I almost broke my door.

Reason doesn’t have very much to do with this. I know by now that inclusion isn’t an option, that it isn’t even broached or occurred to. Temptation truly to harbour hopes of invitation, but idiotic. The door opens in the hall and my heart does cartwheels, fending off the incoming surge of black water which passes for my daily blood. My daily bread is tied into knots, my lungs get caught on the crumbs. Pressure on my chest, I can’t help it. It’s always been here insidious killing and keen? Time to face the music, he’s brought with him a box. It’s full of people, like my things. My real things, not the props of birthday presents. A mouse with wings, a chiseled wineglass, a mirror. Mine are art and his are jewelry, but nobody alive gives me necklaces anymore. Arrogance to think I might sneak in enough, the quantify of social blood and blue blood and here slips this ring. Someone asked from the street if I was okay as I slipped to my knees and curled up inside. My balcony scene, it isn’t done, it’s screaming for the blood of a pilots thumb. It’s crying out for some sort of redemption, the answering machine impossibility. To myself it sings, welcome to this absolution bitch, you don’t get any. This is your theme, your ever present coda. Get used to it because the love song viola rule your life. We’re the sad strings, the unearthy sentimental pulse of hunting the fox down to kill.

Somethings crumbling and I can’t keep up. I am a faulty architect again and again. Shoring up the ocean is impossible, I can’t wait for me to learn what I need, to destroy what I have to. There’s too much, too many whispers in the middle of the night alone. Too many promises. Repeat. I used to know how to put myself in boxes. I used to be able to cry dust from my eyes because it was better than the broken vessels bleeding a red crimson sting. Everything filmed in artery salt water. I looked in the mirror once and felt like a madonna, a holy mary virgin mother. You’d think I would have learned how not to think in russet, but you’re wrong, because I still love you.

rather than explaining to the world that I’m dying

Too light to hear anything, the wind is echoing too loudly against the side of my building. I want to leave the house but there’s no-one to go with, so I’m instead waiting for my brother to show up. I have to be in charge then. I’ll have to put myself together, pick up the little pieces and snick them into place. I need to appear like I know what I’m doing, just a bit. We used to make giant puzzles, unwinding the picture on the table like spilled illustration. I’m considering starting it up again, but I don’t know why. As a group thing, it could be a nice way to spend some time in the evenings when it’s cold and the rain outside is too drenching. A night of hot chocolate and herbal teas. To make it challenging, we could do it by candlelight.

this morning

I was on a beach, suddenly the sky went black. Lightning was going to hit, and I dragged people from the waves. We were dressed, we were stranded, we were in a dangerous place. When the crack came, the ocean exploded at impact. I didn’t see the electricity hit, I had looked away, trying to pull one last person to shelter. I’d got them all out, now we needed to find a way around the water. To the left there was no egress but to the right, around an outcrop of rock, there was hope. Wooden stairs, out of the lee of the storm. Black hair almost, mahogany, she was sweet and held my hand to her face while he watched. We were on a loveseat together, her on her back with her legs curled to my lap. I felt warmth and I felt him watching us, but not paying attn. This was to be expected, after all. The porch had rotted wood, and mice lived in the buildings. They were artistic shanties, a row against the cliche ravages of time, taking rust and chipping paint and creating something beautiful. Inside were balinese carpets, inside were people. Some I loved. The neighbor had stolen my brother and we had to steal him back. He was demanding too much money for a photograph and my mother was too poor to pay him.

Somebody tell me what grown-ups buy at the grocery store that isn’t sandwich fixings? No, -really-

Dreaming with my eyes open, it’s like I can taste the rain that hasn’t fallen yet. I want to tear open the sky and let it cry down the back of my neck like the feeling of your fingers in the dark. Eyes, burning coal look, you tilt your chin down and try to look at me seriously, but too late again. I’m onto you, I can make it not matter again because I understand that angle, the harsh stretch behind it. Wickerwork emotion, look where the strands go and thread them in. Weave in appropriate places, feel down and down and into the weight of feet, of legs moving. Sing darling, swing, you have the earth to move. My secrets are all out in the open, that’s how they’re hiding. There’s truth and then there’s truth. Will and sun rises, they’re unrelated but I want to go to Egypt, pretend for a moment that there was once a man who took the weather into his hand. Climb ancient rocks with someone and explain the old stories of all the stars I’ve never seen growing up under these constellations. Varied paths, tales longer than that of hyena laughter. Tales longer than our fur finder history, building our cities day by day into a place where people can begin to try and pretend to live. How shiny, how glittering, this awful lack of architecture. I want to turn off the lights and tuck this place in. Wake up somewhere, new horizon, dawn blush. I caught her naked, legs wide open. Everyone sleeps in my bed, even the sun. I have a number, I’m in line. Shame drifting driftwood start and spackle my plastered face onto the wanted poster. This doesn’t make me holy, but it makes you a deity. You’re the only one allowed to hit me.

Snare drum quiet snap, occasionally it makes me think of trains, of jumping tracks on the prairies. Sometimes I question how perfectly I recall being under three feet high. The sticks of wood were so far apart, the bells I imagined on my fingers with gold and in my head I could hear them ring for miles. Shimmer cold over the rolling gold as if it were out of a movie. I know exactly what filter I would put on her smile, that little child, and what colour her plastic boots and summer dress. But it was fall, wasn’t it? It was wheat.

If I turn on the radio I want the perfect song to be playing.
So I won’t.

metric wins over miles, but not really

Originally uploaded by Foxtongue.

I was left unconscious, defenses stripped slightly, but not enough that the act of honour could be persuaded to leave the room. Metric was tonight, a lovely affair of bodies pushed skyward. A music flushed press of too many, my feet left the ground trying to defend myself. It was mass and gravity, it was swaying and jumping and plastic earrings. Andrew behind me held me down, he was my anchor as I wielded female hips to stave off the asymmetrical haircuts that were bigger then me. If I were to lift up my arms, it would be like I was flying in a salt sea of nodding heads. Next to me for a song was the shortest Metric fan ever to live. I feel beaten now, bruises are blossoming like little flowers under my skin. Petals of red so far and ache. I fought back, protect protect. When someone leapt from the stage, they impacted on my head, my arms trapped by my sides, my hands caught in someone’s nasty woolen jacket, by the lack of air to breathe. Peaceful protest, hands sliding down shoulders and heads resting on shoulders, there was no independent movement but only the mecca surge, the sweaty crush of beat and sweet voice belting out from a slim shaking frame. We were crowd summary, we were laughing.

However, a fauxhawk mosh pit does not stop me from taking video clips.