From the inside out, these are my layers: bad, good, bad, good and now- new - bad again. They attach beneath my skin, nested one inside the other like Matryoshka dolls, anchored with a pin through each skull at the top. They ring like a bell, scream and peal, complain, when layers and outsides clash. Beneath the layers, there is nothing: unbounded emptiness like the equation of the universe inverted so that one equals zero.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Real & Fake Friends
FAKE FRIENDS: Never ask for food.
REAL FRIENDS: is the reason you have no food.
FAKE FRIENDS: Call your parents Mr / Mrs
REAL FRIENDS: Call your parents DAD/MOM
FAKE FRIENDS: bail you out of jail and tell you what you did was wrong
REAL FRIENDS: Would sit next to you saying 'Dawg ... we screwed up... but that was fun!'
FAKE FRIENDS: never seen you cry
REAL FRIENDS: cry with you
FAKE FRIENDS: Borrow your stuff for a few days then give it back
REAL FRIENDS: keep your stuff so long they forget it's yours
FAKE FRIENDS: know a few things about you
REAL FRIENDS: Could write a book about you with direct quotes from you
FAKE FRIENDS: Will leave you behind if that is what the crowd is doing
REAL FRIENDS: Will kick the whole crowds butt that left you
FAKE FRIENDS: Would knock on your front door
REAL FRIENDS: Walk right in and say 'I'M HOME!'
FAKE FRIENDS: Are for awhile
REAL FRIENDS: Are for life
FAKE FRIENDS: will talk bad to the person who talks bad about you.
REAL FRIENDS: Will knock the person out that talked bad about you
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Time Does Not Bring Relief
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go - so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
Edna St Vincent Millay (1892 -1950)
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