in-waiting

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Buy me lingerie and I’ll send you pictures of me crying in it

[in-waiting]

Death by oblivion. However you choose to present yourself will alter someone else's perception of...

REMINDER! That I'm no longer at this blog. I've moved on to: to-steel.tumblr.com. Hopefully i will become a more active writer, and I'd love for all of you to share this journey with me. Thank you

[in-waiting]

sorry i severly screwed up my theme but if you want to check out any of my past works, i have it for ya. otherwise, please go to my new blog: to-steel.tumblr.com ! thank you!

[in-waiting]

Death by oblivion. The way you choose to present yourself will alter someone else's perception of...

I started a new writing blog. Perhaps this time the past wont drag me down

[in-waiting]

Sounds of the Coffee Shop

Sounds of the coffee shop Alive Feet shuffling Time dying Its blood seeping into our drinks Contaminating Poisoning us to our deaths "Coffee, please!" Minds withering Rushing Rushing Rushing Anxious Eyebrows furrowing Frustration Late Late We're all late Our clocks run faster than our legs Business men always carry too many watches Always watching out Racing to the top of the Mount Everest of our problems Do you see anything there? Sounds of the coffee shop we consider to be sedate I would be afraid to walk out the doors.

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They say if you give a man a fish, he’ll eat for a day, but if you teach a man to fish…. then he’s gotta get a fishing license, but he doesn’t have any money. So he’s got to get a job and get into the Social Security system and pay taxes, and now you’re gonna audit the poor cocksucker, ‘cause he’s not really good with math. So he’ll pull the IRS van up to your house, and he’ll take all your shit. He’ll take your black velvet Elvis and your Batman toothbrush, and your penis pump, and that all goes up for auction with the burden of proof on you because you forgot to carry the one, ‘cause you were just worried about eating a fucking fish, and you couldn’t even cook the fish ‘cause you needed a permit for an open flame. Then the Health Department is going to start asking you a lot of questions about where are you going to dump the scales and the guts. ‘This is not a sanitary environment’, and ladies and gentlemen if you get sick of it all at the end of the day… not even legal to kill yourself in this country… You were born free, you got fucked out of half of it, and you wave a flag celebrating it… The only true freedom you find, is when you realize and come to terms with the fact that you are completely and unapologetically fucked, and then you are free to float around the system.

Doug Stanhope (via ordinarywonder)

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“I do this real moron thing, and it’s called thinking. And apparently I’m not a very good American because I like to form my own opinions.”

George Carlin (via ordinarywonder)

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This morning he forgets her next to his keys. He pours himself a cup of coffee and laces his shoes on the front stoop of his building. He taps his right wrist twice, searching for his watch, looking for the time. On the bus he asks an older woman if it’s half past ten and she responds with a nod, hugging her purse to her chest. The bus lurches. He stumbles slightly, wringing his wrists like dirty laundry in the back. The other day she began to fade. And he couldn’t grasp her hands or hold onto her waist or bury his face into her chest like he often does when they’re lying together in bed. Why do people always forget? he asked. And she gently touched his temple: oh, because people are just like that.

The bus continues crawling along the street. He can’t remember what he had forgotten this morning. He reaches into his pocket, sticks a hand into his briefcase, tugs on his tie. The woman continues to hold onto her purse as if it’s her youngest child. She must know what it’s like, he thinks to himself. So he turns to her casually and asks what he’s forgotten this morning and she looks at him with wide eyes, nervously petting her purse and clucking her tongue:

Oh, people are just like that.

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New York City window washers, 1958.

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Fury Risen

The Fury screams Feed it Satisfy it Feed it Feed it What do you want The Fury boils It rages inside me Rattles my bones Feed the damn thing Give it what it wants I want to destroy  Everything, the World, Myself I will destroy Everything, the World, Myself I destroy Everything, the World, Myself The Fury suffocates me Controls me Becomes me The Fury is hungry I feed it with pain The fury is raging I offer my screams My body is in chains Wrists bleeding Body thrusting The poison penetrating I am so tight inside Locked up left to rot Fighting against Myself Not Myself Let it end Make it sop Let me go

.

[in-waiting]

There it goes again. That heavy feeling in your chest when you don’t feel any desire to speak or move. All you want to do is close your eyes and sleep, because the process of being broken is incredibly exhausting. You attempt your best to make your days fulfilling, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to connect to anyone or anything.

(via lexophil)

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She Carries our Bones

The gods have us trembling

at their feet. I hope

they are satisfied—

there has been enough

deaths in the time of our world.

The earth carries her corpses

like a slave carries another's weight;

the burden she must feel for

consuming the blood and souls into

her dead, fiery core. Does she like

the taste of our iron?

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You happened to me. I was happened to like an abandoned building by a bull- dozer, like the van that missed my skull happened a two-inch gash across my chin. You were as deep down as I’ve ever been. You were inside me like my pulse. A new- born flailing toward maternal heartbeat through the shock of cold and glare: when you were gone, swaddled in strange air I was that alone again, inventing life left after you. I don’t want to remember you as that four o’clock in the morning eight months long after you happened to me like a wrong number at midnight that blew up the phone bill to an astronomical unknown quantity in a foreign currency. The U.S. dollar dived since you happened to me. You’ve grown into your skin since then; you’ve grown into the space you measure with someone you can love back without a caveat. While I love somebody I learn to live with through the downpulled winter days’ routine wakings and sleepings, half-and-half caffeine- assisted mornings, laundry, stock-pots, dust- balls in the hallway, lists instead of longing, trust that what comes next comes after what came first. She’ll never be a story I make up. You were the one I didn’t know where to stop. If I had blamed you, now I could forgive you, but what made my cold hand, back in prox- imity to your hair, your mouth, your mind, want where it no way ought to be, defined by where it was, and was and was until the whole globed swelling liquefied and spilled through one cheek’s nap, a syllable, a tear, was never blame, whatever I wished it were. You were the weather in my neighborhood. You were the epic in the episode. You were the year poised on the equinox.

Marilyn Hacker, Nearly A Valediction (via writingsforwinter)

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A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.

Gertrude Stein, “A Carafe, that is a Blind Glass” (via cordeliagablewrites)

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exaggerated fiction

[A/N: an anti-poem i wrote at 30 minutes before a slam where the required subject was boston. like my plays, it is not real, although it sounds close. if you read it aloud to yourself, it will fly better than it sits on the page.]

he asks me if he can come inside me motherfucker, that is a boyfriend privilege not a we’re-a-little-older-now-and-you-told-me-you were-on-birth-control privilege. because a world where we mean a lot to one another is an apocalyptic one my love that stays was born in the part of march that roars; turns out the ones that hurt you are always lambs - so here’s boston at 50 degrees; my soul is thawing ……………………………………                                 supposedly i structure diatribes of confessional poetry, so there it is father, mother, sister, lover: i don’t try because i am scared of success and my own expectation: that i’d be copying campaign posters by now, toting journalistic longings while eating on the floor of a cold apartment by now:       been arrested once for chaining myself to a fence and twice for performing in an illegal space by now                    instead the real me has these straight As to back her card structures of privilege and resource and when i leave the CVS the homeless man tells me i’m a pretty white girl and i do not correct him with the swag i could throw on like an old knit hat, “watch it, papi, i ain’t white i got a whole history of colonization and exploitation behind me”       but i am afraid of confrontation these days so i guess i am a white girl.   he said he admired me cuz i asked the hard questions, always brave, slashing some Excalibur wielding, archer of a girl but people don’t stay friends with edge of couches-sitters who ask about the hard stuff        so i am ripping hairs out of skin by wrapping myself up in duct tape and dancing: this is march in boston, and Cambridge, i can tell you has the best cobblestone for crumbling against and moms crackly phone personas love asking “why are you crying?” but plato’s republic says little about the logical progression of sobbing and instead advises that poets are dangerous and that is a wonder indeed; a time when poets were dangerous but now i am nothing special: i just sold out harder than you. metamorphosis is about breaking down what exists paradigm crushing also means apocalypse so what i’m saying is apocalypse, please              spring in boston is the kinda lust that surprises you so much it leaves you hollow a bell tolling and telling with nothing inside to talk much about except some tired history defrosting means that i wanna take back all commitments and just touch your hair and know the difference between what it is to kiss your lips, kiss your skin, and kiss the skin that greets your beard with a land and water hullabaloo     fuck, when you’re on the edge of a paradigm or just on the edge people can smell it like a dead squirrel trapped in a vending machine and most of them run away just as quickly it aches hollow and low to change        and pain and sin are what people like to talk about least so send your prayers out to the city instead of god somewhere she is not polishing rails so she can fly off them somewhere the children are not crying and are well-adjusted and multicultural and diverse and respectful somewhere the drunk does not appear when she pulls up to a foreign house in a foreign neighborhood and shouts, “we’re home!” sometimes people live the sort of lives where they don’t ask their bedfellow if they had sex last night the pulsing question of a lifestyle forgetful walk me through life because i don’t want to be the one with the map and in charge of directions and sometimes i wonder how i can wonder at march never being easy when i staying with the boy born in the time of the lion and being wounded by those born in the time of lambs.

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“The last one was the only one who made me feel the way I have always wanted to feel. She made me feel better than I have ever felt, better than I imagined I could feel, and it scared me, scared me to the point of paralysis. When she offered herself to me, I failed. That failure drove me to destruction. I destroyed her, destroyed me, destroyed the two of us together. I destroyed the hope of a future. She will not speak my name now, nor will she acknowledge my existence. I don’t blame her.”

James Frey, A Million Little Pieces (via ston3m)

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You were always so scared, even when you were being brave. How could I be mad at you for being so scared?! Every time you didn’t show up, I knew it was because you were just too scared and I never held it against you. There’s so much to be scared of in the world. All my friends are all terrified. All the time. My friends are afraid of being around other people. They’re afraid of being alone. My friends are scared to go to the store. My friends are scared that men are going to run them over on purpose. They’re scared to ride the bus. They’re scared everyone’s going to find out how to scare them and then scare them on purpose. I keep thinking about how scared you must have been. You left the house by yourself at night. Anyone who doesn’t understand how scary that is will never understand you or me or us.

-Red Durken on the death of Donna Ostrovsky - and the fear that trans women live with.  (via sheknowshowtofly)