Friday, October 22, 2004

At Least That's What You Said

i feel a cess in the words
softing from the innersanctum
of this small chest that's mine

the words seem to be catching
all over but laying in the chambers
of too many organs to name;
heart, lung, the brain.
all these act together
through endless captures
of time

laying stiff as death, an icy ground
where past memories layer what's been found
laying in the heart, blood bledlet
to hold the welling
the lungs all the time, getting grayer
with pollution

from my mouth breathes
hisses and gasps;
or, perhaps,
breathes a rapture,
an eloquence that flickers everything
alive

words cling to my sides
words speak, the skin of them
starting to fly
to be caught high
in someone's outspread palm
in someone's dream
i'm slowly skinning away more and
more useless skin
to leave behind a fleshly memory
for the world to know



Comments (2) | Permalink

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

She keeps the weights.

Tonight, I write more of "Somewhere Out There." It's about time I write more of it, too. I've been sluffing off on writing too much lately. Time to manage time better.

I'm hoping to make "Somewhere Out There" into a novel, if I can manage it. . .or at least a novella. Key word is hoping. A good word to use, as well, is trying - meaning, I'm trying to write a novel.

Even once it's written, I'm not done either - then I'd have to sharpen it up, revise it.

I figure Shelley wrote Frankenstein when she was only 18, and I figure I'm 18 and I can do this, too.

It's going to be rough. . .most of the stories I've written are unfinished or still rough draft.

I work tonight, but then I get my days off. Two days. And I've also got Thursday and Friday off of school. I'll be writing every night, then. . .need to get into the flow of it again.

Tomorrow I'm calling Sarah Miller. I was talking to her on AIM, and I decided we should do something, perhaps. I figure I might as well be a risk-taker, because that's what people wish they had done when they look back at their life.

---

oh, this laughing nothingness is housed,
the sky covering me in a thick ague
this heaven awaits
somewhere it is you
to go all these years in chains
pulling around my steel
those bruises are manifestations
dead vessels to my heart
severed apart
they'll never function again, dead gone
through
blued, blacked to the touch,
the sepulcher i lie in
so new

being reborn, so much like
starting over again
so much like,
falling from the sky
sometimes questioning why i'm alive,
all the world's a cage housing me, a beast
within its environs,
i let my call trail down like seeping dreams,
weightless free
Comments (0) | Permalink

Monday, October 18, 2004

Bad Religion - Let Them Eat War

there's a prophet on a mountain and he's making up dinner
with long division and writing crop
anybody can feel like a winner
when it's served up piping hot

but the people aren't looking for a handout
they're America's working corps
can this be what they voted for?

let them eat war [x2]
that's how to ration the poor
let them eat war [x2]

there's an urgent need to feed
declining pride

from the force to the union shops
the war economy is making new jobs
but the people who benefit most
are breaking bread with their benevolent hosts

who never stole from the rich to give to the poor
all they ever gave to them was a war
and a foreign enemy to deplore

let them eat war [x2]
that's how to ration the poor
let them eat war [x2]

there's an urgent need to feed
declining pride

we've got to kill 'em and eat 'em
before they reach for their checks
squeeze some blue collars
let them bleed from their necks
seize a few dollars from the people who sweat
cause it's freedom or death and they won't question it
at a job site the boss is god like
conditioned workhorses park at a stoplight
seasoned vets with their feet in nets
a stones throw away from a rock fight
but not tonight, feed ‘em death

here comes another ration (feed them death)
cause they're the finest in the nation (feed them death)
when there's nothing left to feed them
when it's freedom or it's death

let them eat war [x2]
that's how to ration the poor
let them eat war [x2]

there's an urgent need to feed

Comments (3) | Permalink

Sunday, October 17, 2004

The Blood Brothers - Every Breath Is a Bomb

(fake fake flowers) (fake funeral)
This room is a fluorescent tomb:
its brazen bulbs mimic death's hyena croon.
He pulls on her wires, she jerks to attention,
she's animated again, she's talking to a hypodermic reflection.
We've watched it all from the window ledge...
the nurses offer their condolences...
tongue's flapping I can't make out your tone,
our hearts beat in slow motion.
If we make it to the final scene...(fake flowers!)
show me the sapphire pit (fake tomb)
peel the candy crust off my body (fake flowers)
throw in the brittle skeleton...(fake tomb)
Can you inject love's tender touch back into the gang bang?
Can you knit the stiletto back to the bloodstain?
Can you put the bite back the the beast you've broken, tied and tamed?
Can you crease the wrinkles back into the cracked and open brain?
So doctor won't you pull the fucking plug?
Won't you cut the cord?
Because you can't put the life back into this hospital ward.
She's gonna make it out ok...
but she's shaking like a revolution...
and she stares at the fire all day...
mumbling to herself..."
every hole has a snake in it...
Every crotch is a siamese gun,
every ray of sunshine hides a cancerous chime,
every breath is a bomb."
I'd like to wrap my arms around you like a flesh canopy.
I'd like to take your head,
place it somewhere between my shoulders and neck,
but I'm afraid your brittle bones would break.
We can hear the black orchestra singing...
Can you inject love's tender touch back into the gang bang?
Can you knit the stiletto back to the bloodstain?
Can you put the bite back in the beast you've broken tied and tamed?
Can you crease the wrinkles back into the cracked and open brain?
So won't you pull the fucking plug, doctor?
Won't you cut the cord?
Because you can't put the life back into this hospital ward.
Comments (2) | Permalink

In response.

Someone posted this in their LJ: "Today never
happened."

And it prompted me to write this, as a comment, in their LJ:

In your own realm of
most serene and dying sadly
reality
it did not
happen

but,
it happened

all the bustle, hustle
all the people go around
the cars drive downtown
it all spins around,
this endless circle itself
this endless machine

but wait a second,
you don't seem yourself
your eyes seem somewhere longing
they seem to be in the bowels

Take your eyes out
from the inside of your
head
quit peering in
seeing with your hippocampus blues,
make your eyes see what there is to lose:
nothing
and fight for something for all us tonight

Turn this apathy
into antipathy
show them what you're made of
fill your heart with bleeding
don't utter defeat so softly underneath
but take off your covering sheath
let the darkness loose a hell
upon this beautiful hypocrisy
we call the world

keep your mouth running mazes
coloring this dull existence with life
you're just a rat going through this tangle,
learning how to get through
to end up at the end
give what you can before it comes

don't let up your stance,
never stop showing your sores
never fall backwards on your back
until this body of yours, wrenched, racked
falls on this uncouth soil
then your toil
will unravel like a rope
with many strands
and what you've done
will echo throughout time
roaring tunnels into the
deepest depths of everyone's being

this indifference is the reaction
but deep beneath its epidermis layer,
lies you dormant in a cage, enraged
insane with what is, and what cannot be

all you need to do
is let him loose
to do his abuse
Comments (2) | Permalink

Saturday, October 16, 2004

You are the perfect drug the perfect drug the perfect drug

Every day of school, the endless monotony, I have 6th period off. During every one of these sixth periods off, I go to the library. Chris Olson, who's sort of a friend of mine, who's a cool guy, comes there too. And also, this tall girl who's into volleyball - Kristen Hokenstad - comes in sometimes, too.

She's sitting on a table next to our table. She's got books open, she's doing some homework. I've got my latin open at my table with Olson, trying to translate but not much feeling like it. Olson's doing Physics homework, or Calculus homework - whichever.

I ask Kristen if she'd like to go see a movie with my sometime - I'd pay, it'd be free - and free means it won't cost you anything. Except maybe being in debt to me, owing me a favor. But let's not stress that too much, now.

All she does is laugh at me - she somewhat knows how I am, and knows I'm not serious, at all. She considers I'm probably just pulling her leg.

She's not laughing at me in a mean sense - in fact, I'm laughing at my table, too.

I ask her if there's any movie she'd like to see - then I get up, grab the library's newspaper, find where the movies are located - it's 3C - open to it, look over the movies. Thumbing through. There's The Forgotten. . .there's Open Water. . .other movies. Nothing you'd take a girl to.

I give it to her and tell her to tell me which movie she'd like to see. I leave it over by her at her other table, go sit back down.

She doesn't even really look it over. She cranes her neck over it for a while, but I know she probably won't seriously consider it.

Chris Olson is laughing as well, in his way, and tells me I just got denied. I told him I tend to agree, and I say Kristen hates me. She says she doesn't hate me. Then I say, "It's like she said, 'You're a good kid and all, Mitch. . .but I hate you.'" Chris Olson laughs again, Kristen laughs again.

I tell them I'm just going to kill myself now. My life's pointless. Kristen won't go to a movie with me.

Kristen says I'm acting like this other girl at our school, who's foreign and is melodramatic and dark.

I figure that sounds better than anything else.

When I think about it, I don't think I was serious about it, either. It just felt good to be gutsy and blatant. Which is how I am.

Yesterday when I was listening to my ipod, going over to the table to do my homework, she was smiling this amused smile at me. She was probably thinking about what I'd done prior. Probably considering what a crazy bastard I am. And maybe on the side, like when you go to a restaurant and get coleslaw on the side, maybe she was thinking about how hot I make her.

Here's wishing.

---

Yesterday at work, me and Chris Olson washed and unracked together. I was the washer, him the unracker.

It was the busiest I've seen it there. There was this line of about forty people in the entrance to the place. All standing there.

I worked my ass off yesterday, as did many other workers.

We kept up, until they forced me to go up and do pies. Then I came back, and we had about five bus tubs to wash, and two full prebus carts - which hold about five stacks of plates.

While we had worked the whole day, we'd poke fun at each other, say random things - it keeps you sane. Olson was bending over picking up all the miscellaneous garbage that had fallen on the floor, and I said, "That's right, pick it up. I made you do it just because I wanted to see you bend over. Don't you remember? 'Drop the fork!'"

A manager, Jeramie Miller, comes over. He says, "Are you guys going to quit flirting and get to work, or what?" Which really, really pissed me off.

What had I been doing the whole fucking time I was there? Working hard. Yes. That was what I had been doing, and over strolls Mr. Asshole and tells us to get to work when the reason we're behind is they keep taking Olson away, or me away, to do other shit for them.

I honestly wanted to punch the guy.

All I did was I said, "I'll show that asshole," under my breath, and I started working fast. I just didn't care anymore, and I worked faster than I had been before - which had been fast.

I was going so fast, Olson couldn't keep up with me.

Then they took Olson away, and I got all caught up the rest of the way by myself, even though they brought in about two more prebus carts, about three more bus tubs. I was just pissed, which doesn't happen often with me. I can't stand the managers at that place. All they do is sit there and bitch at you when you're working. And Jeramie, all he does is eat something every time you see him and be his asshole self.

I wanted to tell Jeramie, "Why don't you do this? Because I don't see you doing anything."

Calvin came over and took over washing, and then eventually it was time to leave, after a lot more shit.

My stomach started hurting sometime along here. It really, really hurt - it was painful. I felt like I was going to fall over. I was sure it was from how hard I'd pushed myself, working even harder after I'd worked hard already.

Davey, another manager, bitched at me because I wasn't helping Calvin unrack. I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, my stomach hurt.

I told Calvin I was sorry I was slow, my stomach hurt.

Sometime while I walked in, Becky came up to me. She was pushing inside the brim of her shirt, so you could see her breasts if you looked at a top-down perspective. I told her to do it again, and then she asked me to reach in and grab an ice cube which was apparently stuck in there. I didn't think she was serious, so I told her no. Then she went over to Calvin, and he did it.

Olson said she was such a slut, and I guess so. I told him there was nothing wrong with it anyway.

A group of twenty came about 9:10, even though we were closed. We had to wait for them to leave, and then we had to bus the table. Davey kept giving Chris Olson shit about how I was busing the table faster when I wasn't, and I told Davey to shut up. Told him we'd worked hard today and to stop being such an asshole.

I was saying how Jeramie was such an asshole a while later or before, and one of the workers there, Laura, said that Jeramie wasn’t an asshole. Thinking about it now, I’d’ve liked to tell her he only treats her nicely because of a very deceptive reason. A perversive reason.

He only treats her nicely because he wants in her pants, or because he finds her pretty. Or because like every other man, they have to treat women nicely. Just have to because that’s the way it goes.

When we'd bused the table, we went to the office and asked if we could go - Davey said we still had ten minutes and I told him to let us go already. He let me punch out, but Olson had to unrack some plates quickly. I helped him do it and we finally got the hell out of there. When I stepped out, I honestly wanted to blow the place to fucking smithereens.

It was the day from hell there yesterday.



Comments (1) | Permalink

Friday, October 15, 2004

The Continuing Adventures of Bobus

In Latin, when we learn new things, we have to incorporate it into a sentence of our own creation. Then we write it on the board and the class as a whole translates. Each sentence, I've used this character I made, Bobus. And his girlfriend (maybe wife, who knows?), Sexta.

In each Latin sentence Mitch writes, Bobus does Sexta. In each one I use the latin verb for do, which is facere.

The most recent one, the teacher said I'd crossed the line, when we read it.

The sentence was this : "Sexta erat in aestu et Bobus habebat Sexta in complexu. "Facieam id tibi," inquit Bobus. Audis sonitum, et villa est infirma."

Translated, it means : Sexta was in heat and Bobus held Sexta in an embrace. 'I will do it for you," said Bobus. You hear a noise, and the house is shaky."

So the teacher, Mrs. Brandt, says I can't use the verb facere in my next Latin sentence.

I've figured I'll find a different latin word that means to do, and then we'll have Bobus and Sexta doing it, like usual, and then a murderer will creep right in on them. The murderer'll have a mask on, have black clothes. The murderer will stab Bobus. With what, I'm not sure. Then say, "Stop doing it." And then Bobus will die, and the murderer will take off his mask, and there, standing, will be an old woman, gray hair, glasses. Mrs. Brandt, who killed Bobus. Metaphorically this works too, because Mrs. Brandt did kill Bobus.

Okay, so this sentence won't be one sentence long. It's like an entire story. It'll be a whole paragraph, which we'll have fun translating.

Many people in the class say I'm a pervert to write what I did, and I'd have to agree.

It's so nice being one.
Comments (2) | Permalink

My eyes have seen you

I got an ipod today. $300. $200 of it came from birthday money, $100 came form Steak Buffet money.

I've wanted one for so long.

Now, I go for a walk.
Comments (7) | Permalink

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Total Oblivion

"Each of us finds that in [our] own life every moment of time is completely filled. [We are] bombarded every second by sensations, emotions, thoughts. . .nine-tenths of which [we] must simply ignore. The past [is] a roaring cataract of billions upon billions of such moments: any one of them too complex to grasp in its entirety, and the aggregate beyond all imagination. . .At every tick of the clock, in ever inhabited part of the world, an unimaginable richness and variety of 'history' falls off the world into total oblivion." - C.S. Lewis (1967)
Comments (3) | Permalink

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

This sullied flesh

When you turn twenty-five, if you're a male, that's when you've reached the peak of your peak, your prime, and then you start to plummet down. Start to fall.

I've decided when I'm twenty-five, that's when I'll kill myself. I'll take a gun to my head, or I'll take some drugs to my mouth, and I'll die a fleeting shadow to not be remembered. I'll disappear.

I figure, what's the point of living on after that time. What's the point of watching the lines, the muscles in my face, get worse and worse. The wrinkles. Seeing my hands get arthritis. What is the point?

Someday you'll just be old and gray and dead, like the people you see each day who you think are too orthodox, too old-fashioned to know what's going on. Who you think have a big generation gap between you. Who don't matter anymore.

All good things die. It's the logical pivot of the world. It's the way things go.

One day this sullied flesh will deliquesce from these hollow bones, and I'll be but a shadow of my former self in the ground. And I will have disappeared. Forever.

That's my immortality. Ceasing to live forever, opposed to living forever. In heaven. In some superficial paradise.

To be or not to be is not the question. Because I've got the answer. The answer is not to be.
Comments (8) | Permalink