...nothing........

Used

Viens in your hands

swelled pulsating

grabbing my flesh

Atavistic force drives

moving our bodies to union

fleeting flashes of feeling

of sacred ties

only to be startled awakened

to realize the final finish was

a romantic fallacy-

chemicals coursing through

the crania

bottomless seeking

nerve endings

narcissism

buying and selling

Exploitation.

"newish" cd

Love , love, loving... Cymbals Eat Guitars', Why There Are Mountains. It flows like one big song with a mid/ final crescendo, switching things up along the way... if that even makes sense. But anyway, here's their Myspace and you can even listen to the album on pitchfork !

currently obsessing over...

  hell yeah I'm obsessed with this picture, but more importantly the attitude!

:: joy division : painting my furniture pepto bismol pink : snookys! (the bunny) : twizzlers pull n' peel : ordering my coffee drinks with an extra shot : decorating for easter : walgreens (home away from home, my mecca) : playing the character of holly golightly in everyday life : things that sparkle : gettin' experimental in music and poetry tastes : documentaries ::

News Flash: we (coral and myself) are seriously considering painting our nasty, ugly brown cabinet in the bathroom pink! we could get in trouble with management but who the hell cares! 

sweet affirmation

This weekend I got an email informing me that one of my poems has been accepted to the Spring edition of the Coraddi (uncg's literary magazine.) I was not really expecting to be published, but I thought I'd take the chance. It has only been recently that I started openly sharing my work. I have to admit that it feels awesome to know that someone else understands my vision and appreciates my style. cheers to poetry!!

here it is:

Divine Ceiling

I spent that summer alone in a sub-leased 5^th floor walkup.

Most nights I would lay awake for at least one hour before

Sleep would wash over and pull me in.

I would stare at the walls, the bedposts, the pictures.

Coffee stained papers were crumpled and discarded like forgotten people

Who made their homes under bridges.

Stacks of books with dog-eared pages lined the walls.

Post-its on the walls that said things like “live your dreams.”

My roving eyes got stuck on

A small pile of hair strands on the nightstand.

But not often would I look up at the ceiling.

The blankness of that holy, empty space was always lost on me.

a bad night

Lying on the floor in painful resignation

She threw up a bottle of wine

into a trashcan that night.

 

“You deserve the best,” he told her.

She could only see his dead eyes, rotten

And spent like dirty money.

The kind that had passed through

the hands of hookers, gangsters and politicians.

If the best was what she deserved,

Then she would only buy the bottle she

couldn't afford.

 

With nausea she released tainted, 

cheap memories and bottomless seeking 

into the unholy vessel.

Promising herself one more time

That she would not care.

 

Finally free.

A small scarlet stream crawled

Down her forearm. 

word to the wise...

I stumbled on this poem/thought yesterday when I was reading a book of poems, Honor Yourself by Terri St. Cloud. (check it out)

 As someone who has heard the word "grace" a bit too many times in my life, I was hesitant that this would strike me in any new way. 

But it did and it's brilliant:

                      grace

maybe grace is figuring out its not

                 all about you.

that people are doing what they're

   doing for their own reasons.

                    not yours.

and maybe grace is accepting that.

-Terri St. Cloud