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I have serenity lacing my veins, trickling slowly with caffeine and nicotine. Waiting on summer, when all dark changes to light, cold and bitter winds change into subtle breezes. 80 degrees outside and a dip at the lake is as refreshing as a thunderstorm that breaks apart humidity. The future looms nearer, beckoning and taunting me to finish up that last sentence, phrase it correctly and please, darling, take notice that all those 'meaningless assignments' are dictating where you will go. New insecurities are continually arising.

C'est la vie.

Every now and then I need to catch myself before I dive into chaos (I feel myself slipping on this great precipice; the earth crumbles beneath my feet and I've got nothing but sky to hold on to but sometimes that's all I need). Someone asked me to daydream yesterday. I'd forgotten what it was like to dream. And after inhaling the sky that I saw myself floating in, the benevolent sun warming all the cold corners of my cluttered mind, the freshness intoxicating me, I decided to peel all my black off [layer by layer] and bask in the simplicity of twilight.

Nothing makes sense. Especially me.

1986 couldn't have disappeared any sooner,
left us impregnated with guitar riffs and wanted to touch the stars.
You're almost famous, but I still can't recognize your face.
Lipstick tubes and platform shoes left in the back seat of your car.
(we liked to play dress-up with rock stars)
We turned our world into one big constellation,
targeting every satellite that brushed us by.
Sing us one more song before the lights go out.
Picking up fragments of stars and hanging them on our wrists,
dragging fame along with us.
They said the moon was too high to reach, but we got there in a day,
pretending that sidewalks were catwalks
and that the pavement wouldn't skin our knees if we fell,
but we dropped every time you walked on by.
(It took us all of 5 years to show you our faces)

Standing on the edge of summer, as I am now, it doesn't seem as though it can come fast enough. I love the smell of summer, the feeling of endless possibility. For years now, I have found solace in shorts and bare feet on a summer day, sitting beneath a tree or on a park bench by a lake, reading books and writing poetry. It's my down time. Time inbetweent the moments I have to spend making decisions and judgements and doing the right thing. ((Whatever that may be.)) It's time for myself, to stop and reflect and just BE.

I'm literally itching for the beautiful weather, 83 degrees and higher where I can just throw on a swimsuit and jump in the lake. Run for hours in soft green grass, barefoot, forgetting that i am, infact, 20 years old.

It's always held the same feeling for me, though through the years, the idea of summer has slowly changed and evolved. When I was younger, summer meant time off from school and time to be with friends. As the years went by, summer meant working a few more hours but still being with that special someone, whoever it may have been in the past. Now I'm married and I do love it.

I just cannot wait for summer.

"I used to be with it, but then they changed what 'it' was, and now what I'm with isn't it. And what's 'it' seems weird and scary to me." - Abraham Simpson, 'Homerpalooza'

Watch the days phase in and out. Try to memorize the separate feelings of sunlight and moonlight on your skin while you are still able to. Watch people gather in small groups behind you, pointing and staring but never approaching. They always seem to be able to throw out insults about you from far away, but when faced with the opportunity to approach you with complaints, they retreat like wounded animals. Watch the clock hands dwindle, wind around, not lingering in any one place for too long. Time is a valuable thing and it's slipping away all too fast.

Smiles are all the same when you mistake a polite greeting for someone else to be for you. Smiles are all the same when the intention is minimal and you're caught waving back to someone who never waved to you. Just keep your head down and make your way past all the little groups of people. The cliques, the gathering. Sift into the mainstream and just flow with it. It's just as easy if you don't acknowledge anyone's presence anyhow. Most aren't worth the few seconds of your life as it is.

Filter out the negatives. Hold onto any small positive you might be able to produce so that you can get through the day. Wait at the curbside away from the crowd, because if you had to listen to them ramble, you'd be forced to scream "Shut the hell up".

Hell, at one point in time, that was the nicest thing that anyone had ever said to you. The very nicest thing. It isn't because you're "different" that you haven't melded into some sort of grouping. It's because you refuse to.

And why am I saying you? Maybe because I'd like to think this is your problem and not mine. But it may not even be a problem.

Neutral in the pending wars of the masses, fighting not to get caught up in the strings. Inhale. Exhale. All the noxious fumes. Breathe in, breathe out. Careful that it doesn't all retain in your lungs.

Addiction isn't control is it? No, it certainly is not.

Excuse me, Mr. Big Shot?
I don't need your
good for nothing ramblings bout economics
and which female belongs where and why and what
and I'm sorry, what were you saying about the
length of my skirt? I was too busy watching
your face get red because you get so angry sometimes
and it makes me smile.
Did I ever tell you that I do it to you
on purpose?
And I always said how I wanted to play the
angry rocker girl with a pistol in her
panties and a knife in her bra and you didn't
think that I could do it, did you? Here I am
ramming cyanide down your throat because
man, you can't handle this life. You can't
handle anything with a spirit and that includes this girl
and I'm watching you stumble over words, just
waiting for us to apologize.
Well well well.
Mr. Big Shot, I don't believe I have to take any more
of your shit.
When you see me having the last laugh,
you'll know what I've become.
You'll know what I can do.
Because, Mr. Big Shot, I always get the last laugh.

Sometimes I have to bite my tongue and turn my head, so that you won't see me cry. Sometimes, I don't have to move my head at all because you aren't paying attention anyhow. I could cry for hours in total silence and you would never notice a tear. And it breaks my heart that I sound so selfish, which is why I never say these things aloud. I'll bury my words in the sand and keep them hidden there forever. Because I have no room to complain. You warned me from the beginning. You warned me of how it would be and I agreed. And now some nights I sleep alone, lulled to sleep only by the darkness of the covers thrown over my head so that, if you do happen to look over, you won't see me cry.

"This is indeed a disturbing universe." - Maggie Simpson, 'Treehouse of Horror V'

Shining eyes in blackened rooms.
These letters written in invisible ink do nothing when music
isn't playing loud enough to drown out
any sound.
Faces fade in and out of the back of my mind.
People I once knew, people I loved. People
who I thought gave a damn.
Perhaps with a camera, I can manage to capture
the things that normally go unnoticed.
And if you look in the bottom right hand corner
of frame number 34, you'll see her
heart breaking. You'll see the snap,
watch until frame 45 when fingernails
bend backwards and she twists her spine trying
to outrun the future. screaming with clenched jaws.
Her blood is black and red ink and she knows it falls on
deaf pages. She's fading in and out of reality, pulling the camera back and if
you look ahead, you'll see she'll be crying
in frame 104 when everything else has
faded to mere illusion.
Tricks of the camera.

Ah, censorship. Even when I don't say anything offensive, I'm still censored. Hell, I get censored for saying "Yay for censorship". I should get some sort of reward for this, really.

This reminds me of a bit by George Carlin...shit piss cunt cocksucker motherfucker and tits.

Or something to that effect. Let's eee how many more times I can get censored for absolutely no reason.

"It is possible to commit no errors and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life." - Captain Picard to Data, Star Trek: The Next Generation, "Peak Performance"

i.

You only seem to want me on my "good days." And while I may be ruthless with an ink pen or a keyboard, I won't give you an edited version of myself. You're standing in the yard, pleading for pleasant anecdotes, flowers in the rain, everything I've lost. Lately. Irately. I can't listen. You've got me thinking endurance and how long, how much more, visits and chores. Ultimately questioning this (impossible quest). Could it be committed pity that keeps me pretty(?) Bound and not found hating more and more of you.

ii.

I want to embrace you, I want to let things spill, lay it all out for you in manageable portions. There will be no omissions, no delicate generalizing or skirting around. I'm tired of walking the precarious (im)position between two platonic greats of the past. I thought about arming myself with the only physical evidence I have, and I thought about handing it over and watching you contemplate dissection. Then I thought about the way your face might look if you held all that was left of your best friend. I think better of these things and I will practice patience in a way I have never before, keeping details of yesterday safe in my head, not crowded in yours.

iii.

Light years between your standards and mine. Doesn't take a glance to glean this. I am the confident soldier. And every inner-city stoplight, silent fight lessens the gap that holds her. Back. Down. She looks at me and the ground, harbors a slight frown. Insistance, resistance. And while she claims convenience as the foundation for these twenty long years, when drowning, I'll still cling to what is mine to define. Forward motion, trading fears for cheers.

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