The Talking Muffin

Two muffins in an oven.

miércoles, enero 31, 2007

doug
AIM
2:06
it's cute
2:06
I don't know if that's the desired reaction

me
AIM
2:06
i don't know if i am capable of anything else

Maybe truth about writing? Not sure. Will work on that.

martes, enero 30, 2007

I'm working on writing for myself again. So here's the beginning of something.

I like to look up when I walk
because I can watch skyscrapers sailing through blue
like stacks of ocean liners or
the glass sails of a clipper ship.

There’s a building dressed only in windows and lights
near 30th street station
and I can see it when I walk across my campus
in the orange colored night of my newfound city home.
The lights of the building change,
so sometimes the building winks in pink and purple
and sometimes it sparkles in red
and sometimes it ripples in blue and green,
colors that you have to dredge for in the muddy brown of the Schuykill
bordered by new park land,
expensive apartments,
and freight trains that I asked if we could catch to anywhere.

domingo, enero 21, 2007

I dunno if anyone reads this anymore, especially since we had to do them for class, but if you do, cheers.

A friend of mine, Sarah, posted this poem on her blog, and holy fuck.

This is Human the Death Dance, by Buddy Wakefield.


On the face of her phone
Wileen programs a message to herself
so that when the alarm clock rings
the screen flashes:
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
EVERY DAY IS ONE DAY LESS.
For some people
happiness
it’s just a reduction in suffering.

Jordan.
Jordan tattoos the words
FORGIVE ME
in thick black letters
down the inside of his arm
so that when he looks at his wrist
he will remember not to hate himself so much.
What he keeps forgetting
is that there is life after survival.

After Dave left
Mary started sticking her face
between the film projector
and the movie screen
so that when the credits roll
she still gets to be somebody.

Whenever Tara’s past comes back she mashes
chalk into the sidewalk
until her knuckles bleed.
She scribbles and scrapes
scribbles and scrapes
till the words take shape
and this is what they say
they say I wanna die mutherfuckers
die DIE mutherfuckers
hold tight if I love ya
cause it might not last long.

Y’all, we’re all gonna die.
That’s the exciting part.
It’s learning how to live for a living,
that’s the tricky stitch.
Just ask Denise
whose family taught her when she came into this world
that Family equals Love
so Denise took that shit seriously
but after a lifetime of craving acceptance from their cruelty
she now finds herself jamming Polaroid pictures of these people into her typewriter
and pounding out the last letter of the word mercy
over and over and over again.
She strikes the key Y.
Y? Y? Y?Y?Y?

The answer?
The answer comes in the form of a handwritten letter from the moon.
It reads:
This is brutally beautiful.
So are we.
This is endless.
So are we.
We can heal this.
Signed,
Crater Face
P.S. See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.

But my father
he didn’t read moon
he didn’t speak moon
and he didn’t write moon
so there was no letter found next to his body in the garage
when he chose to leave this place on purpose
without saying where he was goin’ or why.
There are still days you can catch me
tape recording eternal silence
and playing it backwards for an empty room
so I can listen to his dieing wish
shh.

Yes,
it’s true,
the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,
but my family tree
was in an orchard on a hill
that rolled me to the river
and that river
ripped me through the rapids
and those rapids
rushed me into this moment
right here right now
with you
at the mouth.

This is my church.
And if church is a house of healing
hallelujah welcome
come in as you are
have a look around
stay out of the porn.
There are massive stacks of bad choices in my backyard.
Haven’t finished cleaning the place up
but I’m workin’ on it
and clearly I have not yet reached enlightenment
for more than a fleeting moment
but I’m tryin’
and I found somethin’ here I want ya to have.
It’s not much
just a story
but it’s all I’ve got
so take it.
It’s called Dillon.

Dillon’s drug of choice was more
so Dillon took more
and more and more and more
until the day he woke up
babbling in a pool of his own traffic jam
realizing he was killing off the best parts of himself
and claiming he could read peoples’ skin.
When Dillon looked down at his heart flap
the skin read Boy, go find your spine and ride it outta here.

Wileen’s gut said Day 1.
Jordan’s arms were FULLY FORGIVEN.
Mary’s face read The
Endless.
Tara’s knuckles: Healing.
Denise’s fingertip said C?
C. C. C.C.C.
And my smile
Dillon said my smile it said Fix it
so I came here to the mouth of the river
to look at my own reflection in the moonlight
and see what it says for myself
down my whole body
where it is written
in the skin
P.S.
See me for who I am.
We’ve got work to do.

As for Crater Face,
I can’t speak for him.
His skin
is a brutally beautiful
handwritten letter
from the sun.