And on the car ride back from Clifton I saw dead churches and dead bodies and dead buildings and dead pigeons and dead city and dead dead. And I saw a dog shitting in a parking lot because grass can’t grow in the city, it can only decay. Concrete masquerades as grass. And I saw the malnourished grey squirrels of the city park touching empty liquor bottles, drunk as the men in the gazebo. And I thought, “I love it here. Here I am home.”
As I was walking home in the rain the other day, wishing I had worn my slaughterhouse boots that day, and not the day before, watching water soak into the cloth of my shoes, creating wet, Rorschach patterns, feeling prolific (as if you couldn’t tell…) a man came up to me and said, “Shit woman, you walking in the rain and you ain’t even wet!” To which I replied, “Yeah, it’s because I’m Jesus Christ.” He shut his mouth and walked away.
I breathe fire, pack my roommates bloody incision, drink ______, do homework, grocery shop, cash checks, and get angry about 1-ply toilet paper. Sometimes I even dance and lie and say that I can fly airplanes through the sky. Who am I?
Once when I was 8, my eardrum exploded in a moment of silence and noise and color. The next moment it was done and I was dumbfounded.
This weekend, some asshole told me my bike looks like it’s never been used. This is my new road bike; I got hit by a car back home on the way to my friend’s birthday party and the frame of my old one cracked in half. And so I told him shit went south when I left home.
I HAVEN’T LIVED VERY HARD BUT I’VE STILL WORN HOLES IN MY SHOES
My life revolves around my mucus membranes. I was a sickly child, so creamy soup-like concoctions constantly flowed from my nostrils. Then, when I was a “teen”, the walls of my nose started falling apart, deteriorating from all the chemicals flying up and past to my…. THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS. My so-called “Drug Years” were the best period for experimentation in snot color. All spectrums of the color wheel were represented and flung into my expired tissues. Predominantly red however. Several weeks ago I was sick, and once again, thick ropes of snot were on my mind and continuously clinging to the cavern that is also known as my nose. And now, now that I have gotten my septum pierced, these colorful tendrils of boogers have made a successful reappearance. I have to constantly delve my fingers deep into my “cave” because the ring diverts all snot to strange regions of the “cave”. These snots come out looking like sickly embryos, fetal booger syndrome. They are constantly laced with elegant, sanguine rivers. AND I AM NOSTALGIC FOR DRUG YEARS. AND I AM BACK WITH HOPE. You have permission to wipe your feet on my welcome mat, but not my nose.
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) before I came to school here: 0
The number of times I’ve ridden in a Mustang (the car) since I’ve come to school here: 5
It has increased a full 500%! BUY NOW! SELL! SELL! SELL! But wait, there’s more!
“Suck Suck Suck at the teat of heaven. God is Dog spelled backwards.”
God spelled backwards is Dog. Dogs are God, but God is not a Dog, because God ceases to exist in my eyes, shrivels like that annoying little raison Langston Hughes is always talking about. My dreams DO NOT defer. I will become a soap box preacher and I will stand on my pedestal and watch pedestrians try ineffectively to digest my garbled words.
Backwards Rumble Jumble. BANG! One two three.
Drinking cup after cup of coffee makes me want to ROCKET into broken ceilings.
Enough about me, how about you?
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2 comments:
Thanks for packing my butt ;) Glad we're roommates! PS If you wrote a book, I'd read it.
Kelly,
This is DYNAMITE! or dead dead dead or over and away and beyond the beyond... Have you ever considered writing the Color Theory Text Book as told in snot? I mean not. I mean, this guy I know wants me to write something in prose for an upcoming issue of CUE magazine, but why on Earth would I do that when you do it better and loud? This morning I'm doing fine, but should eat a few sparrows to keep up my energy, to catch up with the baby, to help Mel get around (she came through her surgery fine, by the by). I'm singing screamo, the world's greatest dreamery. But right now I'm not nostalgic for anything. Though if you ask me in 30 seconds, I may change my mind. That soapbox thing is a little dangerous, you know, so be careful when touching the sky with your teeth. I know I don't have to tell you these things, but I'm a deer in the headlights. Just as you are a moment on tip-toes in time. See? Spinning out of one's mind is a pancake breakfast, but being Siddhartha is difficult.
Matt
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