dreamy. dreaming. dreamed. dreams. dread. dull. drill a hole in my . . . . ducet. fifty dollars or more for a taste of what's happening in my mind.... would you pay it?
shirt less.
letting the goosebumps make tattoo rise with colored ease. listening to tunes. feelings hair tickle shoulders agonizing beg. . .dont want to go to work. want to sit here for my day - recite what i might about the things tight in my brain, that i might unravel and untie in a brave flight to save it all . . . ....................
saw gram for easter. she was good. old and tired. my mama fading with years. sad. and hard on me. the emotional sap i is. can't take those things. when i'm attached it hurts. when they want me back and when they dont.
oh well. started zola 'drinking den' - pretty good - modern for late 1870s . . .
strong heroine. i dig it.

yawn.

my mood today . . . bored

this breath, we take, we make off the huff and puff of others, slave labor, day wavers, the unconditional love of our brothers. calling us up at past midnight, saying "hey baby, how you doin?" and my it's strange, he was years younger than i .. . .. what do he know bout babies . . . nothin. maybe all he intended to do was see how i is, but i swear that i aint got no money this month to make your ends meat, little bird, you get the word, but you getting the point? my little one, just twenty one, embarking on the path of following in our "he may not be our real -father"s footsteps, he dont see it, but i see it he's going to just step away from the curb of his independence and break his neck. licked up, and shot down, curling in his belly like them good irish cremes, delicious, but nondescript, when it's all fake and it's all uhim play it, the part . . . of codnfortunate, and we can't do anything for the way things are right now. he slams the door he has, to smoke the predetermined higher up, and settle his glazed eyes on a disney poster he's had hanging for the past 11 years, pretending he's in some whole new world, without strings attached, and without girls that take his heart to mutilate over their own insecurities and wickedness. he thought he'd be a daddy by now, and he nearly were, only she wasn't pregnant and she had to say it, to make dling her "oh i am so alone", making her queen of his ghetto throne, her lipstick on too tight, her hair done greased back, his hands shaking when touching her, afraid to hurt the non-existant embryo up within her. the hymen of her having been broke six years earlier, when she was just 12 by a friend of her father, on a bunk bed in the cellar, her father locking them up downstairs, fingering his fifty dollar bill, it smelled so new, and so ready to head to the corner of eight ball and main. she leaves the downstairs, starry eyed, teary eyed . . . every man she makes, claims, "yes, baby, i'm a virgin." just for them. just for them. she always screams louder the first time they fuck, just to get it out, the lies- i mean. Make them feel so grand, and "holy shit man, this bitch was tight" .. .. and all their friends high five, and smirk under dark skies while she sits in the backseat holding her legs tight, tight, tight, together.by time she meets my brother, the lover, she's all fucked up, on hate, and forty, and oh lordy, she cries without command, understand, she's just a baby herself, but she dont know that her insides are all turning black, tar diseased and uterus ceased, something having to do with HIV, but it dont come out, ever, aloud anyway. my little irish kitten kin, just goes on and wallows beside her, aside her, inside her, lapping up all her dangerous juice. . . .oh dear god, oh dear god, baby bird is dying. and she's dead on the other end of the phone line. gone off to chile, or costa rica, some place south of any border, says she hates feeling "kept down" . . . .this breath we take, we make, off the huff and puff of others

what am i doing?
restless, abandoning/abandoned/a band of . . .
bitching.
complaint and restraint
no strings attached
& still in albany. who will i be? where will i
be?
be come
be cause
be calm
be.at.
j.k.

st. patricks day past, trip on and trip out, black lip and aint it dysfunctional, so jacqueline-esque of me . . . to follow up my heritage with a good bruise. they know how to break all the girls like me.

followed up the dancing with a full day of sleep and bad tv.

listening now to hole. and enjoying courtney because i can and will. funny when some chicks put her down but support ani. a whole rant i dont wish to defend.

youre ripe for the picking it's so awful.

dont know what i'm doing with life. just satisfied to be speaking to jack. he's a good piece of my life. a good formed ignition.
....
a lot of celebrity skin can be directly applied to kurt and i love those few lines, and they are so right, most of her insight and fear and all that stuff is amazing. it's so socially correct especially coming from a woman about women.

......tired. still.

next weekend is easter. nyc and grammas house. dance some to reckoning and color eggs with grams. . . good times. possibly. busy it feels like there is always something to do or where to be. yet i'm not making strides to stop it all - so much noise and i can't turn it off, i just scream louder.

"howd you get so desperate howd you stay alive, help me please, burn the sorrow from your eyes, come on be alive again, dont lay down and die" . . . .

going to think about moving soon. i'm so lazy though .... have to pack again and prepare again and readjust. i hate those moves. i hate work to do. i dont want to pack up what is living and safe and transport it. can't i just find a place to stay awhile longer?

another font. hopefully more encouraging. or at least ... couraging.

wednesday after coming home from db i was regretting not writing. the walls were shaking, the street lights melting, and my mind was so fast and furious - i should have written something . . . but i couldn't bring myself to knowing i'd read it the next day and be unable to face it -

i need a better desk. maybe that would inspire? this wall and calendar do nothing for me. . .

"remember you promised me? i'm dying, i'm dying please. i want to, i need to be, under your skin.... our love is quicksand, so easy to drown. . ."

I should figure out how to add pictures here, but i should figure out a lot of other things first.
like life. me. what is happening with my future. i can't work at the bh eternally. i need new air. i need to feel amazing.

"now i know that love is dead. you came to bury me. there's nothing left here to pretend."

found out william kennedy and hsthompson were close. letter correspondance for over ten years. blows my mind. wk is a douche bag - so that knowledge was a trip to learn. rip hunter and your poor taste in friends.

sopranos. season two. currently obsessed with it. can't help myself. love italians & mobsters. why? the power? the accent? the crazed need to do what's right - for themselves. that is hot. mmm, or maybe i just want to be in some sweet mansion making banana bread for some tough bastard who leaves me alone most of the time, but gives me enough to survive when i am alone. i dont know. i'd hate it i'm sure. but nice to ponder the ideas. the differences. the lifestyles bizzare from my own.

day off today. eye exam - great, left eye is worse.
facial - i feel good. hand stuff too made skin soft and unlike usual. i'm not rough but im not amazing to touch either. so it was a good nice time.
grocery shopping. felt shitty cause i had to use rent money for it, but that's surviving right?
i dont know.
who knows.
we're all just tired of this living thing.

pink floyd on loud. coffee. a skirt. black. shake these hips. tips. back and flow. forth, fro, low in black combat . . . boots.
morning of disoriented angels and angles, and this tune fearless has me all wrangled. . . as it always has . . .
the guitars so thick.

fearlessly . . .
smiling . . .

never heard so much love in a song before. so much fullness.

and who's the fool that wears the crown?

and everyday is the right day . . .

tomorrow is day off. have an eye exam tho, and a facial - wow, my first bonafide facial. a v-day gift to utilize. . . .im scared and excited. what could one possibly do with a face for an hour?
that's bizzare and beautiful and something i'll be partaking within . . .

contemplating easter in nyc with reckoning at the lions den, not sure yet.

went out twirling last night. feel tired way too tired today. but i cut m'self off after three beers, i'm a good'n . . . next week tho - watch out - st.patrick's wednesday - i'll be letting m'self off the responsible hook... haha

oh march finish for god's sake....

and if the dam breaks open many years too soon, if there is no room upon the hill, and if your head explodes . . . . i'll see you on the dark side of the













moon.
the lunatic is in




my head
the luna


tick
isin
myhead
you raise the blade
you make the change
you rearrange me
till i'm


s a ne
you look the door and throw away the key

there's someone in my head
but
it's not



m e

deranged, this range, of senses, nonsensical. . .avoiding the void. flowers flowing rusty petals rotting over edges of a vase glowing with browning water . . . the morning comes as an enemy. i begged for more sleep last night - a solid 10 hours at least. not the 7 i found. more more. let me hibernate my wednesday mornings, mourning dreams and seams i can't fix.

today is deadbeats. a blessed forgetting. spin and twirl till i forget and whirl and drink the current inside. . .

enjoy the laughter.
j.

hunter s. thompson. yeah, well, he's dead too.
all these sacrifices.
none my own. just my general disinterest in emotion.
finding it hard to find myself. in all this mess of responsibility & growing up we're told we do.

not happy anywhere. in my head or out. not depressed. just wondering when i'll laugh.

color me in
color me black
color me gray
color me anyway
color my sun
color me in like anyone
i wanna be you
i dont want to be me
so cover my sun
cover my mouth
cover my eyes
give me your hands
open your wings
cover my eyes
cover my eyes
color me in
open your wings
color me in
color me in
cover my mouth your hands
my lips and my eyes