Those Monkies Got Masacred

And the punishment is the plague.
Thirsty for conspiracy
And thirty minus four months and counting.
Count down from one.
Ground hero.
Truth is always better than fiction. I write memoir and pretend let you think whatever you want.
Not that I am an authority on anything, except finesse.

I don't sympathize with the underdog, I am the underdog.
You think this confidant has confidence?

You! Think! This!

I judge you.
I actively try to not judge you.
A bunch of thinking in circles.
I wish it was stylish to be ignorant.


( wait, it is stylish to be ignorant )

Per say...

I hate parkay.

I had a daydream ...

I have Daniel Merriweather playing;
He sounds like Nina Simone.
I say that's good for this moment.
I remember the dream as a feeling.
I took pills. I drank wine. I put every thing into my bloodstream.
You would never know... he says it.
That's what the dream is like.

Play the game for the love.

Thirsty for the thing spirituals bring.

I am on the circuit. Telepathy is too strong sometimes, I say.
Sports medicine has me down today. Kinesthetics. Athletics.
I got the gratitudinal blues.
Something like survivor's guilt.
I wrote something with my heart, it turned out poignant to others, but somewhat ambiguous to me.

My next move is to be a soul singer.
I am inviting the muse and the cigarettes to do their job.
I once tried to learn to play piano, but became entranced by the hands that were teaching me.
Point A to point B is simple for some.
I have points and pivots and cylindrical black holes with tapered edges in between these

too simple things.

To simplify things:

I also might need to join a band.

Extracurriculars have me wrapped up in the paper-towel tube and the plastic bag like it contains mysticism. Education. Miss Education. My education.
Cryptic.

The wax heats up when you light it. Some burn prettier than others.

Every few years I light a black one for good measure.
At least for good measure, at most, because I walk proudly.


(If you ever threw up in your purse, you would never worry about stuff like that.)

Some days worry more than other days.
Language is no longer simple, and deep meaning is contained in every single syllable.
Turn the word inside out.
Quantify all the words that start with the same letter. Add the spaces between the dots in the ellipsis.

Suspicion flickers from the modem and the digital clock.
No need for explanation.

Signify and justify matters not.

I know and you know and we know!
Wink.
(Bink.)

There is no matter of suspicion. It is the imagination that plagues me and also blesses me.
Yonder floral flowering blossoms of scents of signals.

Pillow, dryer sheets, open books.

You are in the fabric of my pillow.

Feels better facing east...

Sun shines from behind me.
Through the doorway at the mango house in the morning.
That house had cement floors.
And blood on the bedroom wall.
Pitter spatter of little feet made my neighbor build a second house,
kicked the boys out,
moved me in to help clean up the place.
Lots of bleach. Threw the mops away when I was done.
You know what I mean?
When you mop the walls, that's sometimes what you wanna do.
forget about the whole thing.
As soon as i got curtains up, it was time to leave.
It's always time to leave, the fear I had as a child is gone, the one where leaving meant missing the best part?
I learned that sticking around too long is worse than leaving hungry.

Hunger means more energy.
it means my anti-narcoleptic tender heart doesn't have to ever give up and wear sweatpants.
it means my socks fit
it means i own a vacuum

Rose fell from the chandelier, I took it as a good omen.
dumb waiter
vertical
moves west
feet up on table

lapus necklace

Platinum Shoe Bottoms

Proximity matters very little in reality. Home is where the heart is and Baltimore is only for education and novelty these days.

Novelty and tender ronis.

Things like that, sunglasses, platinum shoe bottoms, narcolepsy, taurine, costume eye makeup worn every day, laser light, light emitting diodes, jelly fish, a fading resistance to leggings, sell-out boots, a Boston boot-shop clerk, stock brokers, writers, rooms with chandeliers full of people chanting for the newbie still outside of the mausoleum, sitting on the floor by choice, getting down to the ground, universal love streaming into a cypher, things like that.

You Break It Into Pieces

You don't eat the whole thing at once.
It takes all day.
You break it into pieces.
You put the pieces in there, you eat it out of there.
He was talking about the red tin.

All this time of cold winter and I finally realized the heating vent to my bedroom was closed.

I smell essential oils in my hair as I write a rational email to a rational atheist who writes rational protestations to a non-political group. I wonder what his purpose is. All things logical usually have a purpose.

I have a rubber band in my stomach. It makes me nervous when it stretches or if it gets twisted up. The rubber band is calling for gummy bears.
Gummy bears and good leadership would be nice.
My astrology says that I am a leader by birth. Give me a shower curtain and some paint and I can turn any place into an art studio.
The rest is up to you.
I light candles tonight, heated by the new vent, scared of the rain outside.
Daydreaming of night dreams, the modem blinks at me to flirt, I think.
Tires wash by on the street and it sounds like the plastic bags in the closet, whether you are taking one or putting one in, the swoosh is nearly the same.

Gummy bears are not a good dinner and neither is what's in the red tin.
Do not feel bad for me.
Thanksgiving leftovers are the best.
I just like saying gummy bear.
And also Koala bear.

I know a few things about raccoons. I have a special friend who can morph into a raccoon on my porch.
I also know a few things about tarantulas. I have a scarf made of tarantulas. I wear it while I watch Gossip Girl.

For some reason my insanity is not coming out on the page as easily as it normally does in a poem.
There are some who may beg to differ.
For the cult following, I will say that the weekend was MADE of poetry.
The essence of the five-days cannot spill itself onto the pixels as it was organic and very much three dimensional.
Enough bleeding heart sentimentalism.

For today is a day of all magic and tomorrow will be even better.

The Interweb Runs on Cats

That's for sure.
We read poetry at school on Thursday because that's what we're supposed to do.
I forgot to buy sugar at the grocery store today because I was distracted by the packaging.
It was too much to deal with.
Free trade, violence free sugar, c'mon, it's just too much.
What kind of sugar is this anyway?

Plenty of Time to Go Back In Time

The lady in the movie calls the voicemail of her lover just to hear his voice.
She calls it over and over.

I hear the clock tick in the kitchen past the orange roses.

And the pink cigarettes.

I refuse to listen to Ella Fitzgerald right now. It's too sad for this. Instead I choose a song
from a movie about teenage love because I can't get the chorus out of my head.

I prefer a 'Doo be do' to a 'dew-du-du'
And a 'lew lew lew' to a 'la la la'

Like I said, it's a matter of personal preference.
I will go to bed thinking of the melody of that song.

Red Magic Glasses

I reversed the whole order of things. Last week, it was yellow pants and a purple shirt.
Today, it is purple pants and a yellow shirt.
I accessorized with an over sized pearl necklace and my magic red glasses.

Danger child is a sending out Rubix cubes and talking about shock therapy at breakfast.
We all have our things we like to talk about.
I like talking about how the underdog is not really the underdog.
I like talking about vacuuming at two in the morning.
I like microwaving vegetables because I do not have a pace maker in my chest like Grannie Annie.

( Grannie Annie will feed you little plates of snacks as you float around in her pool while she talks on the phone with her daughter. Namely, grilled cheese with tomato and peanut butter pretzels. And she will remind you to watch your figure too. I wonder if talking about 'granny panties' is appropriate in such a scenario. It was one of those nights where the moon was orange and very close. )

As for Gossip Girl last night, the 'network' sent me a message from J-moany universe of plutonian concepts. ( that's metaphysical speak and yes, I meant to spell it 'pluto' and not 'plato' because plato would imply something totally different. planet. the placement of pluto is in the 3rd house. ) Anyway, the old lovers spoke on the edge of the water. I was just about to drift off into the web or into a book, when the man on the plasma leaned in close and said, " Marshmallows."

I spend my time worrying about these papers. I write about a time when astronomy indicated black magic. I was not raised like this, but, in the company of astrophysicist conversations with father the atheist who knew movies were artistic statements. His god was in the television because he saw more meaning there. I see pixels radiating, so I wear my magic uv glasses.

What exactly is 'out there'?


( Cult following now chimes in. )


" 'Can't tell you what is out there, but we can tell you who is."

Purple

You stood on one end of the hallway by the kitchen

and I stood at the other end in the living room near the front door.  

There were dead mice sometimes gutted there.

The stillness of them would sneak up on you like an image in a horror movie.

Once you knew they were there, they were kind of funny comic relief aside from

all the other strange and morbid stuff going on in the house.

Baby Blue Chard,

In the purple child room meditated with monks.  

It wasn't red lipstick back then, the magenta of our lips was red wine only.  

Our tongues were purple from it, which is the alternate 'grieving' color.

I hope everyone wears hot pink stilettos to my funeral.  Even the boys.  

I hope they play good music.

Deadlines and Being Well Rested

Four pairs of jeans hang on the closet door and one is folded up neatly with a heart on a napkin sitting on top.  My midnight snack was cashews and chicken with eggplant.  I danced in the kitchen while I ate, standing up, and bopping around and kicking my feet like a jig.  

My smiley-face ashtray from Japan is my bed-buddy tonight.  In Japan smokers are 'considerate' because they carry ashtrays in their bags and do not throw butts on the ground.  

I can't wait to shop for more long sleeve shirts at the thrift store.  I think of this because it is cold outside and cold in the house.  My mother/landlord came over and turned down the heat.  I am regulated.  We watched a lifetime movie and bonded over Zizek youtube videos.  

It's sleeping time in this house.  No guests and no guess work.  Straight ahead and onward-ho with the school work.  There are only three papers left until the semester is over.  I hope it will come automatically soon.  As, I only have a cult following as a writer which does not include professors, I have yet to earn liberties.  And perhaps I should forget that idea all together and just conform because there is no sense hating the system while I am wrapped up in it.  It won't matter two years from now.  That, my friends, I know for sure.  "C's get degrees."  

I would much rather be known for my dancing skills than my g.p.a.. 

Celestory

I was a guy in my past life

right before this one.

This is my last one before I get shot out into a black hole by way of a live volcano.

Same concept as the tunnels.

I get dropped into a volcano from a helicopter

and the rest is celestory.

Wearing The Presence

Like Sunday should be, I read a book, lit a candle, boiled some water and made hot chocolate and tea.  This girl likes her beverages.  And for those who know, the less calories the better!  The more beverages, the less I feel tied down by commitment.  I am loaded down with sugar right now and strong doses of nicotine.  

We talked about the train the other night, but not about the whistle that blows.  I am reminded right now because my pot just came to a boil.  

Don't worry.  There is no hidden meaning above.  I am just making iced tea for tomorrow.  I over-compensate for my procrastination by planning ahead excessively.  

I could not sleep last night.  I did not want to.  

I am wearing a presence today in the air around me, left behind by James and the marshmallow fortress we created.  Really there was no fortress, but it's the only way to describe the feeling of sweet delicate security.  

I am dressed much like a six year old right now.   Two purple shirts on because I couldn't chose between them; a beaded headband; green eyeshadow with sparkles in it.  I am drinking hot chocolate disguised as vanilla chai out of an over-sized pink cup.  My hands feel small around the cup and when I take a sip, my feet lift up from the ground so that I may admire my purple tennis shoes with the pink ribbon across the top.  

Six years old, it's true... that's how I feel.

I started smoking when I was seven.  

This is my sentiment.

And below is an afterthought for intended audience primarily consisting of inhabitants of marshmallow fortresses and the like:

If I had a hat with your name I would wear it right now.  

If the hat was defined by my feelings for you, I would pull it down around my ears and tuck my hair into it.  It would be a pet-hat.  An embodiment of:  

 my wishes for you, 

all things smile-inducing 

and freedom-producing.  

Of course, the disclaimer now must be stated.  All of these things are from my imagination except the description of my outfit.  Interpret as you see fit.  

My Computer is In Bed

My computer is in bed with me and I am wishing I knew how to say that in Latin.  

Sleep will be welcome tonight and the world changed a lot today.  Tomorrow will be even more different.

People at the grocery store wore their faces at a different angle.  Their chins pointed in a straight forward direction instead of nestling to their chests.

My house felt cozier because I did my civic duty today.  

On another note, my mother is selling silver.  She said she was taking it to the corner.  At first, I thought I heard her wrong.  This is alarming.  

I will dream up an answer tonight, I hope.

The Theme is Marshmallows

Hot chocolate

James

My trick or treat from San Francisco

( The marshmallows representing James and San Francisco are the same. )

Joey has a big bag of marshmallows on his top kitchen shelf to the right of the refrigerator.  

( Those are for smores.  He yells something about cozy, cozy's coffee, they have smores, the coffee shop in D.C... he has an espresso maker and it seems insanity and fast-talking follow those who own espresso makers. )

I can't tell you much about James except that marshmallows may one day save his life.

He could build a fortress made of lap tops if he wanted.

If there were an opening big enough, I would throw marshmallows at the fortress so that maybe he would eat them.

You kow, reach his hand out to get one, or maybe one of them would get into the fortress like a little game of basketball where the holes in the fortress were like the hoop.

I wouldn't be so bold, but it crossed my mind to try to sneak a vitamin inside one of the marshmallows.

This is all happening in my imagination, you must know.  

Dreams on the Dawn of Election Day

This morning I dreamt that I was stealing from Crabtree and Evelyn.  There was a voice in my head telling me that I would definitely get away with it.  In fact, the store wanted me to do it.  I was encouraged by the corporation to steal on a psychic level.  I was entitled, the voice said, to as much good-smelling soap as I could fit into my bra.  

That's not very much soap.  

Yikes.  

In the dream, I had lost my teeth.  My front teeth were missing.

I was confused by the dream because in real life I would be rushing to the dentist.

I wondered how I would pay for the dental work and felt more entitled to steal the soap.

But, if I was arrested for theft, how would I be able to avoid permanent disfigurement from my missing teeth?

And how the hell did I lose my front teeth anyway?

There was no violence!  

I woke up, ate cheerios, had coffee and voted.  

Saying no, eating dirt, and grieving.

It's been a long time since I listened to someone eating a carrot over the phone.

Please verify this is a raw carrot.

When you quit smoking, you should carry a bag of apples around with you.

And you should eat an apple every time you want to smoke.

Revel in the crunch of my carrot.

I eat a dirty, crisp orange carrot like someone might take a bite from a wiffle ball bat.

Everything is surreal in my world.  

To understand me, you must know this fact.

Everyone is a cartoon character bred with some kind of saint.

My friends are patron saints of every problem which has a word to define it.

Every malady known to Meghankind has a patron saint with the cure.

All roads lead to Meghan.

Hear me now and forever hold serendipitous peace in your heart.

Hear me now and feel the blessings wash through your skin and know that I want you to be happy.

Hear this message I send.

Hear this and ease the worried wondering that haunts and plagues you.

Hear me telling you that all these problems will solve themselves as my vehicle (made of words)  (made of love for you)

handles the corner like German engineering and makes a U-turn to set your nerves at ease.

I feel your fear vibrating into my cells.

I transform it.

I chain smoke into the night like the engine of a train barreling through tunnels carved into mountains.

All night I build bridges made of stars and the smoky celestial fog collected in my proverbial pockets.

Sometimes I paint, it's true.  But the only thing I have painted lately are the parts of skin above my eyelashes.  Stone-scraped mica powder in colors of black and purple and white.  It's all for you.  As long as I put color onto something, I can still be the artist that I am.  For now, my eyelids will have to suffice as canvas.  

After thought:  I also paint my toenails.  And that is for you as well, but I digress.

I called my friend this evening to invite him to the costume party.  His son was with him.

He suspected I might only be asking him because I knew he already had plans.

This was not the case.  

Bring him too, I suggested.

The answer was no.

There are some no's I can respect and others I cannot. 

This time, I respected the no. 

I respected it because I fully respect the owner of the mouth the words came from.

Sometimes I can manipulate a maybe.

And a maybe can sometimes turn into a yes.  

But, I have learned in my years that the burden of an unnatural yes can be too heavy to hold for any length of time.

I do not have any unnatural yeses in my pocket at the moment, except my own.

( My unnatural yeses are in the form of discipline and commitment to self-improvement.  A whole other can of worms.  I can carry my own weight and I ain't nobody's ball and chain.  This is gospel. )

I digress.  If you stay long enough, things will come full circle.  I promise.

I spent today trying to find something to get excited about.  I only have myself.  

Back to the subject, I went to the party wearing vampire teeth and glittery-red fake blood dripping from the corners of my mouth.  I drew some bite marks on my neck and donned a polyester red robe.  I sprayed red-glitter hairspray all over my head and there was glitter all over my chest and shoulders and the sink in the bathroom too.  

I drove my car listening to no music into the country.  I drove too far and became lost in an area of town where only a city girl might be scared because she has watched too many horror movies about the woods and killers who hide in the dark and jump out in the street feigning injuries or hitchhiking and then murder everyone because ( the murderer had a fucked up childhood ).  

At the party I saw a friend of a dead friend of mine.  We never met before this summer, but we have a dead friend in common.  The new living friend was tweaking out on a breakup because his ex-girlfriend was there.  It's always bad when a breakup is fresh.  I know, I know, I know.  I have blood dripping from the corners of my mouth and I think fondly of my victims' absence.  

Like I said before, no extra weight in my pockets.  I haven't drawn an uninspired yes from anyone in a while. 

My favorite part of the evening was when a toddler dropped his gummy-eyeball candy on the ground.  It rolled like a golf ball down a hill. The child was dressed in a tan footy-lion costume. He squatted halfway down, bending his knees, and pulling up his chi from the earth.  As he raised back up, he yelled a long noooooo from his diaphragm. It was as if he expected the command of his voice to raise the gummy eyeball back up the hill and out of the leafy dirt on the ground.  

I nearly expected this myself.  

I went to recover the candy eyeball for him.

It was covered in dirt and caked with leaves.

He looked at the eyeball in my hand and put his own hand to his mouth.

I assume he wanted to eat it.

That is why I like kids more than adults sometimes.  They are not afraid to eat dirt and be passionate about the things they want or to grieve the things they have lost.  

To be continued...

Phosphorus

Magic exists for sure.

My proof:  Magnets and Phosphorus.

some people believe in fairies and butterflies and stuff like that as proof of magic, which I think is really pansy and lame.  

fuck that.

and fuck capitalism too.

i mean capitalization.

Sanskrit

We walked across the street in a group 

I doubled back as a straggler.

I was scared of the traffic and highly caffeinated;

I took the bridge that runs over the street instead.  

Many people this week have told me

That I make no sense

It is a blow to the ego

If they spoke Sanskrit things would be better, I think.

The Final Coincidence of That Chapter

Are you the one who likes to go to the airport?

Um.  No.  That's not me.  

(It's the other Meg, the lame one.)

G.P.S. tells the tale, as a narrative winds up in my mind like

a sling shot while rubber bands tie up my shoulder as a tell-tale sign.

Something's not right here.

  

Four months later another photographer friend is excited to be

dating.  He forwards me the email and the picture, her favorite thing to do

is hang out at the airport.

She likes sushi.

I see how the mix up happened.

Cough.

Cynic Sarcasmos of the Cosmos, I am.

We would have met if I sold you my fountain pen under different circumstances.

The wrong girl got ice cream that night.

That's for sure.  

I hate remembering but it happens anyway.

At least I learned about flux and how to fill the bladder full of ink.

I picture an octopus getting scared under water.

I would rather be a jelly fish.

I'd float above the modem and flirt with the blinking light on the cell phone.

I would get tangled in the lights coming from the machines.  

Exit stage as curtain made of tentacles from the men-o-war fall gracefully.

End scene.  

I am so finite, I continuously end.

To begin, I have not dreamt in quite a while.  

Wearing knee highs and chain smoking, my best friend is a computer.

There are other, better friends inside the computer.

The computer holds them and provides my only access. 

Small box of thoughts leading to a black hole or a sliding board.

Technology theorist communique.   

At night, I go out in the yard and rescue the roses from the cold air.

It hurts my skin.

I cannot imagine what it does to a rose.

I hung them like a crown of thorns over the dining room chandelier.