greenie's blog

"Tell me your troubles young man, and I shall tell you more. I shall tell you of the wars that should never have been fought and of battles that never were. I shall tell you of the Isles of Carmdia and the sweeping dunes of Haraan. I shall tell you of princes and kings and their women slaves. I shall tell you of oxen and plains and rivers so wide no man can cross. Yes, tell me your troubles, you innnocent lad, and I shall tell you of the hell-holes of the world, the foxholes, the pits, the dungeons. You think you have troubles, my son, but now, hear me."

"You, old man? Your feet have long since ceased to walk and your eyes no longer see. You hold a cane in your knargled left hand while with your right you gesture madly and pluck at your withering beard. If ever you had days of glory or of woe, they've long since disappeared. Cease your mutterings and be still."

1. Maybe if you hadn't kissed me, I would've pressed send.

2. There was a reason I said no, even if I still dream about you.

3. You're wonderful, but they're right; we could be twins.

4. Sometimes paper cranes are straight, and it's okay.

5. You're too innocent;grow up.

6. I don't want you.

7. For Christmas, I gave you my words, and for my birthday, you gave them back.

8. Maybe they assumed, or maybe they just never cared.

The cabinets rattled as she came into the kitchen, yanking open the refrigerator with reckless abandon, looking for something on which to vent her anger. The shelves were filled with beer, whiskey, wine, anything that could induce a drunken stupor.

She stood still for a moment then grabbed one of the beer bottles, her face expressionless to the point of sociopathy. Holding it carelessly she positioned it over the sink and brought her arm down in a punching swing that looked eerily familiar to the sane part of her mind. Beer flew everywhere as glass rained down with a clinking sound, like quarters in a jeans pocket. It sounded like rain in Arizona, the first droplets bringing blessed release, maniac smiles on the faces of even the most sensible people.

Constantly searching for some form of
validation,
validating what?
approval, acknowledgement that trying
is worth it, that someone, somewhere,
is paying attention, understands that
trying...is all she has left.

It's all been done before, but they
keep getting better, and the best...
isn't good enough anymore.

They shine in grandeur, individuality,
tossing the occasional bone-compliment-gratuity fee
and they say that if she keeps trying,
she'll get there, but the truth is...

the best are the best and no amount of trying
will ever help if you're not--
no faded glory ever rises from the ashes.

Trying doesn't help.

Author initially had dashes. GG changed to center the type using code which is < div align=center > (take out spaces between the left and right arrows)

Confounded, uninspiring visions of
desperate hopes-
pinning dreams on flighty canvas

red, ruby, majestic, cold
red inkstains, paint splatters,
liquified poison

Punk rock mix symphonia-
soundtrack to their lives,
ethnicity creating an "image"

cocoa spotlights
glimmer, shatter, twisticulate
accentuate divinity

Paint brush and ochre
mixture tacked to a
mulberry wall with a
shellacked coat of gin
and smoke.

It's back.

---cumpulsivity rising in dark black
tides of confusion
jaded, marbled, smooth, polished tablets
of jealousy---

The systematic accumulation of every
iota of self doubt
forged against the miniscule
particles
of self preservation, confidence, control,
independence

---blood, brick, sun, anger red
rain clinging to every surface
midnight, mysterious, seductive, loathsome
blue walls of liquidity---

A furious wanting need to be different,
better, changed, reborn NOW,
not later, a indiscribable fire of
RAGE against everyone who is better, perfect,
happier, beautiful, praised, acknowledged

---symphonic abuse of low notes drowning
eardrums in clashing, discordant, unsanctioned,
twisted discord---

As it contorts onward expanding into every crevice
of movement and life,
consuming consuming consuming

---unending---.

I am cloistered here
and for once
in my life,
no one is arriving
to pull me out
with bells and whistles,
ropes and boquettes
of peonies.

I appear
to have tossed
all the bedsheet ladders
out the window
in favor of the
stairs,
only to find
that there are none.

Silence
is a lonely word,
a still one,
and it seems
to me that jumping
out the window
would be
very silent,
in the end.

I've always
rather fancied being
a princess, not
the one that
gets kissed awake,
although I wouldn't mind
that part,
(but the horse looks
a bit uncomfortable
and the sunset would
require an unmaidenly squint).
No,
I rather fancy
being the princess
disguised as a boy
with two daggers
and a big sword,
the one who,
when the prince falls
in love with her,
causes overly dramatic
teenagers
to raise their hands
in class
and point out that
the prince
is probably a repressed
homosexual.

In the fake-French city
where even the billboards had
an accent,
she was trying to get by in
Spanish.

Her sons barely made it through
the closing doors in her wake
as she touched their shoulders,
making sure they were
grasping the metal poles,
muttering to herself.

She grabbed a woman nearest her,
and started assaulting her
in halting English, mixing it in with
words
that didn't fit like,
"solo" and "el centro".

My two years of high school Spanish
weren't any use next to her rapid fire
pleas for help,
but after a day of hearing
"bonjour" and "merci"
a "hola" was welcome.

She asked me where to go
and I knew I couldn't help,
but why not pretend, just for a minute,
that I wasn't lost too,
and that she would
get off at the right stop.

Later that evening, after the cars
wound through the streets
waving Spanish flags and soccer jerseys
in triumphant applause,
I hoped she and her sons
weren't looking for

Little Italy.

Her hands danced
over her cell phone,
carressing its link
to the outside world.
Pink dye seemed to be
her "thing" and she was proud
to be a part of the
"unfashionable" world.

She reminded me of
someone I knew
and the insight was
startling,
not that she was different,
but that I knew people
like her,
that I was friends with
them.

Fishnet stockings
shouldn't be worn
if they're ripped,
holes in holes
don't work,
no matter who you are,
although, the boots
in their purple stilleto-ed
glory,
were wonderful.

The entire ride,
I stared at her reflection
in the glass,
only looking at her directly
as I got off,
staring at her through the closing plexiglass
and watching as she
carefully ignored

everyone.

I told you
what you each
wanted to know-
all while
staring into
my tea mug,
watching the
reflections dance
on the shalacked
surface-
you listened,
like I knew
you would
and we fit right into
one of those
teen angst books
that other guy mocked
or one of those
textbook cases.
But it's not a textbook,
it's my life.
And this is
the only way
I can deal.
I kept repeating myself
and kept waiting
for it to
be fake.
I guess
what scared me
was that it
never did.

i.
They talked
of the writhing
mass
of compassion
and the tangled
convenience
of the now.

ii.
"Can you indicate
to me the
location of..."
The translation
was rough
and the two
ended up wandering
through Lima
in the waning light-
blessing
unknown
rooftop gardens
for their
secret
infidelity.

iii.
Orange-swept night
was clashing
with rosy dawn-
lighting the wooden
stalls
and shadowing
flower baskets
waiting to be filled
by barefoot children
to hang
in their mothers'
rooms
in the hope
that the scent
would bring her
back.

iv.
It doesn't.

v.
Dawn wins.

Gilded bars
of society's
socialites
color the fluid
air.

Quietly defiant
amid this
glamour-strewn
world,
a lisp of smoke
drifts upward.

Lethargically
mystical
and peacefully
obscure,
green weed
against a rainbow
background-
hippie-boy smokes his
pipe.

i.

Slowly,
softly,
the waves
crash over
the darkened dunes,
as, humbled,
the sand bows-
and waits-
for dawn.

ii.

Creepily they meet
amid the glowing sands,
embracing-entrancing-
ripped apart by the
jealous moon-
in all her envy-
still alone.

iii.

Mildly,
she reinforces
their differences
while he charms her
with bright, unseen colors,
and words of
understanding
until her wrongs
become rights
and he wins-
again.