complacency or faded [working title for now]

it was in the middle of that drab summer that she began to think about it
in between batches of cookies, in the midst of blueberry scones
she felt it may be her only contribution to society
the idea rose like dough, bittersweet
when did i become like this, she thought
my soul is too fragile for this, she thought
she tried to wash everything away with cups of tea and imaginary characters
figures dancing on screen
she grabbed her bags one afternoon, careful to remember the notebooks
things just don't make sense, she thought
what am i here for, she thought
she met a man in a diner
he was nice, with a faded hat and a faded tshirt to match a faded life
they were talking and he asked about the cookie she was eating
is it good, he said
i'm thinking about getting chocolate chip i figure chocolate chip is always good, he said
she wasn't aware of diner etiquette but she wanted to be honest
it's ok, she said
not to be rude but i make pretty good cookies, she said
oh, he said
he was quick to catch on
so it's not as good as your cookies huh
well maybe then you can make me some sometime
yeah maybe, she said
why am i still here, she thought
black coffee replaced tea, greasy eggs and truck drivers replaced whatever entertainment her life had known before
steamed away problems in the hot corners of the kitchen, sweating, pausing between batches
things are so easy here, she thought
when a few muffins brightened old norma's day or when faded hat bought her ice cream and insisted they watch the stars
it was in the middle of that drab summer that she began to think about it
and it was in the middle of that drab summer that she came to life, died, came to life, died

thinking i might make this into a short story.

last 4th of july poem, i swear.

oh god and that face, he says, it lit up with the fireworks
and i swear, she glowed brighter than them
i listen patiently, nod and smile
and wait for the moment when i'll be magical enough for him

just a little something i thought of last night while watching some fireworks. it's like we look up at these things in the sky, but what about the fireworks within each of us? they light up the sky with this amazing glow, and i just sort of thought about how we do the same with each other.

declaration

declare independence, don't let them do that to you
the words screamed at her
but i don't know how, don't know how, she thought
all i have is this red blood and these blue lips,
the white remainder of a burned flag
raise your flag, higher, higher
the woman told her
her arm hurt, but she lifted, lifted
until the flag was high enough
and the decorations were in order
she said, protect your language,
make your own flag,
ignore their patronizing
covered her ears, turned away from the boom boom crackle
go to the top of your highest mountain
she found the fridge, ice for the wound and beer for the memories

i don't know if this makes sense at all. i was listening to bjork's "declare independence." yeah i'm pretty certain this doesn't make sense.

4th of july

all of this, she said, it just makes me want to make blueberry pie
what about everything else, he asks
what do you mean, ‘everything else,’ nothing else really matters
he shakes his head, straightens the tablecloth, well are you going to make another one
no, she’s shaking her head now, eyes hovering over the golden tops of the pies already dominating their tiny kitchen’s surfaces
she’s letting all the cool air out, he thinks, the way she’s standing in the doorway, she should move
but he doesn’t say anything
instead he thinks about apple pie and hot dogs and decorations
didn’t you love this time of year when you were a kid, he asks, you know, the fireworks and sparklers and food, he says, wasn’t there a parade
yeah i guess, but

feel free to tell me your interpretation of this. i want to know if it's too ambiguous and needs some "bridging." but you guys are smart and probably get it. but still. pretty please. i'll [try to] make you a blueberry pie.

thrift store, her summer.

she liked to drown her sorrows in other people's trash,
walked between long rows, examined clothes on racks, dreamed of claiming those sandals
or those pants, the right fitting
ice cream and cigarettes, these were on her mind most days
the showstress of a generation
wrote the tragedies of her generation
flailed on empty streets, moonlight reflecting her tears, she still thought of the sweetness of watermelon and the completeness of a cup of tea,
the simplicity of a hug
pieces and holes in a performer's life
carried the weight of her generation in the pockets of baggy clothing, in dreams too horrible for camera,
sandwiched between television shows and car rides
the hum of another's heart, this was on her mind most days

i've been in a sort of depression coma for the past week or so. i guess i still am? part of me just wants cookies and ice cream. and drugs.

6/22/10

sleep is a thing of the past, she said
it's 7am. i'm not tired, but i'll close my eyes anyway
she knew she'd wake up and nothing would be changed

the text

those moments, they last an eternity
to send or not send
open my mouth or continue dying
too scared to just jump,
just hope the rocks at the bottom won't be too sharp,
the rocks don't exist, really
but they exist to my mind, in the moment that lasts an eternity,
in those breaths as i think about leaping, leap, descend,
turn mid-air to grab the crippling cliff once more,
stable and fatal

talking and every other form of communication are just way too difficult for me.