Capsize

The more I think about it,
the more I realize I'll just
end up with an un-usable degree,
and I'll be waiting tables in a dive
somewhere, living in fear of losing
my electricity while taking the bus
to the laundromat on Wednesday nights.


I'll lose what I've worked for
and I'll sleep in a noisy room
alone between starchy sheets
unable to come home
or go far away.
Without a car and living
off ramen noodles 
among peeling walls
and probably roaches.


Because this 
love that swells
through my heart
for all of these 
fanciful things, 
these creative endeavors
I wish could define
is absurd.
It will kill me,
inevitably.
It is not practical,
but I can't stop it.


I'll pursue it anyway,
knowing the consequences
of debt and penury
and loneliness and 
my death.


But I want to die
among notebooks
filled with soul.
I want the whisperings 
pressed between pages,
so someone might know
that I tried.


And if I 
am in a cold apartment alone
in a seedy part of a huge city,
I hope it snows. I hope
these visions are lies.

The Stakes Are High

Sometimes 

I really just feel like

screaming

"fuck!"

But I'll settle for

mumbling it sometimes.

Because things sometimes suck,

and they are all your own fault.

Like the lovely three-inch

blackened space on the

front bumper of my father's

brand new car.

I scraped the paint right off.

And felt dumb

and was pissed at myself,

and cried and worried,

because it's what I do.

Because it bothered me all day.

And then it came to the point of

trying not to cry, because you're dumb.

Trying not to totally lose it,

because there are three men standing around car

and it's embarrassing, because they're awkward.

And you're awkward, and can't talk because your 

voice wavers. And you can't really look at anyone

because yes, your eyes are tearing up fast.

It was mostly me just worrying,

my father was not really so mad.

It's just that the ugly scratch

will be a reminder of my stupidity

and failure until it gets fixed.

Which could be a long time.

So it will stare at me and taunt me

and say "Oh look! You're not good 

enough to drive a car!"

Because I'm a bad driver.

It was so nerve-wracking.

And as I was frantically rubbing at

the scuff marks in the middle of a

nearly empty parking lot

all I could think was

"I'm so stupid. He'll kill me. The paint

came off". 

And now it makes me feel bad, 

the whole car, and also

dragging you into this situation,

you're so nice.

But I know you aren't good

with highly-emotional situations.

We even discussed just earlier this week

how you aren't a 'touchy-feely' type.

Crying people weird you out and 

make you uncomfortable.

Sorry.

Sorry I cannot better handle myself.

Thank you, though

for being there.

And I cannot count the times you said

"It's going to be ok", or

"Are you ok?"

Because despite your sudden awkwardness,

you handled it well.

As I was quickly turning into a 

hysterical mess.

That fucking scratch.

Made a dent in me.

But then I ate a 

really big omelet

and went grocery shopping

and felt a hell of a lot better

about the whole ordeal.

I Wanna Be Ignored

"How long, tell me how long

tell me how long, tell me how long"

Until there is nothing left 

in me to constantly fret over.

How long until I won't be

so horridly self-conscious 

and terrified.

Because I think

next time,

god I hope there isn't a next time,

I might actually cry.

And when you say

"Are you ok?"

I won't be able to say,

"Yes, I think so".

Because I try hard not to

lie to you.

"I look at your eyes

and they're like

flooded basements"

Because you are nice to me

despite my awful flaws.

Despite how I am

so paranoia-driven.

You talk complete sense

and then smile 

and I guess

I'll be alright,

I will take this

opportunity.

As you put it.

And then told me

"You'll be ok,

it'll be ok"

And yes, I believe you.

But I do not believe myself.

We Should Fight

Ignore this.

I just like him too much.

How Long, Diana?

So I certainly love my friends.

I don't understand how I survived

before them.

There is something

so grotesquely comforting

in a bout of unrefined laughter;

in insanity at its finest.

There is something so perfect

in knowing that this group of people

is so close. We are close enough to

discuss our fights, to talk about 

anything. To admit everything to each

other. I am unsure of how people

exist without such a network of 

wonderful, beautiful people.

And yes, my friends are beautiful.

They are a such pretty girls, and

they ought to know it, people

should tell them, because they are

superb-looking.

And they are beautiful people 

inside, too. There are aspects of everyone

I admire so deeply. They all do things

that are so lovely. 

I love them, you should know.

They are the most important people

I know. 

And as we lie awake in the dark,

dark morning hours, staring at the

ceiling, and talking and talking,

it is so mundane sounding, I know,

but it is nearly my favorite thing to do.

Talk to these people, in the dark,

as we try not to fall asleep

and as we are all very warm.

And that we can talk about everything

is fascinating to me. I've never realized

so deeply before, that I cannot trust

any other people so deeply with all

I've ever told them. It strikes so deep 

in my heart, that these people and I can

speak so simply of anything,

anything at all. Everything;

we talk about our lives, the state of the world,

this war, people smells, arguments and politics,

and yes, we talk about boys, and we talk about

school, typical.

And in the absolute depth of night,

every time we ever have a sleep-over,

there are two, and we talk for a long time,

as everyone is asleep, because somehow,

we are always very alive very long after 

everyone else. 

I will tell her my love-stricken feelings,

and she will tell me about her actual 

love, her boyfriend. And we have these silly,

very serious, very interesting conversations

about boys sometimes. I have come to 

trust her so much in such matters.

And she is so understanding and we

can really just blab blab blab about whatever,

but boys especially. 

And sometimes I tell her things

and it will be the first time

I admit a certain thing aloud,

to another human being for real.

It's always so startling.

To conclude:

I love my friends,

basically more than 

life itself. 

(Although they are the only

reason I have a life)

Mysterious Power

It's Saturday,
and I've woken up in such a glorious mood.
It ought to be warm and breezy outside,
not so cold and frosty, 
to accommodate this feeling.


Sometimes you wake up
and just know it's going to
be a splendid day.


I'm so glad today feels
like one of those days.


There will be friends
and pumpkin carving
and halloween 
costume-putting-together/
scavenging.


And at least it's
sunny outside.
That's awfully nice.


And there's Feist, Karen O, and
Ezra Furman and the Harpoons 
to listen to all day.
Which is so lovely.


It just seems
like a good day.

Heads Up

Then the universe realizes you're
feeling down and overwhelmed 
and gives you a little boost.


But at the same time,
things can't be too
good so you get a 
fresh slap in the face too.