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November 19th, 2009
07:58 pm
"You know, all powerful women, at some point, are going to branch over into sorcery and witchcraft and magic potions." - Dale Grote
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November 17th, 2009
09:41 pm
Dear Racist Anonymous Commenter,
Please. No more comments. Wouldn't heeding my wish here fall under your personal doctrine of white solidarity? I'm tired of being creeped out when I log into livejournal.
Thanks,
Cherie
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November 16th, 2009
12:13 am
Something happened, and it completely killed my ambition. I just don't care about school anymore. At all.
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November 14th, 2009
05:57 pm
re: b.c.h. what's the world coming to??
if loose lips sink ships, what do loose bowels sink? vowels?
I make I make I make amazing honey cake, honey.
Would I rather be a 100-pound college drop-out or a 130-pound college graduate? It's a difficult question. A shallow shallow question. From a shallow shallow gal.
And Foucault. And sex. And repression.
I miss my absent friends.
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November 13th, 2009
02:24 am - nausea ad nauseam
the body in pain
the straining of tendons
the ache of old breaks
when it rains.
the silly things we say
wrapped up in our old brains, shivering
to escape -
the weather changes
and I can't wait to be
somewhere else.
what do you do with the good memories
of the bad people,
where do you put those?
remove the failure and the stomach
and the failure.
the latex and the illusion of longevity
(curiously perduring in
my wits are about me)
leaning off the edge of my bed we see
into a four-post abyss, posts on end,
parading impaled heads of the once-loved now-dead
and the never-loved feckless,
and the faceless in their infinite possibility,
at unplotted coordinates
in one of several possible futures.
leaning back in from the outer walls of Eden #142
(yet another reproduction of Eden),
the vacant exsanguinate (n.)
glares stinging regrets
at her older jolly rancher breasts, leaking
imaginary liquid puddlously with a cocktail of other milks,
like the freed blood.
her wet hair spreads gooey,
the warm white children leave her
mother-face and run as loving fingers
around the mother's neck
(to linger there)
the shell adjusts herself in the puddle,
knees up and calloused heels water-logged,
watching the candied syrups pour from her and
out over the barriers that separate us
from the fallen angels, dressed all in their
earthly names with which they
once influenced us, open mouths up to catch the
waste,
but the love gush
is ash, and dust,
as it departs its magic in the garden.
I silently remind myself to sew shut my eyes
to oblivion
and gather strength from the easy resolution that I won't be leaving this bed first,
and even an optimism that whispers I just won't be leaving this bed.
(especially not right this second, because my sleeping pill kicked in and turned off my brain. goodnight, nurse).
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November 7th, 2009
01:08 am
I'm developing a bad late-night cheese habit.
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November 5th, 2009
November 4th, 2009
10:21 pm
What sucks is being depressed with a refrigerator full of tempting beers and a body full of infection a.k.a. a strict disciplinarian making you sit in the corner and not drink beer.
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09:30 pm - thirty
In "celebration" of thirty long years of hating myself,
I resolve,
or whatever,
to write shamelessly and fearlessly and without a fuck to give,
and this in the year that an informed (a reliable) source said to me,
"And you will never make poetry your bitch."
(What I'm saying is, he was right, and by mentioning it I'm also saying
With what style! I will fail to prove otherwise)
Thirty years
On perverted earth,
Or birthed by my mother,
Or splattered across the cement,
I went
and came
and went
and didn't do all that much of anything,
as I'm sure that for the next thirty years I
won't do all that much of anything,
and I didn't learn
all that much of anything.
I look back
On a long, largely unmemorable life,
and wonder what percentage of that time was spent
either feeling sorry for myself or making it easy for
other people to feel sorry for me.
Besides that, I can't think of much summary besides
(CENSORED),
And what does that say about me?
Except I'm insecure and crave attention
And tote around a lot of amplified emptiness
My kidneys popped
the cork of a champagne they call
oxycodone and auld lang syned for awhile,
with some streamers and a self-pity headache,
before swallowing
And who gives a god damn about editing.
I can't stress enough how much of a joykill it has been
for the past eight years or so
knowing that 99% of the drivel I drivel isn't worth the energy it takes to press the buttons on the keyboard,
and any snooty literatus would find maybe one good line
in six pages of my penned performance,
my weak stage and set of a one-woman show
in which I'm hardly propping myself up.
people only read the work of a hack
they want to shack up with,
and that's factual, it's apparent
by the end of the first act
(I mean, it takes much less time than that
to understand she's just hacking,
but the author herself spent a good few years
thinking her one or two absorbed readers maybe wanted to shack up with her language
and not her. but let's let bygones be bygones.)
Percocet, dear,
where's the remote?
reach up into my unsolvable tired mindfuck
and turn on the television,
something really numbing, please,
and while you're up there would you mind slaughtering all my brainchildren?
I tried my best to abort them like I did the ones in my uterus,
but you can't pay $400 and get that done at the Carolina Center for Women.
Confidence, C. Braden,
That's what you need,
A belief that your words and thoughts and deeds are worthwhile.
You can construct clever things,
you can,
if you can manage to refrain from preemptively deconstructing them long enough to believe your own two hands.
You've been operating on praise for far too long,
which means you've hardly been operational, because you definitely don't get enough praise to sustain you,
not like you used to,
but everyone praises children.
I kicked a little godling
with a 50-cent toy crane
and I whispered to the godling
something whimperingly maudlin
and in the mawkish pause that followed
the wee godlet, gee,
guffawed at me and
hollowed out the whole negation of the universe
with some sickening nectar of
sweet agitation
with the American Atheists and me.
Godling! God Feeling! I will you to wee.
A sterile piss substance,
The gildedest of showers, the giltest of waste
of your that-being powers, and,
frowning down into your phallus for hours,
when-it unyielding the volume of trickle
you'd expected to falling-from-you see,
admit sentimentally some admissionary thing
that will make me feel I have overpowered you
(in proving to you that the glue
that holds your vain Hope together
is a cheap universalist apoxy that
has proven unresilient when eroded
by postmodernism and the two-of-spades
trumping power of vanity).
So there. So what.
I suppose I always thought
there'd be some additional lesson -
to be revealed by age and wisdom -
beyond my mother's initial and repeated
"Life isn't fair."
But that's it, and that's all,
It was just a bit confusing
Being born on a Monday,
somewhat pretty,
And being coddled by my elders into thinking
I was worth something.
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November 2nd, 2009
08:52 pm
I support the mixing of metaphors in certain circles.
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12:26 am
Woken with an understatement would be a start.
For the light-hearted, for the light-hearted
For the dimly light of Living Through
of Having Lived Through
with all its unexpected
headcases, courtcases, uppercases,
its removable with teeth or pliers faceplate
pried off by a number of misincorporated asides
next to dead-end multi-colored wires either fried or not utilized by this unequipped edition
with its words fall like cheap and tiny vacuumable scraps
inappropriately not at all shaped by their originating brainwater.
Evenings of the hold your wist, your sigh, into this barleywine night, you've never drunk it,
were no setup for the realer, the rarer nostalgia felt by us the broken.
Squawking two tones into our locally grown natural theology,
split tones into the openness of a sensory-deprived
cosmological anomaly the collapsing universe
burst by its eardrums bent by its joints snapped by its similarity
to the fingers of others many of whom
strike outward and lonely into the thriller dark expanse of manliness
aggression
with a mind to personal universe expansion to fill already full corners
with cum but we grow speechy here, in a glitch of crossed wires,
a jaw-jerk, a simulacrum of everything's a perversion even before it started being
a thing I think about often
in the sped up or slowed down of a day's worth of footsteps from room to room and task to task
with a clarity paling whatever the facts are or whatever fear-explaining summary of events could never do them justice
where in ten years the feeling a throat constricted gazing over the Christmas turducken
in five minutes remembering six hands grabbing bare legs and panties
hour upon hour repeating a cold shiver of disgust at what can't be purged from
the brain's myelinated amber samples, the dickensian dwarf star
that is the self downtrodden, pukingly tortured by
the never-dying voices,
rattling around in the white and gray matter,
of not one not four something like eight attackers all granted
by the fates a voicebox for producing perpetual sounds
with which to pursue my escapee memories on behalf of the furies.
laughable inquest into the what is it innocent cavorting
of a drunken sailor aside and replaced by the investigations
of the genuinely sympathetic still fails to locate a trace
arche-writing included
or for that matter anything but a deeply foundational metaphysics
the metaphysics of centuries of saints and rapists.
the devastatingly altered might say
there's nothing worse than a permanent tattoo you have to look at
that's in plain view with neither mirrors nor periscopes to assist in the seeing.
but in the grand scheme of things isn't it pretty to know you are the original breach that creates language,
really an unfortunate test-dummy or guinea pig crushed under the wheels of an ever-evolving natural justice.
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October 28th, 2009
06:57 pm - calamity jane
my friends page is empty.
dead dead dead livejournal.
Everything I imagine happens.
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October 14th, 2009
01:04 am
When I'm alone at night, my imagination comes up with all sorts of awfulness, and I am afraid. I check the locks again and again. I stay in my bedroom with the door shut, but every so often I walk through the apartment turning on all the lights to make sure no one is there. Every little noise makes me start, and I just have to check again. It's scary to think that there's just one door between me and everything outside. Everything. Whenever I put money away, I picture someone threatening me and asking me where it is. My U.S. dollars.
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October 13th, 2009
09:25 pm - it started with art criticism
a narcissist and a hypochondriac
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September 15th, 2009
11:05 pm
manual labor siphons the brain's allotment of energy
and i have an extensive neural network of coffee-making (and -selling) knowledge
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