No one's ready for that first walk into Camp Kerring. And it's not because, and let's face it, juvenile correctional camps aren't all sunny dispositions and honor systems. It's not because the wearers of several hundred white wife beaters consider that term as more of a biography than an article of clothing. And it's certainly not because every single soul in the confine is sizing you up. It's because there are no fences. No walls. No guard towers. Just a smug look of authority telling you there's no where to run. It's like being tied to a stake in the middle of a desert. You could maybe rub your hands raw and get off the thing. But then what? At least the stake keeps you standing. How depressing is that?
"Daria Williams?"
I turned my head. A broad man in a black collared "Camp Kerring" shirt was lumbering up to the bus I had just abandoned. My hands were still handcuffed in front of me. I looked him in the eye as he approached, kicking dust into the air with his thick soled boots. If there was one thing I knew, it was that I didn't owe these people any shame. That was for the judge. The jury, even. But post-sentencing was all about keeping your head up. A lot of kids got that wrong and ended up paying for it later. Not me.
He looked from my face to the cuffs and back up again. Like he was challenging me to mention metal pinching or brazen skin loss. I kept my mouth shut. That was another thing kids got wrong. You don't speak until you're spoken to.
"Let's go," he said, after another long moment of staring. Either he was sizing me up, as trouble or psychobait, or giving me the good old fashioned look-down. I couldn't be sure. It didn't matter either way. I followed him.
He walked steadily in front of me, directly through two trees. Once on the other side, the entire camp was visible. We were up in the mountains somewhere but the ground was ridiculously dry. Dirt kicked up from over two hundred shoes as people in white and green mulled about despondently. It must have been a dry summer.
Every few steps whomever we passed would look up from their task, whether gardening or digging or whatever, and stare at me. I could see the fear in some of them. I could see the hate in others. But they all had the same glean. It was seniority. And they wanted me to know I didn't belong there.
I kept my chin level as we walked. He led me to the largest building, farthest from the entrance. It was the type of building grand wedding receptions or drunk Christmas parties would enliven. The idea was so displaced from this setting I almost lost my footing.
I heard his thick boots clomp the six steps to the building, and I followed, stopping behind him at the door. He turned around.
"I don't want to hear about any lip in there with the warden. We teach respect here."
I had an almost uncontrollable urge to ask him if he was respecting me before, back by the bus, but I didn't. If you lose it on the first day you don't stand a chance.
"No problem," I said instead, keeping my expression and tone unreadable. Almost daring him to accuse me of sarcasm.
His eyes narrowed. I was a blank slate and it was making him bat-crazy. On the inside anyway. I could tell he didn't care about respect. He cared about an excuse to use his freakish gladiator biceps to teach "disrespectful" kids a lesson. A rebel without a cause jumps into law enforcement because crushing beer cans on his head and smacking the wife and kid around just wasn't enough anymore. I could have pegged him completely wrong. But I doubted it.
Finally he stopped his wannabe John Wayne impression and opened the door. I stepped through it and proceeded inside, the door banging behind me. Good. He wasn't going to be joining us.
I took a moment to look at the place. It had impressive wood everything, from the rafters, to the floors, and I wondered why they didn't choose a lighter shade. It was a forboding dark brown, not like the planks you see in hardware stores, or even in wood yards. It was like they went out of their way to make even the wood look mean.
"Daria, yes?"
I spun around so fast, my hair whipped me in the face.
The warden. His words seeped out low, almost patronising, but that wasn't quite the right way to describe it. It was immediately evident that he didn't need to remind people that he could break them in half, the fact simply emanated from him, no further explanation needed. He had a weathered face, the way a seasoned general might have looked. And his eyes directly contrasted his words in a way that I could immediately tell this man was probably one of the sharpest, hardest people I'd be encountering for a long time.
"No need to be startled. Follow me, please," he said in the same manner as before.
He led me to a smaller room, equally as dynamic and sinister as the rest of the building, and beckoned for me to sit down with a nod of his head. I lowered myself into the creaking chair as he sank into the elaborate wooden one behind the similarly designed desk. The man had to have a back of steel to sit there every day. The rest of him must have been steel too. There were no pictures on the walls, instead a few heads of deer, moose, and one wolf decorated the paneling.
He sat there, hands towered by his lips, undoubtably appraising me. He, however, didn't do it quite as voraciously as Johnny Biceps.
I lifted one of the fair strands of hair that had fallen about my neck during the journey, and tossed it behind me. This was more difficult than usual considering my hands were still fastened together.
"I'd cut that if I were you," he said.
"Sir?" I asked, sounding more surprised than I meant.
"You're too pretty, Miss Williams," he said, factually, as though he were addressing a two year old. "You have no idea what happens when girls like you get mixed with people like that." He motioned to the door, obviously referencing the other residents of Camp Kerring. I remained motionless. "But since you've decided to blatantly disregard that rule, I'd cut that if I were you," he reiterated through his teeth.
"The rule being, pretty girls don't commit felonies?"
The warden's eyes sharpened somehow.
"The rule, Daria, is that pretty girls, when accused of committing felonies, either bat those doleful eyes at the jury, or allow their well endowed parents to bail them out of the minor scrape they've managed to stumble into. You did neither. "
I swallowed hard to contain myself.
"Does this look minor to you?" I asked, holding my shackled hands where he could see them.
The warden smirked humourlessly.
"Obviously not. Look where we are." He stopped for a moment. "But we both know if you had allowed your considerable backing to speak on your behalf, you wouldn't be here."
"It wasn't my backing," I said, temper rising.
"Money's money, Daria. Don't be foolish."
"I'm not exactly counting my stock options right now, warden," I retorted, more evenly than I thought possible.
"You're right. You're here. And I'm left to wonder if you're going to make it your personal mission to kick up trouble where there is none."
I felt like I was tied to that pole in the middle of the desert again. But I didn't flinch.
"Kicking gets dirt in my hair, sir," I replied, matching his glare.
He was either going to slap me in the face or start laughing. I couldnt tell. Either way, he leaned forward, finally unlocking his fingers.
"One wrong move, you're back in the city, behind bars. And don't think they need a better reason than 'I don't want her in my camp' because you've gotten off easy with us, Miss Williams. Now take some shower tokens and head out to the garden shed to take care of that hair."
He threw two round coins and a square piece of paper at me, before parading over to the door. I stood to my feet and proceeded to walk through it. His hand caught me firmly by the arm. Without a word, he unlocked the handcuffs, folded them in his hand, and smiled in that heartless way without a word.
The man from the bus was waiting for me outside the office.
"Wait for me here," he said and without looking at me, headed through the very door I had just exited.
I could hear the inclinations of voices. I made my body as still as I could. Tensed every muscle as I held my breath, hoping to hear.
"So?" The man addressed the warden.
"I don't see any trouble from this one. At least not openly. She's a sharp little thing, so I doubt she'll do anything too stupid. But, as always, keep an eye out."
"Gladly."
Someone's boots clomped twice.
"Oh, and Morrison. Watch yourself."
Morrison exited the warden's office with a similar scowl on his face. I was just happy to get out of there.
Why was the warden giving me all that flack if he didn't think I was I going to cause trouble? Maybe he did that with everyone. Maybe he just wanted to see how I'd react. Maybe he gauged everything and everyone like I did. Or maybe he really did want to find an excuse to kick me out of there faster than I'd come. Either way, I wasn't cutting my hair.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Hullo
I thought I'd check in -- see how you guys are doing. There's over two hundred of you now! Which is awesome. I feel like I need to be keeping this thing updated more because there's a substantial amount of people who seem to care.
This week is reading week, meaning that there's no class etc, so I've been using the time to edit poetry for Insomniatic Dreams. It looks like ID will be released at the very end of November to the beginning of December. This is a month later than I wanted, but it can't be avoided. Sigh. Unfortunately this means I'm going to have to release my t-shirts after Christmas. Which sucks. :[
Also, the competition is finally over. You have no idea how nice it is not to have to bug people for votes every two seconds. Though I do feel sort of... purposeless as of late. It's annoying.
They haven't released the results of the contest yet. Instead deciding to keep us all under an insane amount of stress. So that's nice of them, don't you think? I hope I find out this week, though I doubt it. Gah. They didn't even say when we were supposed to find out. EVIL MUCH?! [I take that statement back if I won.]
I just finished checking both my and Vlogvetica's adsense accounts. Vlogvetica's is amazing. I wish I could make that much money from YouTube. I guess I'd have to post a ton though. But still. Dare to dream.
As it stands, vetica is about half way there to paying off all our legal fees for becoming a corporation. Im really glad we're halfway to paying that off. I was sort of worried.
Yay! It's 7:00! My sister will be home with the food soon. And with that lovely thought, I leave you. Tell me about your life and such in the comments!
This week is reading week, meaning that there's no class etc, so I've been using the time to edit poetry for Insomniatic Dreams. It looks like ID will be released at the very end of November to the beginning of December. This is a month later than I wanted, but it can't be avoided. Sigh. Unfortunately this means I'm going to have to release my t-shirts after Christmas. Which sucks. :[
Also, the competition is finally over. You have no idea how nice it is not to have to bug people for votes every two seconds. Though I do feel sort of... purposeless as of late. It's annoying.
They haven't released the results of the contest yet. Instead deciding to keep us all under an insane amount of stress. So that's nice of them, don't you think? I hope I find out this week, though I doubt it. Gah. They didn't even say when we were supposed to find out. EVIL MUCH?! [I take that statement back if I won.]
I just finished checking both my and Vlogvetica's adsense accounts. Vlogvetica's is amazing. I wish I could make that much money from YouTube. I guess I'd have to post a ton though. But still. Dare to dream.
As it stands, vetica is about half way there to paying off all our legal fees for becoming a corporation. Im really glad we're halfway to paying that off. I was sort of worried.
Yay! It's 7:00! My sister will be home with the food soon. And with that lovely thought, I leave you. Tell me about your life and such in the comments!
Monday, October 19, 2009
M.F.D.E.
Her name is Molly Favreaux. There are a million and one things I could say about her, but I thought I would start with her hair. It's platinum blonde. Not the fake, brittle barbie blonde that most girls bleaching their own hair seem to always display, but a glowing, eloquent silver. What's strange is how the color doesn't strike you as foreign at all. In fact, nothing makes more sense than platinum blonde hair when you're looking at Molly Favreaux.
She wears her platinum locks razored off before the shoulder, the ends threatening to stab into her dynamite protruding collar bone. When I first saw her I had the impression that her collarbone stuck out like that as a sign of surrender to her hair, something akin to putting its hands up for fear of impalement. But the second I talked to the owner of the possibly cowardly bone, I knew that couldn't be the case. The answer is simple. It sticks out like that, defiant and defined, because it is proud to be part of the intricate, mysterious work of art that is Molly Favreaux.
Besides razor hair and defiant bones, Molly Favreaux wears large silver triangles earrings. Somehow she makes them look new and exciting instead of awkward and gawky. Those earrings prove a carnal rule. As soon as something touches Molly Favreaux, it instantly turns into "desirable" or "vintage" or "one of a kind wonder that you can never hope to copy without looking lax and wanting". But that last one doesn't matter. No one would be foolish enough to try to copy Molly Favreaux.
Now Molly Favreaux's eyes are something else altogether. In fact, when you first see them, they're rather frightening. Being much larger than the average human set, they tend to have a stunning effect on people. Most carriers of such eyes go out of their way to blink and squint so as not to offend the common passersby. But not Molly Favreaux. For her, wide-eyed is an understatement. It wouldn't be incorrect to say that she actually has a staring problem. Though, for Molly Favreaux, staring seems to work rather well. After all, what doesn't?
I think you'll find that you now have a nice little snapshot of the unique creature that is Molly Favreaux. Fascinating, isn't she? There's only one problem. Molly Favreaux doesn't exist.
Now I think you can rightly imagine my dismay when I was told this little tidbit. After all, you too are experiencing a sort of dullened Molly Favreaux withdrawal at this very moment. And I think you and I can both agree that it is, quite frankly, not fun in the slightest.
So here is the climax, my friends, and yes, it involves essence of Molly Favreaux herself.
I have decided to prove that Molly Favreaux does in fact exist, despite the widely accepted Horner slander opposed to this idea. Not only do I have a vested interest on outing a fallacious rumour, but I find the idea of clearing my name of "lying, delusional dung-beetle" rather appealing in and of itself. You see, it doesn't matter that the entirety of Horner High doesn't believe Molly Favreaux exists. I do. I've seen her with my own eyes. And I'm going to prove it.
Signed,
Colin T. Hoffman
She wears her platinum locks razored off before the shoulder, the ends threatening to stab into her dynamite protruding collar bone. When I first saw her I had the impression that her collarbone stuck out like that as a sign of surrender to her hair, something akin to putting its hands up for fear of impalement. But the second I talked to the owner of the possibly cowardly bone, I knew that couldn't be the case. The answer is simple. It sticks out like that, defiant and defined, because it is proud to be part of the intricate, mysterious work of art that is Molly Favreaux.
Besides razor hair and defiant bones, Molly Favreaux wears large silver triangles earrings. Somehow she makes them look new and exciting instead of awkward and gawky. Those earrings prove a carnal rule. As soon as something touches Molly Favreaux, it instantly turns into "desirable" or "vintage" or "one of a kind wonder that you can never hope to copy without looking lax and wanting". But that last one doesn't matter. No one would be foolish enough to try to copy Molly Favreaux.
Now Molly Favreaux's eyes are something else altogether. In fact, when you first see them, they're rather frightening. Being much larger than the average human set, they tend to have a stunning effect on people. Most carriers of such eyes go out of their way to blink and squint so as not to offend the common passersby. But not Molly Favreaux. For her, wide-eyed is an understatement. It wouldn't be incorrect to say that she actually has a staring problem. Though, for Molly Favreaux, staring seems to work rather well. After all, what doesn't?
I think you'll find that you now have a nice little snapshot of the unique creature that is Molly Favreaux. Fascinating, isn't she? There's only one problem. Molly Favreaux doesn't exist.
Now I think you can rightly imagine my dismay when I was told this little tidbit. After all, you too are experiencing a sort of dullened Molly Favreaux withdrawal at this very moment. And I think you and I can both agree that it is, quite frankly, not fun in the slightest.
So here is the climax, my friends, and yes, it involves essence of Molly Favreaux herself.
I have decided to prove that Molly Favreaux does in fact exist, despite the widely accepted Horner slander opposed to this idea. Not only do I have a vested interest on outing a fallacious rumour, but I find the idea of clearing my name of "lying, delusional dung-beetle" rather appealing in and of itself. You see, it doesn't matter that the entirety of Horner High doesn't believe Molly Favreaux exists. I do. I've seen her with my own eyes. And I'm going to prove it.
Signed,
Colin T. Hoffman
Prose over Bros
A little more of that kidnapper/kidnappee snippet I posted a while ago. This takes place before that one. Sorry if it's confusing, but I have faith in you.
-----
Haley felt the ground beneath her bump softly, lulling her to her senses. Her thoughts buzzed, dozily, tracing the edges of her brain like smoked bees. Slowly she distingushed a strange sensation creeping its way from her stomach to her hands and feet, inflaming her joints. Aching. In her fingers. In her knees. Like the skin had been rubbed raw by sandpaper.
Her eyes flew open.
She remembered. Quickly she clenched her eyes shut again, focusing all her attention on keeping her breathing steady. He couldn't know she was awake. Not yet.
Slowly, Haley allowed herself one sliver of sight. Remaining leaned against the window, she feigned sleep, allowing her eyes to scan her surroundings. Where was she? What was happening? Why wasn't she dead? Nothing made sense.
There was a man sitting next to her, his chin perfectly angled as he read. She didn't need to turn her head to know who it was. Ryan. At least, this was the name he'd called himself around her and her classmates. The irony that the one fact she knew probably wasn't factual at all, wasn't lost on her.
Looking away from him, she realized they were riding in some sort of bus. As far as she could tell, most of the seats were stacked high with boxes. Some had ominous looking serial numbers, perhaps military. Some were black and unmarked.
There were a few more heads distinguishable, closer to the front of the vehicle, but she couldn't be sure how many. She was far too slouched. And she didn't want him to see her move.
How long had she been asleep? It was pitch black outside. The moon was glaring against the window as the bus glided through the darkness. It could have been the start of the evening or the very tail end of it. There was no way to tell. Night was always this crisp in the mountains.
A slicing in her legs dragged Haley's attention from the rush of trees outside. Tilting her head ever so slightly, her eyes scanned her knees. Two long gashes blazed there, proving that the sudden murderous stinging wasn't a figment of her imagination. She had gotten them when he had thrown her to the pavement. Anger burned in her chest.
"You're awake."
His voice cut through her act like a buzz saw, and her eyes shot to her left, locking with his. He was staring at her, like he'd stared at the pages of his book, through them, deciphering every word. She didn't stand a chance.
"Where are we?" she croaked, blinking at the sound of her own voice. It was damaged. Like someone had ripped her vocal cords from her throat and not bothered to reattach them properly.
"Nebraska," he said, closing the book she hadn't noticed still dangling in his hands.
Haley's head spun, lurching her stomach in a direction it didn't want to go. Nebraska? She'd be knocked out for a few states. Blinking hard, she fought back the panic rising in her chest, trying somehow to keep herself steady. She wouldn't break their eyeline.
"Sit back. You'll make yourself puke," he reprimanded, almost boredly. His eyes scanned downward.
Following them, Haley saw that she was on the edge of her seat. She'd jerked forward without realizing it. And now he was telling her how to react. Like he knew what was happening to her better than she did. Or like she didn't have a choice. Clenching her eyes closed, Haley swayed for a moment, composing herself, before opening her mouth to reply.
"What did you give me?" she said, eyes closed.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, guiding her firmly back into her seat.
"Thiopental," his deep voice said through the pulsing dark. She didn't bother to open her eyes.
Light of any kind wasn't a welcome addition to the jackhammer assaulting her brain.
"The dummy version please," she mouthed through the fresh jabs of pain in her head.
"Your basic anesthetic. You'll have a headache and stomach issues for about thirty-six hours, but you'll be fine."
"What smells?" she asked, suddenly acutely aware of something dead and rotting in her nostrils.
"It's an effect of the drug. It's nothing," he replied, so assuredly, that if he hadn't stuck her with a syringe and thrown her into a bus a few hours ago, she might have believed him.
He was staring at her. Like she was the only thing distinguishable in the entire vehicle. Like he was daring her to speak again. Like he knew exactly how impossible that task was becoming with each passing second.
"What's happening?" she managed fairly evenly after what felt like an eternity. Her heart was threatening to explode out of her chest. And she could tell he knew it.
His eyes drilled into hers, a silent threat to knock down the invisible fence between them. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what he was going to do.
"You're such becoming company, we decided to bring you along," he said, showing his teeth for the first time since that afternoon.
She resisted the molten sick erupting her chest.
"I elbowed you in the face."
His eyebrows rose the tiniest fraction of an inch.
"You'll fit right in," he said without blinking.
His expression was unfathomable. For what felt like hours they sat there, eyes locked, as Haley's pulse quickened in the anticipation of her next question.
"Why didn't you just shoot?" Her lips formed the words precisely. Like they had been carbon cut to ask that one and only question.
"Who says I'm not going to?" he replied, unreadable.
Haley waited for the plunging fear to permeate her chest. But it didn't come. In fact, she felt no different whatsoever. She already knew how much danger she was in. And a possible, even imminent bullet to the brain had already been on her mind since she first opened her eyes. His words were nothing but a quiet echo of the fear she had already begun to process. Now the question was, was he serious?
-----
Haley felt the ground beneath her bump softly, lulling her to her senses. Her thoughts buzzed, dozily, tracing the edges of her brain like smoked bees. Slowly she distingushed a strange sensation creeping its way from her stomach to her hands and feet, inflaming her joints. Aching. In her fingers. In her knees. Like the skin had been rubbed raw by sandpaper.
Her eyes flew open.
She remembered. Quickly she clenched her eyes shut again, focusing all her attention on keeping her breathing steady. He couldn't know she was awake. Not yet.
Slowly, Haley allowed herself one sliver of sight. Remaining leaned against the window, she feigned sleep, allowing her eyes to scan her surroundings. Where was she? What was happening? Why wasn't she dead? Nothing made sense.
There was a man sitting next to her, his chin perfectly angled as he read. She didn't need to turn her head to know who it was. Ryan. At least, this was the name he'd called himself around her and her classmates. The irony that the one fact she knew probably wasn't factual at all, wasn't lost on her.
Looking away from him, she realized they were riding in some sort of bus. As far as she could tell, most of the seats were stacked high with boxes. Some had ominous looking serial numbers, perhaps military. Some were black and unmarked.
There were a few more heads distinguishable, closer to the front of the vehicle, but she couldn't be sure how many. She was far too slouched. And she didn't want him to see her move.
How long had she been asleep? It was pitch black outside. The moon was glaring against the window as the bus glided through the darkness. It could have been the start of the evening or the very tail end of it. There was no way to tell. Night was always this crisp in the mountains.
A slicing in her legs dragged Haley's attention from the rush of trees outside. Tilting her head ever so slightly, her eyes scanned her knees. Two long gashes blazed there, proving that the sudden murderous stinging wasn't a figment of her imagination. She had gotten them when he had thrown her to the pavement. Anger burned in her chest.
"You're awake."
His voice cut through her act like a buzz saw, and her eyes shot to her left, locking with his. He was staring at her, like he'd stared at the pages of his book, through them, deciphering every word. She didn't stand a chance.
"Where are we?" she croaked, blinking at the sound of her own voice. It was damaged. Like someone had ripped her vocal cords from her throat and not bothered to reattach them properly.
"Nebraska," he said, closing the book she hadn't noticed still dangling in his hands.
Haley's head spun, lurching her stomach in a direction it didn't want to go. Nebraska? She'd be knocked out for a few states. Blinking hard, she fought back the panic rising in her chest, trying somehow to keep herself steady. She wouldn't break their eyeline.
"Sit back. You'll make yourself puke," he reprimanded, almost boredly. His eyes scanned downward.
Following them, Haley saw that she was on the edge of her seat. She'd jerked forward without realizing it. And now he was telling her how to react. Like he knew what was happening to her better than she did. Or like she didn't have a choice. Clenching her eyes closed, Haley swayed for a moment, composing herself, before opening her mouth to reply.
"What did you give me?" she said, eyes closed.
She felt his hand on her shoulder, guiding her firmly back into her seat.
"Thiopental," his deep voice said through the pulsing dark. She didn't bother to open her eyes.
Light of any kind wasn't a welcome addition to the jackhammer assaulting her brain.
"The dummy version please," she mouthed through the fresh jabs of pain in her head.
"Your basic anesthetic. You'll have a headache and stomach issues for about thirty-six hours, but you'll be fine."
"What smells?" she asked, suddenly acutely aware of something dead and rotting in her nostrils.
"It's an effect of the drug. It's nothing," he replied, so assuredly, that if he hadn't stuck her with a syringe and thrown her into a bus a few hours ago, she might have believed him.
He was staring at her. Like she was the only thing distinguishable in the entire vehicle. Like he was daring her to speak again. Like he knew exactly how impossible that task was becoming with each passing second.
"What's happening?" she managed fairly evenly after what felt like an eternity. Her heart was threatening to explode out of her chest. And she could tell he knew it.
His eyes drilled into hers, a silent threat to knock down the invisible fence between them. It suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea what he was going to do.
"You're such becoming company, we decided to bring you along," he said, showing his teeth for the first time since that afternoon.
She resisted the molten sick erupting her chest.
"I elbowed you in the face."
His eyebrows rose the tiniest fraction of an inch.
"You'll fit right in," he said without blinking.
His expression was unfathomable. For what felt like hours they sat there, eyes locked, as Haley's pulse quickened in the anticipation of her next question.
"Why didn't you just shoot?" Her lips formed the words precisely. Like they had been carbon cut to ask that one and only question.
"Who says I'm not going to?" he replied, unreadable.
Haley waited for the plunging fear to permeate her chest. But it didn't come. In fact, she felt no different whatsoever. She already knew how much danger she was in. And a possible, even imminent bullet to the brain had already been on her mind since she first opened her eyes. His words were nothing but a quiet echo of the fear she had already begun to process. Now the question was, was he serious?
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Fireflies.
Fireflies mend my heart in flight
With curly dives through dark in night
I wonder if day is as bright
As seizing flies in fireflight
But flickerfly, he dimmed his spark
And I could barely see through dark
I lost that dash of daylight's mark
Amid the grassblades in the park
And climbing, tripping, none for eyes
I fixed my black gaze on the skies
And saw aloft, a twinkle rise
That rivalled flighty fireflies
And path alight, by starry fire
I trotted home but to admire
My fireflies circle ever higher
Singing with stars in ethereal choir.
With curly dives through dark in night
I wonder if day is as bright
As seizing flies in fireflight
But flickerfly, he dimmed his spark
And I could barely see through dark
I lost that dash of daylight's mark
Amid the grassblades in the park
And climbing, tripping, none for eyes
I fixed my black gaze on the skies
And saw aloft, a twinkle rise
That rivalled flighty fireflies
And path alight, by starry fire
I trotted home but to admire
My fireflies circle ever higher
Singing with stars in ethereal choir.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Two.
Wanderlust
It's safe to say the wanderlust has found me again
They say, "Don't look on it in this place--
Don't dream of it in this place."
But I say, " 'Fore the dark and dust can claim me again
With wings, I'll journey fast to your face
Seas, country, mountains--your face."
It's safe to say the wanderlust has found me again.
- October 16/09 4:35 am
Veiled Diffidence
You say, "It's thirty-eight degrees
And winter's on the wind again
I've got cold toes and a sneeze
And it's five months till I'll mend again."
I say, "Very well, and true, my dearest
We all want the spring bright shining
But the cold makes lovers clearest
You can't hide your cold feet, darling."
- October 16/09 4:55 am
It's safe to say the wanderlust has found me again
They say, "Don't look on it in this place--
Don't dream of it in this place."
But I say, " 'Fore the dark and dust can claim me again
With wings, I'll journey fast to your face
Seas, country, mountains--your face."
It's safe to say the wanderlust has found me again.
- October 16/09 4:35 am
Veiled Diffidence
You say, "It's thirty-eight degrees
And winter's on the wind again
I've got cold toes and a sneeze
And it's five months till I'll mend again."
I say, "Very well, and true, my dearest
We all want the spring bright shining
But the cold makes lovers clearest
You can't hide your cold feet, darling."
- October 16/09 4:55 am
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Sometimes it takes a remarkable amount of words to realize you don't have anything to say.
Sorry I've been absent as of late. Things are very heavy these days. I shouldn't be awake right now, but I just had to have that last pity coke at 3 am, so here we are.
Lately I've been feeling like I have nothing to say. I'm a firm believer in everyone having their own unique "voice" but I feel like mine is strained from over-use. Anything that comes out now is a fraction of the old glory. However glorious, or unglorious, that voice was in the first place, I don't exactly know. All I know is the words that present themselves these days are living a half-life, dull and wanting, tired and distracted. Not unlike myself this week.
I wrote some prose last night. It took a very long time. I'm out of practise you see. I don't know why the computer decided to start typing this in italics but it did. I think I hit something by accident. Stupid keyboard shortcuts are stupid.
There. Fixed.
I haven't felt like this in a while I suppose. It's normal for me actually. Or, at least it used to be. I don't like this normal. I want to feel the rush of inspiration as it permeates every day life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the mundane. I want poetry lines sparked by anything and everything in my head, not tomorrow's schedule fueled by stress.
I want to laugh at guilded butterflies.
How ridiculous and awesome is that line? Shakespeare knew what he wanted obviously. I bet his lows reached some pretty dark territory.
I don't want to have lows over silly, short sighted things. If I'm going to have a low, I want it to be real. The problem is, with lows that is, they always feel very real at the time. Over-indulgence in them is a sin of the worst kind. Under-indulgence is just as bad. We call this denial. I can't tell which end of the spectrum we're in, friends. What happens to the moderately sad people in the middle? We just forget them I guess. Because they're clever enough to move forward, forgetting whatever it is that had them low in the first place. I hope I'm just in the middle because inspiration is fleeting and nothing is clear, let alone the spectrum, and I'd really like to write something that matters again.
Sweet Like Candy
Everything is fine, not dandy
You look polished, sweet like candy
I've wanted you forever, dearest
Make a wish or claim a conquest
Now I'll stand up fine and dandy
Keep my teeth from rotting, candy
I'm fleeing, farthest, from you dearest
I say--I shan't become your conquest.
5:45
Chime
Finally, the battery is almost dead
As if there were a ticking clock inside your head.
I thought a clock would sure run out
You told me, "Darling, lest I shout
A clock, our clock, won't dare run out
And I will ne'er forget you."
5:50
I didn't expect to write those. I feel a bit better now.
Lately I've been feeling like I have nothing to say. I'm a firm believer in everyone having their own unique "voice" but I feel like mine is strained from over-use. Anything that comes out now is a fraction of the old glory. However glorious, or unglorious, that voice was in the first place, I don't exactly know. All I know is the words that present themselves these days are living a half-life, dull and wanting, tired and distracted. Not unlike myself this week.
I wrote some prose last night. It took a very long time. I'm out of practise you see. I don't know why the computer decided to start typing this in italics but it did. I think I hit something by accident. Stupid keyboard shortcuts are stupid.
There. Fixed.
I haven't felt like this in a while I suppose. It's normal for me actually. Or, at least it used to be. I don't like this normal. I want to feel the rush of inspiration as it permeates every day life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the mundane. I want poetry lines sparked by anything and everything in my head, not tomorrow's schedule fueled by stress.
I want to laugh at guilded butterflies.
How ridiculous and awesome is that line? Shakespeare knew what he wanted obviously. I bet his lows reached some pretty dark territory.
I don't want to have lows over silly, short sighted things. If I'm going to have a low, I want it to be real. The problem is, with lows that is, they always feel very real at the time. Over-indulgence in them is a sin of the worst kind. Under-indulgence is just as bad. We call this denial. I can't tell which end of the spectrum we're in, friends. What happens to the moderately sad people in the middle? We just forget them I guess. Because they're clever enough to move forward, forgetting whatever it is that had them low in the first place. I hope I'm just in the middle because inspiration is fleeting and nothing is clear, let alone the spectrum, and I'd really like to write something that matters again.
Sweet Like Candy
Everything is fine, not dandy
You look polished, sweet like candy
I've wanted you forever, dearest
Make a wish or claim a conquest
Now I'll stand up fine and dandy
Keep my teeth from rotting, candy
I'm fleeing, farthest, from you dearest
I say--I shan't become your conquest.
5:45
Chime
Finally, the battery is almost dead
As if there were a ticking clock inside your head.
I thought a clock would sure run out
You told me, "Darling, lest I shout
A clock, our clock, won't dare run out
And I will ne'er forget you."
5:50
I didn't expect to write those. I feel a bit better now.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Another dumping of poems for you.
Emerald
It was summer warm when I shut the door
When I left you behind
I kept the window just ajar
In case I changed my mind
Eyes catching you--perfect through glass
Your voice drawing me in
Through steady crack your eyes did ask
"Please, darling, do come in."
And struck by wanting emerald eyes
My knees dropped to the ground
I purged you from my very dreams
And shut the window sound
- September 18/09 3:30 a.m.
Scathed in Love
Paralyzed--in mobile state
A sick pull draws me near
I'm bound and reeling in your gaze
Forward--nothing is clear
My filmy eyes make torrid skies
Seemingly bright--appear
I'm shackled to those dark green eyes
I'm scathed in love, my dear.
October 5/09 11:25 p.m.
Inspired
I'm lying here left wanting
For inspiration, you
A befuddled fogbank in my brain
I need you to sear through
I need those eyes in blue or green
A hue to stop my heart
So I can pen the beating when
The beating finally starts.
- October 5/09
Lights
The Father of lights
Where the stars send their twinkling
To the angels' delight
Steady sun--never sinking
And the shadows take flight
From the beams pure and shooting
Through the dark of the night
Where I sit, quiet viewing.
- October 4/09 2:30 a.m.
Passionate
Passion seeds inside a chest
And grows down to your feet
Directing us into the mess
Of broken hearts to meet
If only passion latched to those
Who long for our embrace
But passion steers us to the wolves
Who writhe for just a taste
Now, Passion, I grow tired of you
Your thin salacious ways
Have never deemed to steer me true
There's more to life than play
Consider this a kind resign
I'll hide you in my heart
For now I give control to Mind
For he plays the wiser part
I will not stand--be called a fool
For stowing you away
I love you, Passion, dearly
But there's more to life than play.
- September 23/09 2:20 a.m.
It was summer warm when I shut the door
When I left you behind
I kept the window just ajar
In case I changed my mind
Eyes catching you--perfect through glass
Your voice drawing me in
Through steady crack your eyes did ask
"Please, darling, do come in."
And struck by wanting emerald eyes
My knees dropped to the ground
I purged you from my very dreams
And shut the window sound
- September 18/09 3:30 a.m.
Scathed in Love
Paralyzed--in mobile state
A sick pull draws me near
I'm bound and reeling in your gaze
Forward--nothing is clear
My filmy eyes make torrid skies
Seemingly bright--appear
I'm shackled to those dark green eyes
I'm scathed in love, my dear.
October 5/09 11:25 p.m.
Inspired
I'm lying here left wanting
For inspiration, you
A befuddled fogbank in my brain
I need you to sear through
I need those eyes in blue or green
A hue to stop my heart
So I can pen the beating when
The beating finally starts.
- October 5/09
Lights
The Father of lights
Where the stars send their twinkling
To the angels' delight
Steady sun--never sinking
And the shadows take flight
From the beams pure and shooting
Through the dark of the night
Where I sit, quiet viewing.
- October 4/09 2:30 a.m.
Passionate
Passion seeds inside a chest
And grows down to your feet
Directing us into the mess
Of broken hearts to meet
If only passion latched to those
Who long for our embrace
But passion steers us to the wolves
Who writhe for just a taste
Now, Passion, I grow tired of you
Your thin salacious ways
Have never deemed to steer me true
There's more to life than play
Consider this a kind resign
I'll hide you in my heart
For now I give control to Mind
For he plays the wiser part
I will not stand--be called a fool
For stowing you away
I love you, Passion, dearly
But there's more to life than play.
- September 23/09 2:20 a.m.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Love in the Thicket
Vines like veins and fronds by ponds
And light amidst the thicket
Bright fireflies strike up your eyes
Symphonic frogs and crickets
Your words, they hop on lilypads
Mine glide on water striders
In shallow race--try not to laugh
We open our eyes wider
The stars, they dance on ponds like glass
But my feet dance with you
Light twirling 'mid the summer grass
Through thicket stars we flew
And light amidst the thicket
Bright fireflies strike up your eyes
Symphonic frogs and crickets
Your words, they hop on lilypads
Mine glide on water striders
In shallow race--try not to laugh
We open our eyes wider
The stars, they dance on ponds like glass
But my feet dance with you
Light twirling 'mid the summer grass
Through thicket stars we flew
I've been writing every night. Here's a few quasi good ones.
Ghostly
There's a ghost in the hall
Of ethereal fibres
Not drifting through walls
But down aisles of survivors
They cackle and dance
In the blood and debris
They trip past her entranced
By their crass melodies
And turning her head
Dead and glowing she says,
"Better ghost than these demons
Better silver and dead."
- September 25/09 4:45 a.m.
The Anemone
There is no creature in the sea
That rivals the anemone
For tiny, spiked, and sly is he
He'd make a pointy enemy
- September 25/09 5:10 a.m.
Sakura
Tell me, blossom, friend of mine
Where will you bloom before July?
In pink-tinged hues you'll pay your dues
Against which complimenting sky?
I long to know where petals lay
After their pink descent in May
So tell me where, my blossom friend
So I may catch them mid descend
And are the lakes as pure as glass?
Where petal trees reflect en masse?
Where butterflies dance 'round each path
Can paradise be on earth's map?
For I should like to go to stay
In petals, there I'll learn to pray
Where God breathes perfume perfect day
In blossom fields, at last I'll lay
- September 28/09 3:00 a.m.
Curious
Today I met a spider
He sat beside my bed
He asked me where I find the words
That occupy my head
I told him I had not a clue
Before words I was dead
He asked if he could stay and watch
But I squished him instead.
- September 28/09 2:45 a.m.
L.O.V.E.
Arguing
Remember why we're arguing?
Get me more pain killers please.
Unless you're giving in.
I know that you won't let me win
Not unless you're--
Giving up on
Arguing
Remember why you love me and
Get some more ice for your gin
Until you finally let me in
I'll knock you till you let me in--I'm
Not ever
Giving up on us.
- September 28/09 3:40 a.m.
There's a ghost in the hall
Of ethereal fibres
Not drifting through walls
But down aisles of survivors
They cackle and dance
In the blood and debris
They trip past her entranced
By their crass melodies
And turning her head
Dead and glowing she says,
"Better ghost than these demons
Better silver and dead."
- September 25/09 4:45 a.m.
The Anemone
There is no creature in the sea
That rivals the anemone
For tiny, spiked, and sly is he
He'd make a pointy enemy
- September 25/09 5:10 a.m.
Sakura
Tell me, blossom, friend of mine
Where will you bloom before July?
In pink-tinged hues you'll pay your dues
Against which complimenting sky?
I long to know where petals lay
After their pink descent in May
So tell me where, my blossom friend
So I may catch them mid descend
And are the lakes as pure as glass?
Where petal trees reflect en masse?
Where butterflies dance 'round each path
Can paradise be on earth's map?
For I should like to go to stay
In petals, there I'll learn to pray
Where God breathes perfume perfect day
In blossom fields, at last I'll lay
- September 28/09 3:00 a.m.
Curious
Today I met a spider
He sat beside my bed
He asked me where I find the words
That occupy my head
I told him I had not a clue
Before words I was dead
He asked if he could stay and watch
But I squished him instead.
- September 28/09 2:45 a.m.
L.O.V.E.
Arguing
Remember why we're arguing?
Get me more pain killers please.
Unless you're giving in.
I know that you won't let me win
Not unless you're--
Giving up on
Arguing
Remember why you love me and
Get some more ice for your gin
Until you finally let me in
I'll knock you till you let me in--I'm
Not ever
Giving up on us.
- September 28/09 3:40 a.m.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
