etch-a-sketch

particles joining and crafting and stretching
particles slipping and shaking and straying
while tiny hands remake again
a creation that can never be exactly the same

the possibilities depend upon the mind
ranging from minute and futile,
to endless and brilliant;
but when shaken,

everything falls apart

Read more...

A Verbose Declaration (self justification, and eventual reconsideration) of my Departure:

To: Save a shred of decency
From: a pathetic girl, confused

I give this notice of my departure
to let my absence be excused

I'll be back when the money comes
and leave these leaking rafters
I'll be back when the thunder's drum
fades into a quiet laughter
I'll be back when stupidity reverts
to second language status
but until then my life diverts
Dr. Horrible, I've come to enlist

but it's plain to se, evil inside of me...is on the rise...

I'll be back when I can sing
those happy songs and not feel sick.
No more Wombats, Nash, or Owl City;
more appropriately: "Lost" and "The Scientist"
I'm not on a joyride for
a thrilling, futile game
If I do this I'm gonna do it right
I can't go on with things the same,

(Joel Osteen with his plastic grin,
"You'll see the light, my cult!
You can redeem unsightly sin,
donate money and consult!")

Sitting on the floor with my head in my hands,
I can only suggest I was never okay.
Unraveling my plans into single hair strands,
undoing the life I'd portrayed.

I can wash my hands of you.
But you can't wash your hands of me.
(thankfully?)

The good old days, the honest man;
The restless heart, the Promised Land,
A subtle kiss that no one sees;
A broken wrist and a picture piece.

I'll keep you at arms distance
so you're always at close reach
pulling you close is just passive resistance
my security, when necessary, breached.
I'll clasp your hand around my fist,
throwing empty praise upon your name.
I'll smile, perfect the Judas kiss,
and embody Peter's shame.

I felt so sure of everything,
My love to you so well received
And I just strutted around your town
Knowing I didn't let you down
The truth be known, the truth be told
My heart was always fairly cold

I was always told that ugly faces
stick around for good
seeing from my false embraces
the insides also would
Like Sting, I've built a fortress
encircling my heart
not something I should care profess
but deceptions I must part

and I won't feel a thing

and I figure I'm not the only one
with their back up against the wall;
revolving universe undone,
I'm beginning to feel small.
But I can't help myself,
and before I turn around,
I'll make it known through shouts and whispers
the wall was never there at all.

You still don't believe, you don't believe
You don't believe, your grievances show
When your soapbox unfolds
But please come down from that cloud you're sitting on

Will you really take my crap?
Forgoing respect for ridicule?
From what it seems, I spit and swear
Your silence endears me the fool
It's funny, your indifference
seems to get to me the most
breaking through my hardest defense
and deflating all my boasts

please don't fight these hands that are holding you

Repeated call inside my head: "Pack up and leave this joint!"
but it's the only home I've ever known,
and when I reach my breaking point,
it's the only home I'll ever own

Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so hard
I'm going back to the start

I can wash my hands of you
(the blood is thinning)
but I can't wash my hands of me
(it's much too sticky)
and you won't wash your hands of me.

(thankfully?)

Like faith needs a doubt
Like a freeway out
I need your love

Maybe I shan't leave after all,
In that case, I think,
(thankfully.)

Read more...

funeral song

all we are are bones and flesh
moldy and torn that pretty dress
lay me rest and bid me part
and pray upon the younger hearts

I will soon be dead
my body in the ground
fuel for coming peoples
my body in the ground

nations build a future
build upon my skin
they'll stand upon my own two feet
my body in the ground

all we are are bones and flesh
moldy and torn that pretty dress
lay me rest and bid me part
and pray upon the younger hearts

all we are are bones and flesh
mold and torn that pretty dress
lay me rest and bid me part
and pray upon the younger hearts

all we are are bones and flesh (nations build a future)
mold and torn that pretty dress (build upon my skin)
lay me rest and bid me part (they'll stand upon my own two feet)
and pray upon the younger hearts (my body in the ground)

and pray upon the younger hearts

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Listen

they're watching the bar fight
under the limelight

shove a quarter in her mouth
and she'll talk all night

waves of drunk breath
she likes the sound of her voice

shove a quarter in her mouth
and she'll talk all night

boys sit at the bar stools
and talk about problems
(their life, their job...mostly their wife)

while she's running her mouth
hot breath
she likes the sound of her voice

it's hard to realize through all the noise
nobody's listening, nobody cares
through all the noise
she's just part of the noise

miss jukebox player

shove a quarter in her mouth
and she'll talk all night

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perspective

if I saw myself apart from myself
from a hundred years away,
I wonder what I'd change.
To each their own, but each is blind
Do I see that I'm blind?
Two lense and one focus
And that's all it can ever be.
Do I see that I'm in a war?
A war of culture
a war of fame
a war of god(s) with a capital G.
A war that revolves around specifically me -
and specifically everyone else as well.
Do I know who I am?
that sheltered girl from century twenty one, middle class?
but more rich than you might think
that had tears to spare for poetry
and movie scenes and bad days
and songs and wishes to be Peter Pan
or at least a better version of me
(mcbird 2.0. I rather like that.)
Do I even know what I'm looking for?

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samson on brick - samson reminds me of strongbad :P

                        This is the first time I think I've ever taken a picture of him. Hm, I think he had a fabulous time. *CHEEZ!*

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rainy drive in charleston

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art collage

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Clean Room - Word War - 5 min.

i couldn't stop running. I was going so fast I simply...couldn't. At least, that was my lame excuse, after sliding to the floor in a heap after having bashed my head on the footboard of my bed upon skidding round' the corner. It wasn't much of a run. It was mostly just an opportunity to skim around the carpet on socks. Unfortunately, my room doesn't provide for that kind of space. There's a bed...a dresser...a chest...a bookshelf..a desk...a nighstand..a pile of music junk..extemp box...and a trashcan. Nope, not much room for "slip 'n' slid" - ing. Too bad. But don't get me wrong, this overload of stuff I speak of is far from junk, and far from disorganized. It's just a small space. Even when there IS a mess, it's a proccessed and organized one. The clothes lay NEATLY in a pile, all together, as opposed to strewn across the room. My books lay...in a sort of neat stack on every avaliable surface. But it's neat, I guarantee it! Sort of, at least. And while my music papers may at some time be plastered across the floor, I would hesitate to call it a mess. I'd say it's more like an artistic...fashion. See? I know what I'm doing. Anyhow, let's go back to this fall of mine. As I lay in a crumpled heap under the footboard, I glance under the bed while grasping my knee tightly, wincing. But what I view causes me to gasp quite audibly. underneath the massive mattress lay a beautiful sight to behold. Dust and dead bugs to be sure, but not a single thing out of place! There was my school box neatly to one side, my scrapbooks on the other, books at the front.. and that was just about it. Yes! Proof of my diligence had finally seeped through! If I failed at everything else in life, everything! At least I could say I triumphed in the hardest area of life....keeping a clean under the bed.

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fifth grade writing assignment

There was once a grasshopper named Gregg, who lived in Grassland, Pennsylvania during the years of the great grasshopper social uprising. Gregg was a preteen lime green member of the well-known Long-hopper family. Coming home from school one afternoon, Gregg nonchalantly dropped his backpack on the floor and caromed out the door. "Where are you going, and do you have any homework?" inquired his concerned mom. Although Gregg was usually truthful, he told her he only had one small requirement for history class, and asked if he could please go to the movies with his friends. His mother, as pleased as a porcupine in a salt mine, was satisfied with this answer because it was very respectful, and instructed him to be home by 6:45 for dinner. It was a whopper. But it worked. He went.

Here was the first catch. Gregg did not actually plan to go to the movies; instead he had a date to spray-paint the home of his enemy, Nick, who was a member of the arch-rival ant clan. Gregg had endured months of torment from the foul-mouthed ant. Clandestinely, Nick learned of the plot against him while intercepting notes in history class. Nick decided to follow Gregg and foil their plans. While Gregg continued his devious preparations, Nick videotaped their mischief because he planned to show the tape to the long-hopper tribe. Quickly, Nick took his evidence to Gregg's home and presented his tragic story to Mrs. Long-hopper. He showed the videotape. Not finished, he also announced the history class assignment. Gregg walked in just in time to hear his cover story unravel as unstoppably as a domino maze. "Write eight paragraphs which compare and contrast the contributions of four Roman senators, and present it as a play. Provide original design costumes, background, and props. Reserve the theatre, prepare invitations and marketing posters. Hire actors. Produce. Direct."

"Is that the thirty minutes of homework you mentioned earlier?" she shrieked to her son. Overwhelmed by the enormity of her failures as a mother, Mrs. Long-hopper grew pale and faint. After sipping some peppermint tea to revive herself, she thanked Nick for his information  apologetically.  Turning to Gregg, she declared, "Now I realize that I have truly failed you, my long legged son. I must repent. You shall be homeschooled from now until you are 25." Subsequently, and without delay, she retrieved the pristine spanking spoon. Because it was never used, it sported a trail of cobwebs as tangled and sticky as a young girl's hair after a bout with cotton candy and lollipops. After cleaning it off, she beat his little bum like a drum. The final blow came when Mr. Long-hopper, who for many years had been a detached workaholic, arrived home from work at 8:30. Upon hearing the dismal news, he reluctantly agreed that their son would be home educated. Additionally, he decided to have Gregg work with him every afternoon in the mail room, and to ground him for two months. Gregg's gig was truly up.

Moral: If you have a delinquent son or daughter, home school is a cool tool.

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Madness

why do you look to me as if I could bring you any happiness?

don't you realize I'm just as broken as the rest of them,

and the best of them

you blindly falter in the pieces of your frame

don't look to me and expect me to care

I can't help you, we're all mad here

why do you look to me as though I could alleviate your pain?

don't you realize I'm just as hurt as the rest of them,

and the best of them

you blindly walk through shattered glass and cry out

don't look to me and expect me to care

I can't help you, we're all mad here

we're all helpless here..

don't you understand?

we're all mad here

I wish I could help you, but we're all mad here

god, are you out there?

save me from this insanity

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[snow patrol albums do weird things to me. i have no idea.]

my life is, yes, is, a state of being
i exist.
i think.
haven't you heard of descartes?
but i'm getting off track.

my life is, yes is,
what...?
...what?
another quality demolition project
day by day I'm a work in progress.

progress is, yes is, a state of being
but a state of being progressing towards
destruction
is that an oxymoron?
i forget.

progressing towards destruction,
yes that's me
I've been told I'm dying with each breath I take
each moment I waste
why bother with rhyme and meter?

I'm sure you noticed there's no flow
it's because there's no time, don't you see?
I'm deteriorating before your face
not sure if I can take the anticipation

somehow I don't think
well, I do descartes, but just let me finish
I don't think that I'm what they planned
and by they I mean them

my forefathers
the ones who gave me this life to die
i don't think they'd like what they see
I hope they can't see me from where they are

their toil and strain, I don't know if they'd do it over
could they tell me if it's worth it?
just another wanna be poet
stumbling through overcooked slop in the pot

the leftovers, it's all I got
as I crumple paper after paper
i should take out the trash
i think.
you happy, descartes?

my life is, yes is, another quality demolition project

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[all's fair in love...and pinball...and taxi driver #2]

two lovers kiss and it doesn't mean a thing
first come first serve assembly line
for wind-up hearts to sell and trade

two lovers kiss and it's just a midnight fling
just talk more talk of your cloud nine
but by the hour the price is paid

two lovers kiss but you'll never see a ring
although their arms may intertwine
they've cheapened love; it's now decayed

two people weep and it means most everything
for tried and failed attempts to find
the meaning of love at the penny arcade

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Hippo Culture - Word War - 5 minutes

The hippo, which is very unlike a tall green shoot of bamboo, is very fat. And aggressive. If in fact you did try to make a linkage between the two, only two come to mind. One, pandas are fat. Pandas eat bamboo. And, hippos are fat. While hippos do not consume bamboo, their opposition to bamboo connects them to the main consumer of it. But, that is really no matter of concern. For you could link any things or objects together, but what would the point be? No gain would come of it, unless you were bored and needed something entertaining. If you did indeed find linking random things together entertaining, I would go so far as to suggest that you need serious mental therapy. But if you actually live in a remote region of the world and have nothing better to do, then I would not suggest any form of treatment for the boredom entertainment. And anyhow, you wouldn't have the funds to pay for it. But moving back to the hippos: Hippos are very aggressive. They seem laid back and lazy. And anyhow, they always say that fat people are jolly. But not hippos. I suppose it doesn't apply anyways, because hippos are not in fact people. So nevermind there. If you so much as enter a pool of water that they are currently occupying, you have just granted your own personal death wish. Unfortunate, I know. Especially for those who do not know that a hippo is submerged underneath murky waters. They are in for a particularly unpleasant surprise. Hippos have very large and dangerous teeth, not to mention all the bacteria in their mouth. But I won't worry you with the bacteria, for if you do get mauled by a hippo you will most likely not survive it so I might as well not plague you with the insignificance of bacteria as the hippo rips you apart with his and her ferocious biters. If, however, you are wishing to die, I would suggest the hippo as the perfect form. This form of suicide proves that you are not actually a wimp of any sort and that you were willing to do anything to remove yourself from the face of the planet. Might as well have an exciting experience before death. You might even make the news. So far I have yet to hear of any 'hippo suicides.' Hopefully, I never will. I never advocate suicide.

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Letter to my Dad

I heard my name being called from across the hall,

But I rolled over and put the pillow over my ears.

Another day. The clatter and boom of the garbage man pulling in front of the

houses soon penetrated my cocoon. Ah, to late now, I thought.

What in this world of to-do lists and expectations keeps me going

Keeps me going, besides the I shoulds and if-you-don'ts.

But I am here, and you are there, 

In a desolate, war torn place.

I shouldn't complain.

I heard my name at violin ensemble. They said, Mary Claire, stand here for your

picture. Or, sit over there behind the second violins. Did you remember your music?

What in this world of to-do lists and expectations keeps me going,

Keeps me going, besides the I shoulds and if-you-don'ts.

But I am here, and you are there,

In a desolate, war torn place.

I shouldn't complain.

I heard my name at the end of the phone, and I couldn't help but hope.

A new day. A new opportunity. This time my essay would be read

At the state or even regional level. But what about this part on Afghanistan, they

asked. Surely you know nothing about such things, anyhow?

This is, after all, the U.S.A.

I am here, and you are there.

In a desolate, war torn place.

I shouldn't complain.

I heard your voice on the phone. You sounded tired. You said, 

What in this world of to-do lists and expectations keeps me going, 

Keeps me going besides the I shoulds and if-you-don'ts

I'd better not think about that. I'm ready to get home now.

 By the way, do your part and take care of things, would you? 

It's not so hard there, trust me, you have no idea what a girl's life is like here

In a desolate, war torn place.

I shouldn't complain.

I listened to the sound of some 300 olive drab BDU buttons in a glass mason jar.

My youngest sister turned it upside down, then right side up.

They made a crunchy sound, like leaves rustling on a tree.

All I could think of to say was, stop it, won't you please just stop it.

Now there are only a couple dozen.

Let's not argue about half full or half empty

I am here, and you are there.

What in this world of to do lists and expectations keeps me going, 

Keeps me going besides the I shoulds and if-you-don'ts.

But I am here, and you are there,

In a desolate, war torn place.

I shouldn't complain.

This year I can think

No, I do think about something

Something besides Christmas, 

When you leave

that desolate,

war-torn

place.

And I won't complain.

Read more...

Clocks - Word War - 5 min.

The clock ticks on my desk. Well, no, I take that back. It doesn't tick at all. It's pixelated numbers flash every sixty seconds signaling the passing time. Minute after minute after minute. No noise is emmited whatsoever, but I can almost hear the faint ticking in my head. Call me crazy. There is no notification of the seconds passing, though, so it's really all based on my inner metronome. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Sometimes the non existant noise drives me batty. The insane thing is, it's my own mind doing it to..well..myself. And it's the worst kind of annoyance, because it's the kind that you create...and yet can't stop. This said 'personal metronome' does me some good, though. When I go to violin recitals, I look at the playlist and evaluate each player, whether I know them or not. Each boy and girl, kindergartner, middle schooler, or highshooler, steps up to the front of the room to play their piece. No matter how decent they actually know the song, or how on tune they are, the majority simply can't keep time with the piano. And it gets really old really fast. We all want to yell 'slow down!' or 'speed up'! Now the pianist is an old lady whose been around the block a few times, so she does her best to make the violinist look good. She speeds up when the player does, and slows down when the player does, and changes without hesitation when the player fumbles or goes to an entirely incorrect section of the piece with profound patience. However, the audience watching holds no respect for these sorts of players. They certainly hold their breath and urge the novice violinists on, or those who are shy or have by chance mistakenly forgotten their musical notes, but by golly those who can't keep time are simply shunned. It's all a lame joke if you know the piece but don't play it right! I too play the violin, but the reason I do well is because of this said inner metronome. Time coupled with beauteous sound equals a joyful sound to listen to. Even those who forget their piece - if they keep time, their dignity remains. Time in itself is ever fleeting. Ever forgotten. Ever sought to be saved and recycled and traveled! Pitifully the human race seeks to achieve those uses of time, to generally no avail. But loved is the one who _keeps_ time, and uses the time present to the greatest benefit. Tick, tock, tick tock. Oh, shut it!

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The Fall of A Titan

He stood there, hunched over the railing of Gapstow Bridge, dropping sticks into the water below. He watched them laying there, half submerged, as if they were not quite sure whether they should float or sink into the cold green pond. The stillness and silence was only disturbed by clouds of gnats, humming madly over the surface of the murky water. The boy seemed encased in his thoughts. The only thing moving about him was his hands and eyes. His hand would reach and fumble for another stick to drop into the pond, adding to the mass that lay limp in the water. His distant grey eyes were open wide, blankly staring ahead except for a periodic blink. They seemed to be glazed, concealing all thoughts and feeling. The boy's only companion was a small brown toad that sat on the peaty bank, absentmindedly flicking his tongue. Then suddenly the autumn wind grew cooler and ruffled the boy's black hair, bringing him back to his senses. He looked around for a few seconds, and then dropped the remaining stick into the pond. He zipped his coat up and slowly walked away, as if his purpose there had been defeated.

The letter stared up at his face and burned his eyes, like a harsh glare from a trusted friend. He knew it'd be here, waiting to tease him into frustration. His eyes drifted hesitantly towards the first line. He had no reason to read further.

He took a match out of the drawer and proceeded to ignite the paper. The flames consumed the letter with adamant pleasure. He opened the window to relieve the apartment of the pungent smell; but the door opened suddenly, and a weary small tottering figure emerged from the dark hallway. He ran to his room and shut the door. He fell onto a faded pink floral futon and closed his eyes, the moon shining through the windowpane, leaving a hazy strip of white on his back.

He awoke instantly, jumping to his feet with a start. The dark blue sky gave the appearance of early morning. Through his rain splattered window he saw the corporates heading to work, black umbrellas bobbing in the air. He stretched, grabbed his tattered sneakers, and pulled them onto his feet. He opened the door and ran down the dark hallway, praying that he wouldn't hear his mother's suspicious call.

He sprinted down the apartment building steps and onto the wet street. He scuffed his shoes against the wet concrete walk and asked to the skyscrapers, face in the rain,

 "How do I look from up there?"

but there was no response. He glanced down at the curb and saw the soggy remains of a frog, crushed by some unsuspecting car.

"Found a way out?" he asked the skeleton.

The fractured eye sockets stared silently back at him, and he felt compelled to keep on walking.

Walking to get away from the mess he'd gotten into

He watched cars fly past.

Two hours passed. It was now around seven am. He glanced around for a moment, and then turned and started home. The rain was pouring now. He quickened his pace. Just as he neared his apartment, he once again noticed the smashed frog in the street. He stopped and stood staring at it intently in the heavy rain for a long time. Suddenly, he turned and ran across the street. Feet pounding on the pavement. Rain splashing at his clothes.

N.Y. Chronicle, Wednesday, 11.12 - Young boy, unidentified, announced dead yesterday morning. Police reports have not been made public, but sources say the boy ran into oncoming traffic on the interstate. He had no identifiable items, and contact has yet to be made with his mother. 

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Love, Always

our feet run

we feel the grass

no thinking

no turning back

bright lights glow

in the dark night

illuminate

our smiling eyes

our hands clasp

we fall laughing

just stay awake

and sit with me

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Illusion

The unicorn stood by the waterside, pale

As the moonlight filtered through leaves

Of the woods and faerie laughter

Carried through the air

Shadows were amiable and not one child

Should fright, though by other eves certainly would

All seemed well and peaceful that night

Save for dark clouds drifting up towards the sky

Thus alluring this forest should have certainly been

To temp many little boys and girls

For they certainly do, day in and day out

Find adventure and glee in that wood 

Yet a chilly mist kept

Children ' way, as

A gate to bar the entry

So the mothers kept their young

Thus the clouds 'fore dark

Continued their ascent while they

grew and swirled till they covered

The moon and blacked the night

Bare winter branches scraped the 

tips of the smoky layers whilst

shadows turned like a thief in the night, 

grasping for the reign on the wood

THEY came in groups, sometimes 

snagged in a shard of light

that displayed horrific features

of a former beauty

THEY congregated as shrieks rose

and sparks flew from jagged rocks 

among twisted deadwood

as THEY danced to demonic chants

The Unicorn stood by the fireside, blazing

as the firelight flashed 'cross skin

Of Beasts and Faerie cackles

Carried through the air

................

Captivating light danced upon the walls of the room of

The Boy and skipped around his eyes

He woke and skimmed his hands over flickering walls

Whilst looking to the source of the light

Thought the Boy,

As he peered through the window, gazing

There's the unicorn, standing by the waterside, and

I hear the faeries laughter in the wind

Blind to the Heathen's Night

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Promise, She Says

Bowed by the weight of a promise, she stands

Stained steel, emerald copper tears, she remains quiet

For a vow and silent stare 'cross the sea

The outstretched arm of welcome hollow  now, in the air

And upon her face the dread remorse, her burden the world

A fire that shines it's Siren signal over an empty, toxic flame

Steadfast and silent, a sister to the people?

Who unchained and let down this lady's anguished call?

Whose was the hand that carved this message unspoken?

Who infused her brain, her thoughts into the minds of all?

To whisper faint requests over sea and land;

To beckon the stars and continents for treasure.

To feel the giddy certainty of all-powerful providence?

Is this the "tired" the "huddled" dream He dreamed

As he shaped her sandals and marked her place in destiny?

Down, down the evil water ruptures through to the outer gulf

There is no wave more terrible than this - 

More symbolic of their hate than we really know - 

More filled with wishes for ponies and pudding and white picket fences

More fraught with broken promises to the universe (but were they?)

What grand chasm of intention lay between him and his gift

His slavish labor of love, what to him

are Penelope and the devoted Telemachus?

What long peales of intemperate song will pester his door, 

the gift shop, the scope and sequence?

Through these impoverished eyes the dread scene appears;

Time's tragedy is not the faded green, but the native-born betrayed

Children disinherited, disheartened, profaned, 

Who scream a silent symphony in protest to the Courts of the World;

A prophecy that is also a plea

O lords and lawmakers, is this the logic you build spaceships with?

This distorted philosophy of more and more?

How will you ever recover this vision;

Will you touch it again with reverent ideology;

Peer upward through light and haze and fog'

Rebuild it with more than a dream and all-weather glaze?

O lords and lawmakers, 

How will it be after the silence of the centuries?

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