The Night I Cut Too Deep

My flesh is burning.
Did I give you the power to do that to me?

Is this your form of retribution?
Is this how you feel?

A belly of molten hot hate;
A fist clenched, aching jaw, scathing pain.

I want to vomit and expel all these emotions from my soul - push them up through my mouth, let the jagged, burning sensation swallow my senses as I spew it all out. Let it hurt! Let it hurt, I want to see blood and pulp and be overwhelmed by my pain.

Could I move forward then?

Is it my fault?
Or
Is it one more person who knows too much?

Knows enough to really hurt me

Love Sonnet (classic)

Adequate Words

Stolen words from cold dead lips

of poets from ages gone past –

when love was a bloom budding for the nip

and young starry-eyed lovers held ever fast;

courtly knights in evergreen meadows,

fair alabaster damsels with burning

love in their breast, penned to a fellow

in parchment sealed with wax. Yearning

for true love, eternal, dying. And soft!

The fair Hero hardly need speak

to gentle Claudio whilst he is sighing

over her beauty, so gentle and meek.

And now, our parents love has failed us -

this world leaves no room so swoon.

What words are left to assail us

and sow true love to bloom?

Jungle of Other

The Jungle of Other

I am the white minority

Envious eyes have me espied,

falsely believing my presumed power

in this jungle of other

I am excluded from the whole

Blind bright-white disjunction

forcing the foil in fatigued faces

in this jungle of other

I am my own worst enemy

Quietly, could I conform

and ready for racial ridicule

in this jungle of other

I am the irrationally feared

Subtly stripped of superficial stature

weak, alone, watched and weary

in this jungle of other

Taking the plunge

I may have done the most ridiculous thing a person can do in today's fragile economy - I quit my job. For a long time now, I have been debating internally about how I feel about the job I am currently working. My boss is a crook, and that is a known fact. There is no upward mobility at my job, I make the most money possible. I work in a basement with mice and mold. I take orders from my boss' particularly hostile personal assistant (who didn't even graduate high school). I wonder to myself how I got here, and why I am still here. Oh right, because I haven't found another job.

So I said FUCK IT. I decided that I deserve more, and I can no longer subject myself to an unhealthy and hostile work environment. I am actively seeking a new job, and I am scared sick that it will not be as easy as it has been in past years to find one. I have some time before new income becomes necessary (thank you savings account) But at the same time, I am so excited to be freed from this building, this business, this boss, this bullshit!!! Three years is a long time to dump into a dump like this.

Maybe I will get another office job. Maybe I will work in retail. Maybe I will work for myself and free-lance writer or sell fucking Avon. Maybe I will get an internship and just be a broke college student. It doesn't matter to me. My number one priority is my future career as an American Literature professor. That's what matters. That's what matters. That's what matters (repetition is for my sake)

Notes on Baby-Dicking

My favorite phrase (copy-write pending) is on the top of raisin brain this morning. Perhaps because I was yelling it repeatedly through a whiskey haze, perhaps because it was so incredibly relevant recently.

Or perhaps I have caught myself in the act of baby-dicking.

Baby-dicking: an expression that can be interchangeable with "pussy-footing" around. IE - someone who is not living up to their potential as a badass, not being physical present to defend oneself, or bailing on friends/events for less than badass reasons

I confess my baby-dicking while engaging in the act. You see, this morning I am working alone in a basement in a building in the middle of Detroit's east residential area. That is long from for "the hood". I am working in a windowless basement with mice and cockroaches. I am covered in a blanket and wearing two sweatshirts because it is 40 degrees down here. My boss has rejected my requests for a space heater. I am of the understanding that he expects me to buy one for myself if I would like to thaw my hands enough to type. The mold has triggered my allergies and I cannot shake my sinus infection. The mold creeps from all corners, the ceilings are falling in under the weight of mold and water damage. This place is a shit hole and I work in the icy-cold taint of the beast.

I am watching myself not bother to dress for work because I am going to be alone and shivering in a corner all day. I am watching myself baby-dick around with the acceptable conditions I deserve as an employee. I have the most continuous seniority of any office staff. I have the most education of any office staff. I am working in the corner of a basement. I am cold. (I am NEVER cold, ask my boyfriend) I am checking out as the days drag by...

I need to stop baby-dicking around.

ReallyRoughRegrets

More R words.

I think I might have screwed myself (again). It becomes facinating for me to watch myself make decisions for a variety of reasons, then doubt those reasons in the light of the day, and therefore, doubt my decision.

I doubt my decision making skills. I am unsure if it is best to make decisions with your heart, or with your head, or with your gut, or with all three. What can I trust to tell me the truth before it's too late? Why can't I be patient enough to let time tell me answers? And since when did I start making decisions based completely on my own thoughts? I know that I cannot trust my whims, but I guess I can no longer differentiate between a whim and true emotion.

I am at a loss, for it is too late. I can feel now the gravity of my decision and consequential unjustified sadism. I can feel my pain, guilt, self-disgust competing for my emotional attention. It's pretty much awful. Expect lots of really dark poetry, for I finally broke through the hard outer shell and my soft insides are bleeding out. I will try my best to continue pursing my 2011 goals of self-cultivation, despite the fact that this notion may have screwed me already.

RevelationRecommendationResolution

Maybe I just like words that start with R...

No Really, there is a purpose for this particular blog.

I take the turn of the new year very seriously. It seems to be the most Rational time to Reassess what you have accomplished in the last year, and what you want to achieve in the year to come. Some people make Resolutions, but in all Reality - I would say only about 10% of those Resolutions are actualized. The New Year's Resolution seems to be a socially acceptable form of self-disappointment and masochism. I don't buy into it. Personally, I would be a Royal idiot if I assumed I could make a decision in January and hold true until December. It makes no Realistic sense - plus twelve months seems like a long time to accomplish something you are so Resolved about you felt the need to declare it to the world. Just do it already!!!

Hence, I spend several days alone around the turn of the new year. I wanted to isolate, Revel in my own thoughts, tap into my true essence, and assorted other lofty, idealistic notions. I made a few important and painful decisions that will affect the next year of my life. Nothing worth having comes easy though, Right? Now all I have to do is stave off the self-doubt for a while...

BACK TO THE POINT!!! I have determined I want to accomplish twelve different things this year (at least). Every month of 2011, I will set a new goal for myself to accomplish. This serves many purposes in my life:

1) I get an excuse to dedicate Ridiculous amounts of time to whatever I want without judgement

2) I have twelve challenges, which means I have a higher likelihood of success

3) I am not stuck with one idea I found important in January (which probably won't matter in June)

4)I get to take an adventure with myself, for myself, invented by myself, for the betterment (and amusement) of myself. Perhaps it's selfish in theory, but I don't see it playing out that way.

January - I have decided to not update my Facebook. I want to try and disconnect from the social network and get back to socializing in a more conventional way.

February - The month of love. I have decided to connect with every friend I love and find special in my life. I might make gifts, I will probably do a lot of bar nights with my companions, I might write heartfelt letters. I want to spread the love I have been given. TO MY FRIENDS

March - Weight-loss challenge. Details TBD

That's as far as I got. I Realized that it would negate my foundational purpose if I set all my Resolutions now. There are many things I want to do, project I want to undertake, changes I want to make, and things I want to discover about myself. 2011 is going to be MY year

Ass Cookies and Christmas

The holiday season is not my favorite time of year. I am not a Christian, or a Jew, or black, or whomever else get a celebratory day this time of year. I celebrate the NEW YEAR! Horray! I made it through the last one, and I get another365 days to create chaos. It's a wonderful celebration. But back to the obligatory Christmas crap I have been pressured into putting up with and participating in. It all began with the Dickens' Village. My mother has been nagging me to take these collectibles from my childhood and put them on display in my super-sweet pad. My first concession of the season...

Then came the Tuesday before Christmas, and all through my house, creatures were stirring (cookie batter) but I didn't see a mouse! Carie came over and I made cookies to give to my neighbors in the ol' folks home.. However, I am not an expert in the kitchen. But I figured, we have supplies and the internet - what could go wrong??

Well, in true Xmas fashion, shit went wrong. I can break and bake some TollHouse cookies all day, but when it came time for me to actually make cookie batter.... Well first there was the brown sugar incident. I learned that brown sugar is not supposed to be in rock form. And I broke my only bowl in my furious frenzy to mash down my sugar rocks. Ok - one batter down the drain. Then I tried my hand at chocolate chip cookies, using the brown sugar crumbs and some water. I followed the recipe (I thought) and off to the oven went 30 some chocolate chip treats. In a moment of pure genius, I told Carie that we ought to try these before we package them, just in case they taste like ass....And they did taste like ass. They can only be described as chocolate chip cake-textured rocks. But I was out of supplies and short on time, so off the ass-cookies went to the frosting station (everything is better with frosting) and into the festive tins and beautiful handmade snowflake cards. I even had to add a few store-bought cookies to make up for the ones I burned. Great success!!!!

I posted a picture of this tin because my cat promptly ate the paper snowflake the moment she was left alone with it. It took Carie three tries to get the perfect pot/heart snowflake! At least the moment can be treasured forever... on my blog. Happy Holiday (whichever one you celebrate)

A Recipe for Beef Wellington

I must admit, my favorite part of living alone is not having to answer to anyone about how I spend my time at home. For example, this weekend I didn't shower. I didn't mind, my cat didn't mind, but I can see how this might appear to a roommate. Also, I decided on Sunday that I was going to do yoga naked and drink bloody mary's. It was a lovely afternoon, and despite not having a cocktail shaker, and I rather enjoyed my hillbilly bloody marys. About half way through my first, and in the downward dog position - A story idea popped in my head. Now, stories don't give themselves to me like this. I process stories, I plan stories, I know stories before they form on the page. But this idea was foreign and it just seemed to appear in my brain.

I sat and I wrote, with a bloody mary in one hand and a half-lit cigarette in other. For hours, this absurd story just flowed out of my fingertips. I am still working on my final scene, but I know what I want to see happen. In fact - I kind of knew this whole story before I knew the scenes of the story. I know most writers like to make it seem that there is some magic in what they do.... but truthfully, there isn't much magic in my arduous tinkering with words. Until this piece... enjoy a taste.

She smelled like another man. As she lifted the linen duvet and swung her long black hair into bed, my nostrils filled with the scent of her sweat and another man's musk. I was barely awake, just tossing and turning in the same fragmented nightmare, when she crept into bed. I smelled the sin on her, like many other nights. She never showered and I would never ask her too.

I laid still on my side of the bed, wide awake, and listened to her fidget under the heavy blankets. She adjusted her pillow with a careless wanton for sleeping bed mates and sank dramatically down into it's plump feather. Her long black hair splayed over the pillow, spilling near my face. Silently I filled my lungs with the smell that lingered in the air. I waited until she settled before I reached to her, pulled her closer. My hands navigated over the deep curves of her side, dragging lightly over her clammy skin – baby powder and sweet, maybe lubricant. It felt lovely still. I snaked my hand down past her belly button to the wetness between her legs. She sighed in recognition. I pulled her to me and let her sticky skin press against mine. I knew I would awake smelling like sweaty sex – another man's sweaty sex – but it didn't bother me.

My alarm buzzed brutally through the dark room. My heart rate quickened and I reached over to shut off the noise. I didn't want to wake her. It was 6:30am. She wasn't very pleasant at 6:30am. One morning, I was so lost in the percussion of pots and pans, I didn't hear the alarm. She woke up first and swung her arm over hard, whacking me in the face, “Get up and shut it off,” she hissed. I had a black eye for the next four days.

One morning, after I showered, I returned to the bedroom to dress in silence. She was naked in the bed, the covers thrown wildly over herself. The first sunlight peeked through the cracks of my custom-order vertical blinds. It was shining in the room like the crack of light in my dreams. I looked to her, one breast exposed outside the cream satin sheet. The light beamed off the barbell through her pert nipple. I decided to not put on my pants so quickly and sank into the overstuffed chaise lounge, resigning to risk pleasuring myself to the sight of her vulnerable nipple illuminated by the morning sun. I bite my lip to stifle my moans. I knew she would punish me severely if she caught me, but that only added to my excitement. It was only after I had thoroughly cleaned myself and buttoned my trousers that I tasted bitter blood in my mouth.

Bliss

Don't ask too many questions
answers aren't permanent and don't satiate.
Try to ignore the gnashing in your middle -
the pit of doubts and unspoken parania

Close your mind and float along,
try your best not to focus your eyes,
on that blur around you -
that Reality; so hazy and fleeting

Once you convince yourself
that you are better off not knowing,
you can drift away in ignorance
and feel your own bliss

Sketchy

I am in vicious denial over the creeping seasonal mood change. It's way too early! My excitement for fall has been stiffed by my hermit-esque lifestyle coupled with stress from every angle. This stress, this anxiety, this depression is ricocheted back and forth inside my mind, like some crazy light reflecting in a house of mirrors. I am not a suitable candidate for "pulling oneself out of it". I really have very little control over my mental health, contrary to what most people might believe.. My hate receptors are awakened. I spent my summer surrounded by beautiful people, having wonderful experiences and being joyful in the sunshine with the ones I love. No hate, no time for worries or self-doubt. No time to be bothered by gnawing insecurities that scream at me amidst all these beautiful people. I was filled with love and some of that splattered over onto my self-image. I feel like I have set myself up for a fucking disaster when the pink cloud crashes into the muddy earth.

That sad weeping girl inside me is always right when it comes to this stuff. I am delusional. I am not one of the beautiful people! My life is punctuated by periods of oscillating self worth. I am the person consumed by self-hatred six months out of the year. I compare, I hate, I fall short, I agonize, I scrutinize, I hate, I cut, I drink, I hate, I drink, I drink, I drink. And just when I think I couldn't hate myself more, I have a brief moment of exo-perspective and I realize all the people around me that are blackened by my hate for myself.

My self-esteem is a joke and maybe that's for the best though. Masochism and pain are somehow more inspirational and moving than a "healthy" self image. Nothing ever gets accomplished creatively when I actually believe in myself.

***This blog is not open for rebuttal, not a fishing expedition for contradiction***

Ash Wednesday

Snippets of Ash Wednesday

He watched her nearly five minutes frozen and dumbfounded, with his jaunt arms dangling uselessly by his side. With a deep breath, he collapsed into a nearby chair, never taking his eyes off her. It would be over soon; there was nothing he could do to help her. There was never anything he could do to help her. Yet, he felt obligated to watch. He lit a cigarette and exhaled slowly. Scanning the dim room, he found the spoon on the nightstand to her right. She was still breathing and eerily still; her eyes closed and her body languidly splayed across the patchwork comforter. He moved quickly to retrieve the blackened utensil and plopped back down in his seat. Fixing a shot, he was thankful she sent him out to get more. He didn’t see the need for the extra trip then, but she had the money and insisted. He was only gone for a half hour. “There is no way I would know what she took” he reassured himself. “There was no way I could have saved her”. The nightstand was littered with lottery ticket wrappers, an empty dust covered mirror, and a bottle of pills he hadn’t seen before. No label.
After a minute of rooting around callous and collapsed veins in his forearm, he found the sweet spot and pulled back on the plunger. Blood rushed up into the syringe mixing with the tar-colored medicine and with one push, warmth spread through his body. Licking the blood from his arm, he leaned back in the itchy refurbished chair and stared at the bed. She was dead. He felt nothing, but that was to be expected. That was the point.

Poetry

The glorious failure of the beautifully fucked

Beside you - I am dwarfed
limp limbs barely tread water
I resign myself to blissfully drown
in your endless aptness

Ever too timid to put on display
my trivial array of talentless efforts
Keep dancing for me tonight
While I struggle not to fall

Reflections of Youth

Sometimes, it's those longing feeling for the days when I didn't care, days when I didn't stress about life, days when all I needed was ten dollars and a sharp needle. Those days when I was high, gloriously high, dopey and soft, and I thought that I was at the peak of human experience, with my heroin. The simple beauty I found in watching my blood rush up into the syringe, the thrill that was pushing down the trigger and sending my medicine directly into my being, and the pure eroticism of licking the blood off my arm. And the existential glory I realized when I was outside of reality, floating in pure euphoria. Those hazy days when I thought I knew where God was..... in my spoon

Sometimes, I can almost give myself a heart attack when the thoughts of smoking crack interrupt my thoughts. The smell and the sounds of burning rock in a pop bottle, the taste of bitter plastic in my mouth and the inevidable ashes on my teeth, the isolation of being locked in a hotel room with NOTHING! except the endless pursuit of more. MORE MORE MORE. And the dirty, disgusting lengths I would go to just to have MORE, whether I wanted MORE or not - I always needed MORE. I can remember running myself in cirlces, chasing that buzz. When my mind goes there now, it's like throwing a wrench into moving machinery: everything stops! I feel the stress and that anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach and I am thrust right back THERE. Back to that hotel room, back to the ghetto, back to that experience. But I know now, I can never run far enough or fast enough to escape the crack. The crack turns me into a monster. A monster that will always come back once you open that door and show it the light of day. A monster that will destroy everything for MORE

Sometimes, all it will take to put me in one of those awful places is a certain song on the radio. Or a street name where it all used to go down. Or a smell that reminds me of a junkie ex-boyfriend. Or the hours of 5pm - 7pm when I could give you a play by play of what I would be doing a year ago. The running and gunning. The phone calls. The hustle for money and an available dealer. The search for an empty parking lot to shoot. The sense of relief. Or a feeling that I haven't felt in so long because I smothered it with narcotics. I have been forced to re-define everyday life - but sometimes the past sneaks up on my and threatens my very existence with its nostalgia for what was. But my new reality can fight it back; back down into the dark corners of my mind where I know it is lurking, watching my try to stay sober, and waiting for me to be weak so it will have a chance to pull me right back into it

Belle Isle, 1949 by Phillip Levine

We stripped in the first warm spring night
and ran down into the Detroit River
to baptize ourselves in the brine
of car parts, dead fish, stolen bicycles,
melted snow. I remember going under
hand in hand with a Polish highschool girl
I'd never seen before, and the cries
our breath made caught at the same time
on the cold, and rising through the layers
of darkness into the final moonless atmosphere
that was this world, the girl breaking
the surface after me and swimming out
on the starless waters towards the lights
of Jefferson Ave. and the stacks
of the old stove factory unwinking.
Turning at last to see no island at all
but a perfect calm dark as far
as there was sight, and then a light
and another riding low out ahead
to bring us home, ore boats maybe, or smokers
walking alone. Back panting
to the gray coarse beach we didn't dare
fall on, the damp piles of clothes,
and dressing side by side in silence
to go back where we came from.