greenie's blog

Love stories are told
to children from
the beginning,
lies that assure them
that life is a fairy tale,
that Beauty isn't stuck with the
ugly Beast, that he princifies,
that Cinderella's prince cares enough
to search for her,
that Rapunzel has a miraculously strong
head for her prince pull on,
that Sleeping Beauty was cursed,
not killed...

What if children were told
the real endings,
the rule, not the exceptions,
that the Beast terrified Beauty,
that Cinderella probably broke her shoe,
not lost it,
that Rapunzel was left bald from her
foolish climbing attempt,
that Sleeping Beauty wasn't
sleeping...

Love stories
from the beginning.
But that's not the point,
is it?

Dramatize neglect
and maybe, just maybe,
you'll hear the trumpets
and the parade,
the recognition that
it's not the same
as it was...

Dramatize depression
and the world will circle
down and round,
blackening and exploding
with marbled surfaces of
blasphemy.

Dramatize inspiration
and the whiring crowds
will gather to mock and shock,
molten piles of Garbage Cans
Anonymous.

Dramatize religion
and the king becomes the god,
the Egyptian jackal is worshipped
as the mighty ruler that his fur
denies.

Dramatize love
and the symphonic release,
the last stanza of Shakespearean sonnetry
(albeit a sonnet is stanza-less),
the majestic sweep of swishing musical
accompaniment--
is lost

forever.

I wanted to tell you
to stop
to focus
to center,
but how can I
when you stopped listening
to anyone but yourself
weeks ago?

You complain that
you're
sad
morose
depressed,
but how could you not be
when you won't let
yourself relax.

I got
tired of it,
sick of it,
done with it,
I gave up,
like everyone else,
fulfilling your expectations
that no one cares.

Off they go again,
a fanatic race to see who
can get around to all
the stops
first.

First stop:
gas station,
kiss-kiss,
subtle hints, careful now,
not too close,
away again,
faster, hurry-hurry.

Second stop:
tire change,
hours together
keep the dance,
quicker now,
rush-rush.

Whir, whish,
zip, vroom,
zoom.

Casualties
stay behind,
broken rims,
as broken hearts,
broken minds...
in this race,
casualties
stay behind.

Whir, whish,
zip, vroom,

zoom.

A circle.

Eternity circumscribed
for convenience
and location,
welcome to the world,
let me draw you a
diagram
of infinity.

Zoom in.

A person.

Prostrate yourself
for the world's examination,
the longing to absorb yourself
into their minds,
location-location-location.

Zoom out.

A people.

Hungry, feeding off
cliche survival of the fittest,
in a world where no one
is fit to survive,
imperfection striving for an
unattainable goal.

Zoom out.

Oblivion.

It started with this,
it will end with this.

Obliterate.

We sat there, silently, with nothing to say as our minds frantically groped for a handhold of conversation. Sentences would start and end with nothing actually being said. We launched into random anecdotes about our lives in the hope that the other person would respond and take the burden of interaction away.

Her hands were too stiff on the wheel, her eyes too searching. She muttered distractedly at cars as they cut her off and turned, even going so far as to curse at one of the farm vehicles native to Vermont countryside.

"Under Vermont State law, it is permitted to have fireworks that crackle and fizzle in a public area without a permit."

"Heh-haaaay man! I've got more! Anyone got a lighter?"

"Uh, man? You ever done this before?"

"Naw, not really, but I've got the idea."

"Cool, just, you're lighting the grass on fire."

"It's all part of the experience. Woops!"

"The whick's gone."

"That's alright, I'll just light the rest of it."

"Uh-huh. Everyone step back a bit more."

"And presto! We've got it. Ouch!"

"That it?"

"Let's light the rest of them altogether!"

"No, come on!"

"Too late! Oh, hmmm... that's interesting."

"Stick 'em in the ground!"

"I think you throw this one and it pops."

"Dude. Epic."

"It wasn't supposed to do that. Was it?"

"Who cares?"

"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.