Posts Tagged ‘home’

imaminorlark

Posted: March 22, 2012 in hidden admonishment
Tags: , , ,

I’ve been dredging through the past
dragging things out to kill them.
Slipping up and muddling the lines
set.
If I can forget the mapping of the night sky
I can lose anything.

Keys.

I want to go home, which is an odd sentiment
indicating to me that no such place exists yet
still
Everything is maddeningly still.
Living wrapped up warm inside your voice
is no longer an option.

Can I please stop caring soon?

I remember unpleasant things
bringing my dry cheek to the cool floor of the kitchen
staring into the dusty shadows under the cabinets
until the cat silently pads up to my face

inquiring about dinner.

You dye your hair, because you’re ashamed of getting older.
The past you share is active and cherished.

I’m always the same age.

Every factoid you glean, you turn in your hand as if it’s interesting.
My life is interesting.
I am interesting.

To you.

Do you know who you are?
Look down on me in disgust, but don’t pity me.
I chose the floor.

Look down on me, so that I don’t have to look up to you.

I should apologize to a lot of people that I don’t like,
because they never did anything to me.

Would anyone believe me?

I don’t know what happened.
I can frame it up a thousands different ways, but it’s never right.
Anyone that can accept me should be good enough
and better than expected.

I must be lying.

Don’t look at me at all.
Shake a flower to find a bird; I’m neither.
I’ve abandoned my roots and have no nest.
You look at me like you’re attracted to the idea of helping me,
but the track marks trail off, burning.

I’m not a damsel in distress.

You moved on before I lost you
or
the truth…

It sounds so absolute and beautiful, but I’d rather face plant into the floor than admit it.
Anagrams don’t alter the core, and I can’t run from the things I try to discard.
I just wanted you to hold me.
I’m so sorry.
Cats don’t care whether cheeks are wet or dry.

They just want dinner.

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Same.

Posted: June 21, 2011 in transliteration
Tags:

You say it’s a good idea for me to go home.
Do me a favor and stop telling me what you think.
What the fuck do you know?
You think a book store and a library are the same thing.
No, they’re not the same.
Yes, baby. Same.
No.

Not the same, and we won’t even discuss calling me “baby” again.

Even if it is a good idea for some reason,
even if I grant you that;
What about what I want?

I’m right, because it’s my life. You’re oblivious.
What’s wrong?

I watched the man in front of me scream at the clerk
in the express lane
for making the wrong change.
Eventually, the customer got his change.
I don’t know who was right.
It’s not exactly necessary for the cashier to think when making change.

I placed my items down.
Everything went smoothly until the end
when I was waiting for my change.

I saw the man insist on pouring french fries and birdseed together over his counter.
I saw it, but I know it didn’t happen.
I offered him a penny so that he could give me .45 instead of .44
but this just confused him more.

I started shouting.

I’m not going home.
This is my temporary home.
This is it.
You’re not invited in.

i don’t know anything

Posted: December 30, 2010 in hidden admonishment
Tags: ,

My intellect, they always told me
in hushed up voices and indirect whispers
this gift of aptitude
talent
the allure of an atypical mind…that never struggles and rarely tries.

Appearance.

Guilt.

Crawl inside poking and prodding the lacy edges
punctured and plastered over with names
for
the condemned and diseased.

You’re right; always right.
It’s not so hard to understand the transparency known as me.
You know me.
Keep me in my place, wherever that place may seem to be in an escapist society.

Steady now. Steady.

You wait for a revolt. You would revolt. You know you’re special.
Even if you’re common; so average that it hurts…something makes you special.
The great elaborations of the underdog mentality.
You want me to disagree, but I don’t.
I can’t.

You have something I’m afraid I’ll never find.
A system? A cause?
So many think that I…
Maybe we envy each other unnecessarily.

A conversation unfolded in front of me as I walked among strangers.
A boy made polite conversation, and the girl indulged.

I remember wondering if it was real.
Were they there?
Were they having this conversation?
Was it a standard conversation to be had?
Is this the way that people interact?

It fell away from me.
I interpret the world around me differently.
I don’t mean to.

I wanted you to talk to me.
You spoke so frequently.
It seemed…to everybody.

I fuck up most verbal exchanges.
I fuck them up all the time.
The lighter and more casual, the quicker and more completely fucked.
People seem to think it’s intentional.

I ask myself again and again
but there’s no answer.

There’s nothing to revolt against. The connection is intermittent
garbled
distant
and predominately…dead.