The Hipster Brigade
she steps lightly
on your back
those tiny toes
between your shoulder blades
and you moan
and she sighs
and when she falls
it is not
stones are my company
like two rocks sharing crevices
sunk deep into the edges
of your sand smoothed sides
and it looks
and i want it back
but you are already
in a plastic pail
that a boy
put you in
for safe keeping
break my back
i can't believe it has gotten to the point where i'm just too tired to do anything else but the bare minimum. the weeks keep me busy with about 4 novels per week, none of which i have gotten to finish. walking back and forth across campus. collapsing exhausted on my bed for two hours. trying to keep in touch with my california friends. updating livejournal. reading blogs. daydreaming of my very own amoeba records
. attempting homework, falling asleep again, waking up with drool on my notebook. panicking. rationalization process. wanting to quit school. realizing i don't want to quit school. realizing i'm someone that looks forward to fridays. realizing that i would rather have a chicken farm. realizing it's the weekend. the weekends are spent on a real bed in a real house in cambridge. then it starts all over again.
do you know about the mayfly?
holding them by their stained glass window wings, legs squirming, searching for solid ground. i would name them and then let them fly away again. Bob, Marcy, Charles, Murgatroyd and Ursula. just 24 hours on Earth.
there was no time for "how do you do's?" and foreplay. it was get right down to business. despite their short lifespans, i never found a single one that wasn't full of life. those tiny legs looking for footholds. over and over. then again letting them go.
catching them in the schoolyard after threatening the boys with kisses. i was never fast enough. so i caught mayflies instead. they never turned and ran away. they didn't laugh. they weren't yelling about cooties. i was never afraid of catching something.
i haven't seen one in years. mayflies, not boys. those became easier to catch. and the mayfly just disappeared out of my life.
have you ever been so angry you threw a hamburger in the face of your mother?
my mom likes to tell me this story over and over, maybe to humble me. but as a little girl i was in a hardee's restaurant and she cut my hamburger in half and i got so upset about my half hamburger i flipped out. i threw myself on the ground and yelled and kicked and screamed. i vaguely remember brown tiles and the flowery dress i was wearing and wailing at the tops of my lungs. then i black out. not literally but i can't remember another thing.
but i enjoy a good tantrum. every now and then i'll scream fucker repeatedly at the top of my lungs and kick and scream and cry. i figure if i got into more fights, i'd have less tantrums. now that i'm older, i keep my tantrums in private. small ones that last no more than 15 minutes. after i have thought things through and realize, "man, i'm a wanker" and just quit and calm down.
there is nothing wrong with denying responsibility for the afternoon and kicking dust into the face of your arch-nemisis. just to prove a point. which is that i didn't steal your damn coloured pencil. now leave me alone.
i would never call this man grandpapa
i kept leaning in closer, inhaling him -- a combination of ivory soap and cigarettes. he was in his late forties/ early fifties, but there was something about him luring me in. something that made me think that this was more than just
an old man. he was my john wayne. my emerson facilities cowboy, tipping his hat and calling me pretty lady. i can hear his spurs before he even enters the room, smelling strong of tabacco and whiskey, he'd throw me on the bed long enough to satisfy himself and then he'd go out to save pretty things on his horse, Rusty and i would be okay with this. living happy with my john wayne.
but instead it's just the jiggle of keys and the plunging of clogged toilets and being thrown on the bed by a plumber has no appeal for me. so i don't say bye when he walks out of the building.
she used to be modest
he knows how to make me ache. how to make me want it
in a way that no previous boy has before. he has this look -- half grin, half smirk -- that let's me know what he wants and when he wants it. i can barely look him in the eye when he does this to me. i look away and giggle. it does things to me. it makes me shy and uncomfortable in the most unbareably bareable ways. i look again right into his eyes
and it's hard to keep looking as our foreheads touch and i'm trying a grin of my own. the look of pure lust. he told me he's seen me do it before when i'm drunk and not so cordinated as to not
give him that look when his friends are watching.
"you're evil," i whisper.
"i know," he says, still glancing, half-smirking, licking his lips making me ache. "so?"
i squint. i can't stand it anymore. he slips a hand under my shirt knowing that no one around us can see. he squeezes my left breast and tugs at my nipple. he knows what this does to me. he moves his other hand between my legs hidden beneath my coat and rubs hard enough for me to feel it through my jeans and than just smirks and pulls away. he knows it hurts by now -- how much i want him. how i could take him right now in front of everyone and i wouldn't care who saw.
there is nothing like a fantasy.
just dropping in to tell you that your picture reminds me of the brady bunch opening sequence. it looks like you're looking over at alice. next you'll be looking at greg. it's kinda trippy.
~message from one of my secret admirers.
I WILL BE IN MAINE THIS WEEKEND, SUCKAS! (i will be very cold.)
honestly i have run out of things to say
ryan. trace my history of crushes. blonde hair and blue eyes. i swear there is no connection to nazis and if so it's merely coincidental. maybe i should stop talking about nazis so much. yeah, probably.
irds. i enjoy all birds except ostriches, but i do like the idea of an ostrich farm. i'm big into mallards and there need to more bluejays in boston, preferably nesting right outside my window.
huck taylors. i swear i started wearing these shoes because i wanted bad ankles and cold feet all year long. it has nothing to do with punk rock or rockin' of any nature.
avid Ryan Adams. do i need to explain why he is on my alphabet of Diana list? i guess i will. well, i have his haircut and his guitar has my name on it -- indiana
polis motor speedway. and his voice makes me quiver and that was just a lame excuse to use that word. the letter Q is awesome.
lephant show. Sharon, Lois and Bram made me want to write children's songs and then when i realized that i couldn't play an instrument, i decided i would write children's stories. plus, there is an elephant and that's just great.
ig newtons. there is nothing like a cake in the form of a cookie. confusing people since the beginning of figs.
uinea pigs. i used to torment the guinea pigs in the kindergarten room by touching their bottoms and watching them race across the aquarium squeaking. i thought it was the cutest thing. then i got my own guinea pig and would spend hours trying to teach it to sit upright in a chair so i could stare at his plump belly. i really want a guinea pig again.
ot dogs. i remember when i used to wear my vegetarian pin on my lapel and order hot dogs from the truck on the corner of boylston and arlington street and not think twice about it. i'm not sure what is in a hot dog but they are sure tasty.
ce hockey. i almost went to a boarding school in Toronto where i would have been immersed in the art of hockeying and probably would have returned to America with the ability to add "Eh?" to everything. sometimes i think i should have followed through with this plan.
amaican rum ice cream. as a child, everytime i went to white mountain creamery, i would end up with this treat. my mom hated rum but i loved the taste. i can't get it anymore, but rum raisin is just as good in my opinion.
awaii. this is the japanese word for cute and i used it to be annoying and because i used the J for my favorite ice cream instead of for japanese. yup.
aundromats. this reminds me of my home in pennsylvania and of broken washing machines and spending hours at the laundromat pushing my sister in those laundry carts up and down the tiled floors.
ix tapes. people can say what they want about mix cds but my heart still belongs to the casette of the past.
ight. the stars and the moon (that really does not resemble a Shell sign at all). i like constellations too. even though i only know two of them.
nly Fools and Horses...this is the best british comedy i have ever seen. it's about these two brothers and their grandfather that peddle stolen goods and the adventures and misadventues along the way. plus, they have cockney accents and well, nicholas lyndhurst. if you don't understand why i like him, please refer to letter A again.
oodles. i asked for a poodle every year for christmas till i was eight years old. i just knew that santa was never going to deliver. asking for a poodle was like asking for a red ryder bb gun. and yes, i do talk about that gun a lot. i mean i am
living in texas afterall. although, i never did end up with a poodle, just a silly mut named eddie.
uill. i love that scratchy sound they make on top of yellowed home-made paper. my mom has one that sits in a plastic pencil cup that looks like a pair of jeans.
ock:30. cause it's always rock:30 in my mind.
mashing Pumpkins. two words: billy corgan. three more: is a genius.
acos. this was the one food that made it tough for me to become a vegetarian. i can't deny a good taco. i miss you taco. I SALUTE YOUR BEEFY GOODNESS.
ncle Jim. this was my favorite uncle. he had long hair and sometimes he would use his knees to drive because he was that
tall. well, i mean it was a japanese car. once, he swerved the car to avoid hitting a caterpillar on the highway. we didn't even see it, so he backed up the car to show us and sure enough there was a fuzzy green caterpillar inching across the road.
espa. dear minty green vespa on boylston street, please be mine. i'm going to move to italy and drive them all day long. zoom zoom zoom.
eetzie Bat. this book changed my life. she taught me how to be a slinkster rocker chick and understand the "love channel."
erox. one day, i will xerox copies of that haiku zine and i'll send copies to all my friends but until that day comes it's just a neat word.
oohoo. the drink of champions.
ebra-striped couch. i have always wanted one in the middle of my living room. seriously, who would not?
i give credit where credit
is due, but i figure not till the end because i'm a bastard.
about dem glasses
i'm not sure if anyone else noticed them, but there they were hooked onto a fence. forgotten and smudged. they must have not been there for long, but i couldn't resist the tempation to take them. my constant fascination with glasses and how my mother always says i look good in them and smarter. that they give me charm and some sort of intellectualness. something i'm lacking here at college. the look of a college student. so i picked them up but was rather disappointed when i found out they were prescription and that some soul out there has probably paid to get his replaced. to that person i am sorry but i'm not sorry at all.
my mom says i look like a hot japanese man, but i think i look more like ryan adams. either way, i look like a man and i'm not sure if that is a good thing or not.
i've got the itch
lately, i haven't wanted to leave my room for very long. just a few days out of this jail cell and i don't feel like coming back or going on with this so-called education program. i get disoriented, confused and lost. but by the time, i'm readjusted it's the weekend again and then the cycle starts all over again.
i'm not saying this is a bad thing, just an observation.
there was never a reason to say hello
calls me ladybird, and that's just fine. i call her, just lady, and she laughs. we are two ladies identifying through song, words and struck heart strings. we are moved by drama but really unaffected as a whole. when things get "too hot," we let go. we drop your hands, hearts and just move on without saying goodbye. we are easily amused and easily bored. few get in. really in. deep within. once you think you are really there, really understanding, we are probably just amusing ourselves. toying with you. bored. most people are useless. we don't care. if we hurt your feelings. unless you cry and then we cry, too. vulgarity mixed with beauty.
black coffee hearts with sugar(y) souls.
Stop Staring at Your Shoes and Dance
we are here to rock the emerson campus with indie, punk and rock. bringing you the best dance-y music since C+C Music Factory broke up. stop being so mopey and dance in your kitchen with us.
it's about time that they released this voice out to the public. too hot to be contained.
check us out on: Fridays 10pm-12am
Something Lame About Robots
When Cassie looked in the mirror, she never saw the girl her mother always seemed to be complimenting. Her features were always larger than she last remembered. She would touch her nose and feel like Pinocchio, her eyes like oversized watermelon seeds and her hair was big enough to cover the state of Texas. Some days she would cry, holding herself in the bathtub.
At night, she would dream of being serenaded by a secret admirer, but when she looked out the window, it was just Allie, her cat, gaining the attention of the neighbor’s Persian, Louise. Hardly any Hollywood hunk. She was starting to get used to not being noticed though.
At school, Cassie was often jostled between the shoulders of jocks, nerds and the brains. They would walk through her if they could, she was sure. At lunch, she sat on the lawn with the eighth graders, her grade, but almost all the faces looked unfamiliar. She knew some kids from the bus, but she was too scared to say hello. Her friend, Joseph, always sat with her and would frown when he saw the look of desperation in her eyes. He never understood what Cassie saw in those other people. She used to have been just fine with him. Now she always seemed to be daydreaming about joining those other cliques out on the grass, instead of laughing at him while he drank his Jello-O through a straw. He had always liked making her laugh.
“Cassie, what do you see in those dicks?” Joseph asked, touching her knee to make her look at him. Lately, she has not liked looking him in the eyes. He missed it.
“Joe, I’m not sure but there must be something to them. Look at them laughing, smiling. They always look happy.” She looked at Joseph and sighed.
He reached for her hand, she took it, which surprised him, making him stutter his first words to her. But before he could correct himself, Mac Riley, came and kicked dirt on them, laughing as he strolled away.
Joseph took off his glasses, cleaned them on his t-shirt, and rubbed the dust off his jeans. His hand was sweaty from holding hands and the dirt turned to mud leaving streaks down the front of his jeans.
“Mac, you moron. How could I ever want to be part of your group?” Cassie said under her breath, her eyes on fire, as she dusted the dirt out of her hair. She looked at Joseph.
“Why do I do this everyday?”
“I don’t know. You tell me?” He smiled back at her.
Her head cocked to the side, thinking of an answer. Joseph had been asking her for months, but it didn’t come till now. She wanted something different. She wanted an adventure. She wanted danger. “I want danger, Joe. Those people are danger with a capital D.”
Joseph smirked back at her. “You want danger, eh?” He reached over and picked up Cassie’s uneaten chocolate pudding, stood up, walked over to Cheryl Heins, Mac Riley’s too-good-to-be-true girlfriend, and dumped it over her head. Blonde becoming brunette. Cheryl screamed, rattling the windows of the cafeteria. Her friends retaliating by throwing pickle slices, mustard packets and brownies. Joseph ran away, grabbing Cassie’s hand as he went past her. “Come on, this is danger.”
She smiled at the commotion around her. This was danger. As Joseph lead her to the school’s faculty parking lot, she could hear the cries of people on the hunt for Joseph McMurtry. Her heart was beating fast as Simmons Junior High became just a dot in the distance. She knew where he was taking her. The Junkyard.
Out of breath, she sat down on an abandoned tire. “Joseph, I can’t believe you did that. That was awesome.”
“You wanted danger and I gave you danger. Things probably won’t look good for me when I go back. Maybe we should run away.” Joseph said, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“What did you say to Cheryl? I saw you say something.” Cassie stood up and grabbed Joseph’s hand again.
“Oh, something lame about robots.”
She laughed and smiled at him. “Joseph, you are so weird.” She shook her head in mock disgust.
“Cass, has anyone told you that your laugh is beautiful?” Joseph squeezed her hand.
She laughed again. She couldn’t help it.
i always trip on the 8th step up. tripping up is hard to do, but it never fails, and always in front of FJ. he never talked to me after that first time. he told me i was the best he had ever had, and i told him that i didn't believe that kind of bullshit. he laughed and lit another cigarette. flattery will get you nowhere with me, but a homemade valentine card got me in his bed. i'm not bitter but it's that blank stare. the way he stares through me. i move on.
first day of classes. it's not cold yet. so there is still plenty of time to look cute. for myself, i have learned. as myself has gotten me this far. you are never alone on those first few days. at breakfast, someone i don't know sits next to me. not across. he puts his hand up my skirt and i let him. with his other hand he writes on a napkin.
"room 409, see you after class" and then he looks up and winks. that a man thinks he owns me after one feel-up in the dining hall. but i'm curious and after intro to fiction, i go look him up. i realize i don't even know his name, but that has never stopped me before.
i look at the door. Shawn. i am a sucker for a man named Shawn. how did he know? i have stopped believing in conincidences. everything happens for a reason. that's mostly why i'm here. i'm not interested in getting laid. i can have that any time i want. seriously. it's all about the eyes.
his eyes are blue. he's into film. but so is everyone else at this school. there are movie posters on the wall. is this Dawson's room? i think of a sadistic Joey Potter running out of the closet with a knife at my back. Shawn reads my mind, "I don't like Spielberg. What an amateur." i nod.
he plays me "Pet Sounds" because what else do these types of guys play for these types of girls. i am not impressed. i'm not fuckin' 15 anymore. i grew out of this. i yawn.
he grabs my elbow as i head for the door, but i pull harder. i hear the sound of paper as it falls gently to the ground.
Seth comes around later that night. Seth is gay. Seth has an S name and i like that. he tells me about this boy named Pablo, and that he almost ended up in jail. something about stalking. i have done that too. but he claims he was set up. that the boy is paranoid. that doesn't surprise me. so is every man here. which is why i'm still alone. undersexed. and bored.
sometimes i think about transferring. but i could never find my type in the midwest.