary lull in time. i am the tear you prevent from escaping your eyelid, the pain felt but not seen. i am the table centerpiece hidden by food and ignored. i am your looking glass. i am you.

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About a memory, but it might have been a dream. Who can say?

(Written 2/27/90)

i'm remembering. it was in a bathroom, and the walls were covered all over with red and blue and purple and yellow and orange and green hand prints. i was running in circles trying to fit my hands in every spot that someone else had once painted there, and i was thinking about you. i ran all around until i lost my breath and lost count of how many hands i had already splatted, so i opened the door and walked about thirty-five steps, and you were still right where you used to be, and you were still laughing at the drunk bum that somersaulted into the flowerbed and passed out. it wasn't that funny, really. but still you laughed until you couldn't breathe, and your body shook, and you still kept on laughing until a cop took the bum to where he could sleep on a bed, then i started laughing and you stopped. jumping into flowerbeds to sleep and be part of nature so to wake up staring at the polished boots of a cop must be a very frightening experience.

you're still laughing.

still laughing.

laughing.

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On an old lover.

(Written 10/9/1990)

i heard you want to see me.

why?

is there something left unsaid

that you wish to voice?

i thought we had said all there was

and more yet.

no, i don't very much

want to see you.

you make my gullet swell

you cause my fists to tighten

my fractured brain to hurt

again.

i find it hard to breathe

when you are near.

i smoke a lot

if you're around.

my feelings turn off

my voice catches an evil twinge

i chew my nails

look into my lap, away

bite my lip

scribble on good paper

and above all

most important

i almost cry.

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An attempt at optimism.

(Written 10/11/89)

oh so wondrous

when you reach the point

where you've lost all hope

for humanity

when you decide there is not one

worth smiling for

living for

and suddenly

out of nowhere

you see a face

filled with such beauty

that you smile

without even realizing it

and remain content again

for a time.

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Another attempt at a self portrait.

(Written 10/19/89)

i am arabian nights

cambodian daze

i am starving little people

in a melancholy haze

i am the prostitute on the corner

the mother with her child

i am the pristine little mormon

gone absolutely wild

the sheltered little rich kid

the slovering, insanely lonely bum

i am the bully in the fourth grade

that hit and called you dumb

i am the sun that blinds you while you drive

trying to cause a wreck

i am the shades you wear to shield the glare

that hang around your neck

i am the lively happy hyper girl

that always wants to play

i am the sickly dying body

just waiting to decay

i am not a moron or a genius

i am not a happy girl

i am not here to please anyone

in my stinky shallow world

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Another attempt at optimism.

(Written 5/19/90)

*hang on; keep watch*

if you could see the sunrise

from your blue balcony

observing colour coming to life

night's orgasm,

you'd think differently.

if you could hear rainfall

outside your barred window

glorious drip-drop-drip

of summer's first rain,

you'd smile at it.

embrace the storm;

grieve it's absence.

for the thunderclap;

nature's tantrum.

lightening's screaming light;

her last word.

raindrops falling down;

her cry when it's over.

rainbow's rich spectrum;

her humble apology.

take in these fits of nature;

hang on; keep watch;

learn from observance.

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About a relationship at it's end.

(Written 5/15/1990)

*stagnation*

you have become habit

all too soon

i pace your floor in frustration

habits are hard to break

you pamper me materially

trash i do not need

and each day brings more gifts

you're the ring around my finger

they say a marriage turns habitual

it usually takes a year

it's been a long hot three weeks

i tire at the sight of you

you encourage my smoking habit

i smoke you through with each stick

inhaling your skin and bones, dry

exhaling your soul, ashes ashes we all fall down

the problem lies in one small fact

i've never broken any habits

they stay with me, reminding, constant

and you're my habit to break, tomorrow

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Same story, different pome.

(Written 5/15/1990)

i sit on your couch in the dark

your eyes aim toward me, i avoid

sipping on some alcoholic concoction

(i won't care about you at all)

you wonder what's bothering me

only that you are here and i am

i reply some useless lie, "nothing"

(and i won't care about you at all)

smoking the tobacco you buy me

wearing your clothes, dry, hanging

eating your food; stale, cold, artificial

(i won't care about you at all)

i lounge on this hard sofa

red bulb swings overhead

you skim your music collection, humming

(and i won't care about you at all)

your kiss chaps my wet lips

your touch burns on my cold skin

you crawl up beside me, questioning

(i won't care about you at all)

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About Las Vegas, NV.

(Written 5/22/1990)

heat, like a furnace;

boils my blood

dries my throat

can't get enough water;

bloating my stomach

yet still needing more,

more

i'd light this city;

land of decadence

palace of lights

all of it

i'd light it on fire

but the sun beat me to it

this city;

drawing people like flies

come here to get rich

winning the lottery

electric lottery

sucks people dry

dry

this heat;

streets of flame

boiling the air

not enough water

to put it out

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On hearing about a friend's demise.

(Written 6/19/1990)

screaming;

as loud as i fucking can

then i realize

i forgot to open my mouth

but in the corner

your hand beckons

somthing else

open a beer

and forget

"did you hear what happened

to him?"

no. and i won't. so shut up.

shut up.

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About apathy.

(Written 6/26/1990)

rat in my hand

explaining the importance of stale beer

(only so the carbonation doesn't get him)

i don't care

at least he's talking

so you sleep in your hole

small overpriced flat

while i sit waiting

for the moon

the longer you sleep

you said

the younger you look

(only because your eyes are closed)

but you better get up now

there's only one more beer

and i'm not going to the store

alone

not with the heat

turned up high

outside

not without

you

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Theme # 4: Dream Home

Casa de Seguridad

  Okay, here’s how it goes:  there is a house, laid out in parts that make up a whole.  The parts are stretched out across the desert, laid bare.  Part one:  a haven for her.  There’s a sleeping area with plenty of pillows and windows and a fan running to keep the air fresh.  There are drapes and burnt reds and ambers, tans and sepias.  There are wardrobes with clothing, lots of shoes.  Off the room is a library full of books and music, stereo with turntable, sit down easel, stand up easel, and art supplies aplenty.  Another nearby room/corner:  Computer station:  external hard drives full of photographs and music, a laptop with media editing software, the Adobe suite updated and working wonders.  Another corner/shelf:  Camera equipment.  Lenses, filters, tripods, monopods, flashes, light equipment, memory cards.  Another area:  games- board games, of the best, oldest varieties.  Another area:  Musical instruments:  Bodhrans & tippers, spoons, bones, drum kit, standup bass, electric bass, banjo, acoustic guitar, washboard.  Good speakers.  Another area:  recreation equipment:  bicycle/s, long board, boogie board, quad skates & derby gear, Frisbees.

Then there’s a passageway to the central area of the house.  This is where the big gathering room is.  It’s big enough to entertain several select friends, small enough to keep it cozy.  There’s a pool table somewhere nearby and a TV for watching movies (not for television or video games).  Upstairs is another, smaller gathering area with a big round bed.

Through the other passageway, there is the male part of the house, with whatever needs to be in there.  It’s probably angular in design, while the female part of the house is more rounded.  The central area is also round, around the sides and the top.  It’s shaped like a big upside down bowl, or the “Flintstone house” of Duane’s in Silverlakes, CA. 

The outer yard is fairly barren, but there are some domestic animals:  chickens mostly, an outside dog or two, maybe a couple horses.  There is a light fence around the perimeter of the land around the house.  There is a trail about 100 yards away from the front of the house, to the main road where the mailbox is.  The opening to the property has a big welcoming gate opening, made of dried tree branches and reaching up into- not an arch over the doorway, but arched sides of the entry.  The opening is about 8-10 feet wide - wide enough for a car/truck/few people.  The gate doesn’t really shut, I think, but just shows where the home begins.

Theme # 3: Hair

I find I want to be free of my hair, or at least some of it.  At least a lot of it.  There is so much of it around, about my head nowadays, it has almost become an oppressive weight of hair and need to keep and hold on to something dear and soft and useless.

But what to do then, once it is shorn?  Where do I put the old locks, even more useless now that they have no roots to hold them to their purpose?  What do I do with what remains?  Do I style it to make it look feminine, youthful?  Do I cut it short in an old ladies style, admit to my aging?  Do I do what I’ve always done with it - cut it randomly, roughly with haste and anger, with mania in my eagerness to be RID OF what has outgrown its usefulness, only to end up with a rough-hewn cut that needs a professional’s care to make it presentable again?

What if I go too far?  What if I sever too much and it NEVER comes back ever, and I’m stuck with the raw scars of a bad haircut, the raw scars of a bad mood that went too far? 

No, better to just let it remain, attached and useless; safe where I can tie it up and feel my neck is not being choked by some oppressive tickling breeze, touching my skin and reminding me of what I don’t have.  Better to leave well enough alone and wrap it up, twist it around, wind it onto the back of my head and stab a pin through it so it won’t escape.  Some things are better left alone.

Theme # 2: Music

Music has always been a huge part of my life.  My father’s father was a music leader and worked in a music store, repairing and selling band instruments.  My father could play almost any instrument with skill.  My family always sang in the car while on road trips (which were plentiful), there was always a record player and a radio/tape player around, always music in the background of my life.  Thus, it’s hard to isolate the first impressions, or most meaningful impressions, that music has left on my soul.  That said, I shall endeavor to do just that.  Listen.

           

Provo:  The first revenge I ever played on my mother involved music.  I loved to listen to her Johnny Cash album and play the song Ring of Fire over and over again when I was about 5.  I listened to it so much, my mother finally forbade me to play it- it had previously been her favorite song.  Sadly, I had to move on to other songs, other gems.  My father had a lot of records: 45s and LPs, even a few 78s.  He didn’t have the widest variety of types, which was a disappointment, but he did have a good amount of variety within the 50s-70s pop music realm.  I still have a love for good pop music, to this day. 

           

Minneapolis:  When I was 11, I was sexually molested by my older brother (who was sexually molested by a family friend).  I was traumatized by the event, which thankfully only happened once.  While my brother received some meager counseling and sympathy for the event, I was largely ignored and felt shunned by my parents who didn’t know how else to respond.  I hid out in my room in the basement and tried to work through my trauma alone, with the help of my Barbie dolls.  The horrible scenarios I acted out with those dolls still embarrass me a little to this day, but they were necessary parts of my healing.  All of that healing took place with the backdrop of the pop radio music of 1983 and 1984.  Human League, Genesis, The Police, and their ilk serenaded me through the painful nightmare of my own personal Barbie torture dungeon.  It’s kind of funny now, looking back at those tortured dolls, red nail polish painted on their necks, heads shorn of hair, Human League singing “Don’t You Want me Baby?” in the background.

Hurricane:  When I was 13, I discovered punk music, thanks to the boyfriend of my older sister.  He made her a tape of Dead Kennedys, Minor Threat, Ill Repute, and Black Flag, and I found my solace in music that was as fed up and angry about the bullshit falseness of the world as I was.  I’ve never let it go.  That music has helped me find ways to express myself, to assert myself, to be strong and solid and brave.  It saved my life.

           

Albuquerque:  When I was 15, I discovered live punk rock shows that were happening locally.  I also learned to make friends, and we went out dancing at The Big Apple every weekend we could.  We’d sneak in fifths of whiskey and vodka, get wasted and dance our asses off to the New Wave music of the 80s.  Sometimes there would be a party at someone’s house or at the abandoned airport runway, and bands would play for us while we got drunk and forgot about the pain of being alive.  Cracks in The Sidewalk is just one of the bands I remember being around a lot back then.  Days I would sit on the floor of my living room with my pair of drumsticks, watching The Cure videos while I tried to play along on my pillow drums, wishing for a drum kit of my own.

Santa Fe:  When I was 16, I gave up on my family all together and aligned myself with my friends on the streets, who listened to me and didn’t hurt me so much.  We would sing together, go to shows to hear our friends’ bands play, and talk about music constantly.  I found a few boyfriends who spoke the language of music, and soaked up their magic like a sponge.  I longed to play, to sing, to write music, but I lacked the courage to be in front of others performing, so I kept it to myself and remained on the perimeter. 

Boulder:  When I was 17, I lived all alone, two states away from my family, in a dark dank basement.  It was marvelous and magical, as soon as I acquired a stereo to keep me company.  The walls were crumbling rocks, piled atop each other and smelling damp and musty.  The light was dim, the air cool.  It was perfect for being gloomy and dramatic, writing dark poetry, and drowning in the music of the time:  Alien Sex Fiend, Ministry, David Sylvian, Japan, Dead Can Dance, Foetus, and others.  I still went to local punk shows whenever I could, mostly at Penny Lane Café, and went dancing at Rock Island and other venues that played LOUD music and provided a lot of eye candy.  I gave up the idea of being a musician, and became a writer.

Las Vegas:  When I was 19, I lived in a house with about 12 other punk rock kids, sleeping in the closet with my boyfriend, who played drums and was as passionate about music as I was.  We slept with our arms wrapped around each other, covered by the safety of Leonard Cohen and David Sylvian, then were roused from sweet slumber by Butthole Surfers, Operation Ivy, Bad Religion and NOFX.  We made musical poetic zines that featured our art and lyrics and poetry, and I felt like a goddess at last.

Salt Lake City:  I was 20, and in another house full of punk rock kids, but this time I had a baby of my own.  Being a parent made living around a bunch of drunks a lot less fun.  Especially when they all turned to me to be the adult one, the one who made sure food was made, people ate, and the cops weren’t called.  One night, after a brick was thrown through our front window, I chased the thugs down the street, yelling and shaking my fists, only to be dragged away by my “children” who had noticed that one of the thugs was “packing”.   All of these memories took place with the ever-present background of music:  Poison Idea, Billie Holiday, Leadbelly.  Then my husband and his friends set up a band practice space in the basement, and the sounds of angry punk music were everywhere, all the time.  Beers flowed, cigarettes were smoked, and stagnation became thick.  I couldn’t take it anymore and fled.

Springfield:  When I was 24, I became a widow.  I had spent several years hiding out trying to be a mother and going to school to learn to be an adult.  It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but was certainly easier than living on the streets and panhandling for money every day.  By the time I was 25, I couldn’t take any more living without live music, so I started taking Raven to shows at the local all-ages venue.  He would sometimes nap safely in the back while I slammed to DRI, NoMeansNo, Black Fire, and other punk bands.  He danced with me for The Groovie Ghoulies, Jonathan Richman, and others.  He grew up immersed in music as I was, and we shared a passion and hunger for music that always provides lively and stimulating conversations.

Theme # 1: Cold/Hot

Winter 1986:  Albuquerque, NM, age 14

            

Fighting with my mother one night.  I can’t even remember over what, of course.  It was so trivial and pointless, like any other fight ever in the face of parents/teenagers; filled with emotion and irrationalities.  It was made worse by my mother’s mental issues, and by my probable schizophrenia.  Anyways, it was a shouting match.  I felt wronged, and I stormed out of the house to take a walk, to let off steam - to find someone, anyone, who I could talk to or find solace in.  I stomped off down the street, wishing I had a warmer jacket.  It was dark, cold, winter.  There were remnants of snow on the ground, but it was dry – New Mexico dry.  I began to feel depressed as I realized that I could not think of one person to whom I could actually find peace with.  There was nobody who I could curl up into and cry and sleep and be safe.  Filled to overflowing with loneliness, I started scanning the ground for a sign.  I found a cigarette; dry, unsmoked.  How strange.  I didn’t smoke.  I started searching for matches now; scanning the sides of the road, wracking my brain to think of who might have a light for me, because I knew I had to smoke that cigarette.  Had to.  My hunt made me forget my sorrow and loneliness for a while, which was comforting.  Apparently, you can find anything if you look hard enough (another lesson learned), in the Valley of Albuquerque.  I opened up the ragged matchbook, amazed at my luck.  Only three matches!  Of course, the last one finally lit the cigarette, and I took a puff.  I got a hot heady rush that spun my head around, raced my heart, and made me feel energized.  This smoking stuff is awesome!  My mind cleared.  I turned around and started home.  I never made it home that night.  I was intercepted by a carload of my friends and my older brother.  They scooped me up and rejoiced that I was now a smoker, offering me cigarettes and laughing at my clumsiness with inhaling.  Bloated with our own amazingness, we ended up at my “boyfriend’s” house, crashed out on his couches and floor after watching The Wall again.

Writing Themes Alert

Last year a friend and I did some small writing exercises wherein we would pick a random topic and write a bit about it.  I am going to post some of what I wrote for those exercises.  Thus, there will be 4 new blog posts today, all written last Spring, and one post of really old poems that I wrote when I was a teenager.  Stay tuned.

November Blue

I like the sound of that title.  I'm not really blue.  It's a song by The Avett Brothers.

I am in the mood for some rambling writing, so what follows is some semi-random mind-flow leftovers from a couple months of quiet.  Be wary.

Today is the second real day off I've had in what seems like forever, but really it hasn't been that long.  It's just the first day off where I feel like it's a day off.  I'm snuggled on my couch in sweats and slippers, sifting through photos and videos, uploading the good ones, and generally trying to put things in order.  Turns out I used to take a lot of photos of stuff.  I have been lagging in my extra-curricular duties of late.  Ever since I got back from my small summer vacation to New Mexico, it seems I've been struggling with fighting depression, being broke, keeping the house together, and having a few friends who are overly dramatic.  It feels like my first day to breathe today, and I'm feeling good.

I have had to cut off a few dead branches, so to speak, and slow down a bit.  I think I was trying to spread myself too thin, grabbing wildly at ethereal wisps that were way too far out of my reach.  Dreaming dreams that led me too far out of my normal pathways and familiar halls.  I love (and need) to stray, but I also need to find my way home and sometimes that takes longer than I like.  Sometimes I take the journey too personally.

I made my first eyelash wish in a long time the other day; I wished for clarity.  That's what I used to always wish for, as it's usually what I am most in need of.  I tend to flutter around and get scattered and shattered.  I require a concerted effort to stay grounded in some muddy form of reality.  Reality is my anchor, sirs and madams.  It's solid.  Being an air sign (or whatever), I tend to float away into the ethereal and obscure whenever there is a lull in my schedule.

I love to sleep and dream because of this.  I abhor waking up.  Once awake, I'm grand, but it's a struggle to get there.  I have had to set up some tricks for myself to get me out of bed in the morning:  I set my alarm clock an hour and 3 minutes ahead so when I look at it in the morning I have to do the little bit of math to figure the time; I run a fan in my room all night, only while I sleep, so that when I wake up and turn off the fan I can't get back to sleep; I don't read in my bed unless I am lying upside down on the bed.  Using these tricks has greatly reduced my insomnia and also improved my ability to get up in the morning when I need to.  Having a job I love also helps considerably.  

I'm also susceptible to blood sugar drops, which affect me greatly.  Thus, I always have snacks around in order to keep my brain running a bit more smoothly.  "Minimize the agony" is my motto.  I try to accommodate my physiological needs so that I have a better chance with battling/navigating my emotional/mental chaos.  It's worked out fairly well so far, and I think I might be finally getting the hang of this "life" stuff.  Of course, there are ebbs and flows, challenges (which I love) and whatnot.  Life is life.  Blah.

Speaking of blood sugar drops, it is time for me to eat.  Until next time...