protected.

From here on out, I am going protected. Slowly but surely, I'm goingback through my three years of entries and protecting everything but mywriting. If you want to be added, just comment.

~Crystal

Currently Listening The Con By Tegan and Sara Soil, Soil see related

sylvia.

I haven't felt anything--
anything!--
since the warmth held fast
between our chests and gave way
to a fire in our hands.
Now the air of November plummets
like bars of steel
down my throat, and turns my fingers
into icicles, dripping over your eyes.
It is not easy to exist
when life is dictated by the relationship
between the sun and your arms.
I waited in coffee shops for a glimpse of your face,
and when you walked in, I saw the miniature Ginsbergs
perched upon the tops of your feet,
screaming directions to your brain about the words
it should produce to comfort me.
Are we reduced to this, these reincarnations of poets
torn between words and birds?
If your tongue can spit out a springtime verse worthy
of Neruda's love,
then I can just as well shove my head into the oven
and leave you a batch of cookies and thoughts
to remember me by.

The windshield wipers are in rhythm with my heart. I'm not even sure where I'm going; I don't know whose passenger seat I am in, but it's better than where I could be at the moment. Sublime is pulsing in my eardrums. My feet tap mechanically to the beat, but I am not understanding a word of what Bradley is singing. It is a good song, nonetheless. The mysterious driver of the car asks me if the music is too loud. No, it's just right, thanks. He is very chivalrous, I notice. He had insisted that I, being female, sit in the front. Perhaps he is British. For a minute, I care.
I am creepy because I don't talk much. You are strange because you're polite to women while singing along to a song about paying a whore for a handjob. Are we even?
He takes his car full of passengers back to the center of things. Why do these people pay attention to me? I am inferior to them, aside from the fact that this girl (boy?) is incapable of abstract thought. Cup? Liquid goes in cups. I drink liquid. It makes me pee.
I leave before the skinny boy infects me; I do not need that on a night such as this, when the stars hang so clear above my head and drip their magical goo into my brain to make my fingers feel like tentacles when they touch the paper.

~~~~~~~~~~

Droplets of water, cascade
on my skin
take me back to a place
where my father stirred
without feeling the pain of the
new day's sun on his face.
With buttercups between my toes
and mud on my chin, take me to where
I can run with her again
and collapse onto cushions
so soft on my skin.
I want the feeling in my brain of
an early evening meal with
purple wax and magic and those
notes that shook me right down
to my tiny little soul.
Sometimes I wish he still couldn't
read, eating rocks on the swings and
nothing but me. And he tells me things
that I didn't even know until late last Saturday night.
I want that time when my mother could hold me
and smell like rosemary
and I knew she was right.
Time, don't move forward.
Stay here for a while, so I won't lose
this moment like the rest that
have passed out of sight.

to the lotus who ate my heart

Akin to a shard of glass cracking in the winter frost,
I lay now in my chrysalis made
with the skin of
doomed babies,
chewing at my hand until it is
nothing but a pulpy mass.
With the sweet, red nectar I paint:
scenes of the crucifixion, the fall of
Rome, the sexual revolution,
Joe Di Maggio.
My brain is on rewind. The tape is
being eaten by my lonely womb.
I go back,
               back,
back to the consummation of
a violent romance between two hell-bent cells,
infected with dirty genes and just
really bad memories.
But mostly
I remember you--
me--
the way your face looked when she came
a-calling.
But now she's in a soda bottle at my
window, and I'm stuck here in my chrysalis
painting upside-down pictures with
corrupt paint and where are you?

the earth and my brain contain multitudes

The nights when I can't form my words always
make me miss you the most.
Every week I roll in sugar bowls and say things
that make some people with gag reflexes want to die.
And my weird words are never about you, no,
they're always about sea creatures and pink
things and the boy with the poison coursing through my veins.
But that boy is always just sitting there,
smiling and content to let the humid night
air crystalize me until I'm a sad living statue,
a real winner.
Every single time I end up in the parking lot with my friend
and some strangers who simply don't give a fuck,
I'm thinking of you and your pretty blue eyes that
pierce through my brain and make me even less
perceptive than I am on Saturday nights,
and I'm knowing that none of this is real
and I'm wondering
why the hell I'm not with you
instead.

*******

I spent the day with Mike. We walked to Fashion Square to buy a few rolls of film, and then went to the abandoned house and used up one of them. I am really looking forward to that one. I got the light streaming through the holes in the roof, and all the graffiti of bloody fists and naked women and The Sex Pistols and just some really nasty stuff. Then we went back to his house for pizza, watched some dumb TV, and whisked Rudy up to the playground. I used my other roll of film taking pictures of him and Mike with the Frisbee, and Rudy meeting this cute blond little girl and licking her in the face.
And Mike's mom gave me two curling irons and a pair of shoes, because Mike made a comment that I wasn't like other girls because I didn't like makeup and I only have two pairs of shoes. Hahahaha. It was just really cute.
Now I'm at home and my feet are nasty from hobo signs and trash and what appeared to be old acid, and all I want is to brush my teeth.