Communist Daughter

I am trying.

But this is hard.

I need change.

Two Headed Boy Pt. 2

You noted the recurrence 
of hands. 


You said you had once really
loved to draw. Hands, especially.
Did you ever want to be an artist?


You were silly
and made fun of how
sunny-side up
in this case was over-easy.
But we both agree that half-raw
eggs are really horrible
and neither of us can flip
eggs well without breaking the yolk.


I like how there can be talk 
of lots of things.


I like that I get to make you a new 
Belle and Sebastian cd.
I'm so glad you like them.


And you suggesting a band to me
made me quite happy,
you said you'd thought of me,
lyrically, that I might really enjoy
the guy's lyrical style, for you think 
in ways it is similar to my own.
I am so far pleased with the band as well.
You have good taste, usually.


We elaborated upon
grocery store philosophy,
and vegetable zoos
and the concept of
perpetual death,
how we are all dying every second
we are living. Which was uncharacteristic
of you. Yet still interesting.


It is so wonderful to be near you
and to talk on things,
even though, strangely,
my hands trembled this time
when I talked with them,
my gestures were shaky 
and I do not know why.


I love when we can talk.


Also; lobsters:

A calm unlike

the sea floor,

the white plastic 

-too smooth for

claws to grasp at-

is no substitute for

the wavering sand grains,

vegetation strung thick

and murky 20 feet deep.

 -

The fluorescence,

a doctors' office's 

quick glare. The dim

penetration of filtered light

hanging 15 feet above.

Suspended on wires

like traps.

 -

The corner of glass,

scummy-screened

and neglected

-a dying zoo-

stands a sign

of sad disrepair.

Its inhabitants

militantly still.

 -

The falsely blue water

obscures the brightly

rubber-banded 

fighting claws of a

crustacean warrior,

his whiskers moving 

slowly, as though pulled

by an inevitable tide

programmed within him.

 -

The blue, speckled bodies

in somber heaps like

a graveyard of the living dead.

The small black eyes,

pivotal things with

a depth of squid ink

are glazed over,

defeated in ways.

 -

Once rustles his

two threatening claws.

They are bound by 

orange rubber printed

with "live lobsters".

He has been labeled

and identified. 

We know who this

one is, in a pen of

his own. The

"live lobster" scrabbles

over a smaller grey body.

 -

And one by one somewhere

the warrior types,

thick with armor

will be blushed crimson.

The indecipherable whistle

haunts me, as we make 

eye contact. 

"live lobster" snaps his claws

with his eyes.

His death sounds do not

leave me.

The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie

Ready for what I think 

shall be the millionth post

about a boy?

Yes? Then shall I?

I like the idea

of standing in my

kitchen, you and I,

talking. 

You are leaning against

the kitchen sink, 

drink in hand,

and I'm leaning against the

island, across from you,

arms gesticulating,

though in small motions.

We could laugh,

it'd be nice.

And in the middle

of the crowded hallway today,

there was some instance

and I got the chills.

That had never happened before.

I've never got the chills

from a thought of you before...

which is absurd,

it's horrible that this could happen.

I do not like that it's possible.

Tom Sawyer

I want your hands.
They are mottled and
purpled and rough
and cracking in the winter
like my own. Your calloused 
fingertips that I'm sure
can play lovely songs on guitar.
Your long fingers, guy fingers,
though slight, and they are 
square-ish. 


Your hands are warm,
and sort of rough.
And they are my 
favorite hands.
And really,
I think I could not even 
like you, and still think 
you had great hands.
They are just very wonderfully
nice.


I like when you talk with them
and when they are inky.
And where your thumbs are
at odd angles to the rest
of your hands. I think it's 
because of your guitaring.
They have a lovely hollow
at the base, near your wrists
(Which are too faint for a 
man's wrists, really). 


Yes, it's sort of creepy,
really weird that I've 
studied your hands.
But I simply like 
them a lot. 
They are very 'you'.

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.