lalalalovely

I had a dream about a nightmare and (isn’t it funny, how things change?)

I woke up, smiling, and then

twisted! wrong! how

taboo.

I thought it was you!

People appear in my head like

strangers getting off

night trains, and

they follow me home

crawl up into my head,

and, I, asleep, I think

give them familiar faces.

It would send me to cold sweats!

Cold sweats!

And I’d…

Wake up screaming, crying, dragging my nails into

those expensive sheets that

I don’t wash nearly enough.

Awful! Sick!

Now some

funny little

smirk and

a horizontal shrug

ain’t thaaat fuuuunnnaaaay.

I linger around in bed

thinking about

alarm clocks and

french toast and

bunny slippers.

I lounge and wonder

about

monsters

and

what makes

them

monsters

and…

Maybe it was

a mask!

a charade!

some kind of

roleplay!

Oh that

retrospect.

You silly thing.

Now I think…

Maybe…

I’ve unmasked all those demons in my head.

Not so bad

after all.

Ain’t that funnnay.

I am in my bubble most days. Almost all the time. I am with my people. I am with some heightened intellectuality. I am – okay – a little bit restricted from the reality. A little bit removed from humanity. Or, at least, I think, what we’ve become. I find myself there sometimes. It’s a mess. It’s a god damn disaster. I forget sometimes that the stories that we tell aren’t stories at all but non-fiction true-account reality. Not like those crafted stories that you see on TV. This isn’t teen mom, this is crying child, corporal punishment in the middle of Safeway. This is you queer, you faggot, no homo, I’d like to find me a girl to make me dinner and I think it’s cute when they get angry. I just want to find me a nice bitch. I just want to get laid. I haven’t gotten laid. I-been-having-wet-dreams-mother-fucker.

Oh, I’m sitting near this group. I don’t want to move. They are gesticulating about their genitalia. Wide arm movements that make up for what they lack. I want to move, I do want to move, but I don’t. He hits me with his stretch and apologizes and I pretend I’m not there. I am watching them in their natural habitat. Girl, can I get yo number. Hey dude, check out this book, with all ‘dem vampires n’ shit. I want to sit here and type everything that they say and publish it and everyone will say You’re so gifted. You’ve really captured a voice. It’s just, you know. Not very realistic. But it’s a nice kind of fantasy. A statement on modern misogyny. 

I sneer as they discuss the finer workings of smegma with a group of young girls after carefully checking their age by asking “Are you 18?” They want to grab a drink. They want to catch a smoke. They wish they’d hit a break. I beg them in my head to talk to me. To look at me. To accidentally bump me one more time. I will Kill Bill this shit in the middle of the bookstore. I will unsheathe the almighty rage of the inner-feminist. I will pull out my gigantic horse cock and smack him in the face so hard his balls turn blue and he thinks, gee, maybe, I dunno, I should see a counselor, because that chick just did some fucked up shit right there.

Okay, okay. Back to Tyrion. Back to Arya. I am contented in my ignorance. These aren’t real people. They are fiction. They are pretend. I will write about them later and give them funny names like Chester and Loisie. In my mind they’re wearing polka dotted body suits and as they talk about degrading the female form they are painting one another with cheesecake. I give up – hands up – table toss – some people just aren’t worth understanding.

Have you ever dreamed about a place, and then, in some strange happenstance, found yourself there? I had a dream once, I think it was a dream, books lined the walls and ceiling and formed a maze. A labyrinth of literature. I crawled prone – I inched myself along – I passed Hemingway and Nabokov, some piles leaning so far they appeared to be falling in to one another, never letting go. It smelled of old paper, trees dying, words fading, I crafted myself a bed of old paperbacks and found myself in that cozy dream state. The waking lucidity. I closed my eyes and smiled in a drunken stupor of self-imposed happiness. This is my place and these are my things. The books had stickers on them for a dollar or two and I took them all. I took as many as I could hold. And as I walked and crawled through the books they fell from my arms as I collected more. I wanted to wrap myself in them like a gown and leave – through the evening streets -stories tumbling alongside me. I saw this place the other day and I wondered if I’d been here before when I was younger. Just a kid with little puffy baby hands holding on, trying not to get lost. Maybe all I could see were books, from my short statue, from my innocent perspective. Maybe it seemed to me as though the whole world were nothing but books and when I fell asleep I dreamed it so, and that dream stayed with me more than the reality. Just a bookstore, just a sale, just a pile of things that nobody wanted anymore.

I walked up to her door and

a cat ran across my feet like

a funny, silly, bad omen sort of

start to a movie that

you think is going to make you laugh

but then someone’s head gets cut off.

Shock value aside – okay – I ring

the doorbell – ring – ring

and she opens it with a

creaaaaaaak

just barely enough to

peak her head out.

I am the Marilyn to her

Munster.

I say hello, cheerfully so

she will maybe, let me in, or

say something back to me or

I don’t know

human decency

and all.

She invites me in, I think.

It smells like

adult diapers and

jesus.

Really.

There’s a smell for it all

and

I can feel all the sinning I’ve been doing

lighting up over my head like

a neon light

blink blink

sluts here!

She gives me a curious look and

I plug my nose

dont breathe through my mouth

tastes like mexican.

Oh god. Oh god. Hurry up.

She sits down.

She’s like that

angry woman

from

Harry Potter.

My hand twitches. My head aches.

I look up and the cat has

made it to the table

somehow

oh god.

Oh God.

Something’s in the oven and she

pulls it out and

I can’t tell what it is anymore

like

it could have been alive, once

I think.

The fridge is covered in pieces of paper.

Weird colored sheets of

construction paper.

Paper that is

torn from the edges

ratted and ragged

and

covered

in

names.

Some are crossed out and

I think for a minute

maybe

this

is

my

judgement

day.

She serves me up a little plate of

whatever-it-is

and

I try to tell her my side of the story.

She says she’s very glad I’m interested in

buying her cakes, she’s quite the artist

with fondant.

I say, no. No, I’m not here for cake.

I’m not here for cake at all.

She puts a candle in the mess

in front of me

and

she lights it up.

Blow out the candles

blow them out real good

jesus is watching.

I want to get out alive

oh

god

I want to make it free

I’m suffocating in the smell of her

fred meyer perfume

bottled fragrances

99 cents.

I take a bite and I say

thank you

that’s

awfully good

I’ll recommend you.

She smiles at me and I think it’s over.

I hope it’s over.

I get up and the cat

scratches my leg like

sayonara.

The hard benches of the laundromat rubbed in to the back of my spine. I adjusted my legs and stared at my laundry circling round, and round, and round. An old man sat down next to me and I crossed my legs the other direction and looked over, past him, through him, to inspect him not so obviously. He – already looking at me – reached over and pressed his sun worn hands on top of mine.  The door rocked open with the breeze behind me and slammed shut. He was standing in front of me now, with some heightened accessibility that he hadn’t seemed to have before. His knees weren’t rocking, his hair wasn’t as grey, he smiled a little bit. I wondered if I’d seen him truly before or if I’d just made some image of him up in my head. Some background knowledge to prevent myself from having to think of him as a person. Some glitch in my environment. Another man, another filled seat. But now here he was in full detail, and not quite what I had expected.

He held out his hand to me and I reached out and grabbed it. I was never too eager to break my bubble, particularly not for strange men, but he smelled like dish soap and hand knitted blankets. He had a small sticker on his lapel that said “I just gave blood” and so I trusted him, I trusted him instinctually.

I need help, he said.

That seemed logical. It seemed perfectly sane. All the washing machines spun at once. Just once, and then they stopped. Except mine. I could see my jeans twisting about through the sheets and dish towels, grease and grime being whisked away. The door knocked open again with the wind and I jumped – noticing that sand had begun to pour in.

I need help, he said.

He pulled me upwards and started to walk away and I followed. He went to the back of the laundromat and opened a door that I hadn’t seen before. More background knowledge. Things I’d faded out. Places I knew I’d never been and never needed to go. It led to a dark hallway and I reached out to feel his back with my fingertips. My mouth tasted like worn out peppermint gum and I remembered my laundry would be done soon. I looked back as the door moved further and further away and the darkness enveloped me and the stranger.

Another light appeared in front of us, dimmer, but brighter as we went. I lifted my fingers off his back and guided myself towards the opening at the end.

I shrunk my shirt you see, he said. I shrunk my shirt, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how to do my laundry, it’s my first time. It’s my first time. She’s been gone so long and I’d been doing it right and I think this was just a mistake. A silly goof. A wrong I need to right. She gave me the shirt and I shrunk the shirt, I don’t know how.

I walked towards the opening, a red door, into a room that just went down. It dropped off into a blue sky, filled with floating clothes. Socks flapped around like seagulls and ties spun like little twisters. I turned around to ask him what I could do – how I could help – where I was – my clothes, my clothes are almost done! I should really go, I thought to say, I was going to say -

But as soon as I turned around I knew it was too late. He’d gained more strength, not an old man at all, and he pushed me off into the empty world of lost clothes.

I fell for awhile, occasionally smacked in the face by a pair of denim shorts, billowing open like a pair of bright blue eyes. I flew downwards with my arms outstretched and found an old beach towel that smelled like Downey, just as soft. I wrapped it around my neck like a cape and soared through the tangled mess.

Just ahead, just a little ways away, I saw one of my dish towels. I doggy paddled through the air, still falling, towards the only familiar piece in the absence of sense. When I touched it, the gravity let out, and I fell. I fell right down, as though the emptiness were a laundry shoot. I collapsed at the bottom in a wicker basket of clean underwear.

I looked up and the man was looking down at me, from so very far up. I’d gone much further than I’d thought.

He laughed once or twice and then slammed the door.

blue blooded
hipster boys
in their
warby parker
kafka inspired
delusions
and
insipid come-ons.
hey, girl
I really like the,
indent in your moleskine notebook,
the way your,
raybans cover your
freckled cheeks and,
hey girl
lets blow this joint
they dont even
have
chemex.

we got all kinds of time for sitting
in parks
and
throwing frisbees
(figuratively speaking)
ill bring my dog, Theodore (Roosevelt)
I call him teddy
bought him a bow tie from
lizard lounge.

It’s windy so I create a diversion
in my head
my pen rolls off the table and
you know
its windy
accidents happen.
I say, oh, thanks
he picks it up
and he looks over at me
pretending he hasn’t
seen me here
every day
and says
“hey”

There is a way that you do

something that you

know you ought to do

but really dont

want to do

and

it comes with a certain

pattern

and

a certain feeling

that is

distinctly different

than

all those other things

that you

need to do.

Sometimes things that are

good for you

best for you

healthy for you

are the things that

scare you

the most

and

you think that if

you do this thing

you will

fundamentally

change.

You will

break down

re-build

fall apart

rise up

bend backwards

fall forwards

crumble together

mixed up again

baked in a pre-heated

idea of what

you’d be

when you were done.

There is a way to

get out of bed in the morning

and

be an adult.

There is some way to

make decisions

that make you

a better person.

And I am convinced.

I am

completely

assured.

That

no one really knows

what they’re doing

when they do it right.

Everyone is passionate about music.

That one artist.

Growing up

the world is cruel,

but you find a way to keep waking up.

Every morning,

again and again,

and you don’t know how.

Everyone has an artist that they hand-hold

and head-shake.

An imaginary friend.

A rocky start and misguided sadness.

You hear your heavy-weighted footsteps

in empty high school hallways.

You know it’s time to leave.

Clanking of metal lockers.

The bells have stopped in synchrony.

Time is spinning backwards in your mind.

All these memories

and

moments.

You think

you wonder

you realize

all of a sudden!

like a -thunk- in your gut.

You can’t get anything back

once it’s gone.

Even the bad things.

Even the sad things.

A melancholy feeling.

You hated it

here

but you liked the little things.

Carrying your notebooks around.

Those chairs.

The way the teacher knew your name.

You’re just hanging on

to what

you can’t

have

anymore.

You don’t want to go quite yet.

This is predictable.

You know what you get.

You hit play

on your old discman

and it comes up,

through the cable,

and into your ear.

Neural connections

click-clicking

into nodes

shouting to other nodes

that say

 

it’s okay.

I’ve been by here before and I know it not by
The things around me
But by the way it makes me feel.

I walk barefoot down the gravel testing my own
Patience, stability,
I walk not knowing why.

I ache, the sun shining down, my eyes
I have this nightmare where I can’t open them
It’s so bright that they’ve sealed themselves shut
A thread ties them closed.

I put my hands out in front of me
And I keep walking.

I hear the gravel shift behind me and
A child walks by my side
And holds my hand
And guides me.

I ask them who they are
And a small voice replies
I am your eyes.

I stop in the gravel and sit down and
I want to cry but
It won’t come out.
I am all blocked up.
So she cries for me.
I am your eyes.

I tell her to stop.
She says
No
You cannot see.

The desperation fades and she stops crying.
I run my hands along her face
I slip my hands up to her brow
I slide a finger down her eyelids
Which
Well
Weren’t there at all.

I scream and another child runs into my back
I’m sorry
I’m sorry
I don’t know where I am.
Another, and another.
They’re feeling their way.
Down the gravel road.

The little girl who cried for me
Stands up.
You didn’t think you were alone
Did you.
You didn’t think
You didn’t think you were the only one.

Did you?

Old man in the stairs
he says
You cannot pass here
No one comes through
No one gets out alive.

I had ridden past here a few times before and
He had let me in, or
He hadn’t seen me.

I climbed the stairs and looked down
I saw what they didn’t want me to see.
All the things laid out, waiting,
All the possibilities.
They were gold and moved just a little
When you looked straight at them.

There was another girl with me
She said shed been there before.
She liked to come on Tuesdays and drink her
Tea here
Under the trees
Above the world.

She said, thoughtfully so,
Tipping her head a bit,
That she couldn’t see the possibilities anymore.
It was dark down there.
And it scared her.

I asked why she hadn’t climbed down the stairs to see if she
Could find the gold again
At the bottom of the stairs
Through the city
Hiding in the cracks.

She said
Well
She thought
She looked pensively at me and said
I don’t know how.

I looked out again at the
Glimmer, the glittery
Shining gold space of
All the things that haven’t happened
Yet.

What do you think you’re going to do
Then
If there’s nothing you
Want to do?

She’d finished her tea and sat up.
I’ll be back next Tuesday
I suppose.