Magpie

It's just a mineral deficiency
I told myself the day he started
eating dirt.
It must be genetic;
the emotion for disgust
is common.
It helped explain the way
he could stomach
his inappropriate appetite.
But he passed up the main course
and he fled right before dessert.
Behind him he left his napkin,
ingrained stains marked the corners
where he wiped the excess mud.
He must be having an emotional breakdown
or an affair with the flower bulbs.
I tried to make it sound romantic.
But the risk of eating contaminated roads
settled into my mind like dust.
His stomach tears open,
parasites march out,
soon they'll take over
the snow and sprinkle it black,
a reverse nighttime sky,
salt and pepper to taste.
I wish he would eat stars instead,
Gemini and Orion making love
in his lower intestines,
exiting in such peculiar beauty.

burgers and pistols

Some people like sleep. OTHER people (me!!!) like waking up waaay earlier than necessary in order to drink a free Rockstar (thanks, rich people up in Sundance) and write the getting-really-old-and-tiring caffeinated blog posts before going to work. Yeah! Yeah! What did I just write? Let me reread it right now - No! If I reread it, I may never choose to write again. I joke. Writing seems to be the only thing I can do lately. Well, writing and making cat puppets. Did you know I made a cat puppet last night? Out of a paper bag? From the trash? Trash kitty. "Trash Kitty" sounds like some hipster clothing brand based out of LA. They would have a bunch of oversized and overpriced tank tops at this store and so many fuckin' leggings. And maybe even earrings that look like hamburgers or pistols. Trash Kitty: Where burgers are the new black. (But please don't eat any of the burgers because you have to fit into those $249 crushed velvet leggings, okay? Or eat the burger, but then go on a 7-day coke binge and hit up some LA nightclubs so you can dance away the 249 burger calories. Fuck you in the butthole, LA!!!)

Oh my hell.

What is in this ROCKSTAR?!

I think all of you just rolled your beautiful eyes, abruptly stopped reading this, and have gone outside to roll around in the beautiful snow. Right? I really hope so. I wouldn't be offended. Nothing offends me. THAT'S A LIE. There are definitely things that offend me, such as asswipe butthead jerkfaces that don't treat my sister the way she deserves to be treated. I also get offended when people make really mean jokes, especially when they are directed towards women and their bodies. But fuckin' swear words? Shit no. I am so so so sorry, mom! I really feel bad that I subject you to reading these filthy words! But the letters are just shapes and symbols and we assign the meaning to them.

Anyway, the snow is gorgeous. And so are burgers. Don't be afraid of either.

We String Along The Space We Take

The contours of what we were orient and cement, create.

So we set out strong and believe the map to be our home; cardinal directions become the blankets we wrap around our feet, lines of longitude a way to stretch our legs (toes almost reach another hemisphere).

Things move differently when you cross that invisible line.

And we collect lost pieces of coast. And we arrange them with clumsy fingers. And we stir up the clouds to see the stars.

We are our own broken world.

hey! it's a poem i wrote almost a year ago! (not my best) (not my worst) (it is what it is)

Skeleton Population

She is a tourist trap,
an artificial ghost town.
No mine disaster happened here,
just year after year
of renovations
to make her face look more deserted.
She sets up saloons in her chest,
the ribcage her jail.
It's a popular place for a photo opportunity;
no one can seem to resist sticking their fists
through the bars,
guilty as charged for a flash and then
they're gone, headed now down
to the feet where she keeps
the graveyard.
Names don't matter so much on the headstones,
just as long as they are covered
with the appearance of time,
perfectly chipped, pieces missing.
If you find the time,
visit the Old West Penny Arcade
where ten tickets will buy her eyes,
the top prize.
Head there now before they close;
you wouldn't want to be left
standing among abandoned facades
that block the silent sunset.

beast of burden

I want to write more fiction (and by "fiction" I usually mean "non-fiction written in pretty language with perhaps a few details changed here and there"), but for right now I will write non-fiction (and by "non-fiction" I meant to say "incoherent ramblings fueled by two pots of coffee").

*Tonight Brian, the waiter at Village Inn, made fun of me for ordering so much food. And I was like, "Hey! Fuck you, Steven!" Oh, apparently his name is Steven. I keep thinking it's Brian, but then I remember a second later that it's actually Steven. Well, whatever. I still gave Brian a big tip because I'm really just so nice.

*By far the sexiest sex sex sex sexy sex song is "Beast of Burden" by Rolling Stones. Okay, so there are probably a dozen or so sexier songs (PROVE IT!), but holy sweet mary of buddha, that song can get me hot-n-bothered in 0.0001 seconds (then again, I've never been that good at math).

*ACTUALLY, I WAS CRAZY GOOD AT MATH WHEN I TOOK IT IN COLLEGE. I'm still quite proud of this fact. IT IS A FACT, YOU CRAZY FUCKBALLS! You aren't fuckballs. I am genuinely sorry I called you "fuckballs." Look, I'm trying to be more of a lady and curb my swearing, but not really. That was a lie. Still, I apologize if I offended any of you. I am really just so nice. I would totally give you a huge tip right now if we were in person (and if you were serving me food and/or coffee noooo no more coffee).

*Give me one good reason not to post this. ONE GOOD REASON.

*Now go turn down your lights and listen to "Beast of Burden." Ohhhh!!! What a sexy Wednesday night you are about to have!!!

(me encouraging you to have sexy time)

cut cut cut (also, hyphens)

what to cut out of my life:

*people that drag me down in one way or another

*over-consumption of particular chemicals

*constant self-body-policing (i don't know how to use the hyphen)

*constant inner critic (such as "i don't know how to use the hyphen" - but i seriously don't sometimes - that was mostly just an observation)

*tumblr!!!

*biotin (weird, i know - but it's causing me to break out! i never break out! i never get out! i need to get out of the house! train of thought derailed!)

*the feeling that i need to cut things out of my life - instead I should work with what i have, change my perspective, and regard all people/places/things as teachers

greener

You know what makes me really tired? Constant complaining, gloomy guses, awesome alliteration (I joke - I love it!), woe-is-me-the-world-is-awful-I-need-someone-to-complete-me-or-maybe-just-a-new-hairstyle-or-some-really-cool-jeans-or-a-shot-of-whiskey.

It makes me tired because, of course, I see myself doing all of these things. But I really really really want to stop being so negatively affected by everything. And I am very affected by the company I keep. I absorb. I sink into their skin without the other person even realizing it. I am like a demon! But not a demon. Just a human who observes the fuck out of other humans and can't help but be super influenced by their behaviors, choices, words, and so on and so forth and so I have decided to start being quieter, to start slowing down, to "disappear" for a bit and read books and write plays and go on walks by myself SANS PHONE. I need to cut waaay back on the chemicals that mess around with my brain chemicals. Balance, you're out there somewhere and I'll find you again.

And community. I'd like a community again. I long for a group that supports, encourages, inspires, uplifts.

Dear readers of this li'l blog, I know who you are and I admire you. You do not drag me down. You have helped me more than you realize.

And I realize the grass isn't always greener on the other side. Maybe it's not even grass over there. Maybe what I need is a hell of a lot of sand or dried desert mud. But what I'm getting at is that I'm going to start putting myself first. This may translate into being "boring" or "not around very often" or "kind of a prude," but, well, I'm okay with that. More than okay.