Shake the Dust

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0qDtHdloK44

Just click the link, and watch. And understand

I'm thinking about shorter hair.
I'm thinking about longer hair.
I'm thinking I need change but don't know how.

I got a certain letter today....
and because you told me you enjoy my writing, i'll put a poem on here. Fair warning, its old.

How can I miss
what I didn't have.
Just
out of reach.
My fingertips brush
something-- you?
The word on my tongue
the wind in my hair
and tight-skinned cheeks,
can I still feel it?
some days,
somedays...
what im reaching for
is me
but am i
already gone?

this is my all-purpose post. Yes, I'm putting off homework, no, I'm not on facebook too. So I'm not aaaaall bad, right?
Well. I'll end with a reaaaaally good stanza from a poem, so you'll have to keep reading to get there.
I love looking at people's tumblrs, but I don't have one. I feel like if I did, nobody would enjoy looking at it. It'd just be there, collecting dust and no followers. Yeah, I know tumblr is way more hopping than blogspot, but... I'm not ready to give up this blog.
I have a few things that i really want, and then I'll tell you why I feel horribly guilty. Pictures of the things I want:



Why I feel guilty: some peole dont even have enough to EAT or a clean place to bathe or fresh water, and I want a cute blouse thats about sixty bucks and some makeup thats about 45? I feel really really guilty for WANTING. because wants and needs are different. I need food and water and clothes and shelter. I want cute clothes that coest bunches, a pretty house where i have my own room, yummy food, and loads and loads of other things. I still want the makeup (I'm obsessed, its perfect!) but i dont want to want things. I want to be content. And I'm sure I'll be happy whether or not I get it. But can you blame me for wanting? Even a starving person would like something that tastes good, right?

Poem time!
CHASING THE BIRD
the sun sets unevenly and the people
go to bed.

the night has a thousand eyes.
the clouds are low, overhead.

every night is a little bit
more difficult, a little

harder. My mind
to me a mangle is.

by robert creely, one of the Beat Poets

Beat Poets

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly
connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery
of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat
up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-
water flats floating across teh tops of cities contem-
plating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and
saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenements
roofs illuminated,
who passed through universtities with radiant cool eyes
hallucinating Arkansas and blake-light tragedy
among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & pub-
lishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning
their money in wastebaskets and listening to the
Terror through the wall,

From HOWL by Allen Ginsberg

I AM EMPTY

My glittering stings
these bleeding fingertips
to ice over reality
and calm quaking hearts
teary eyes and
the soul next door,
knees to chest of agony.

I'll promise you,
I'll laugh all day
with my fingers splayed
and scream all night
tight and hard as fists
caught up in my ecstacy
and rocking,
listening to fear next door.

For heavy footsteps
ring upon my galaxies
and heavy hands
rough like i don't remember
come down to me,
sinking into sawdust emptiness
fignernails dirtied by
poison tubs of poison thought
and all is silent
next door.

three

Lace up my ribs
with needlepoint
and nurse these scars to
bleed.
the sound of blood
is tight.

I write these letters
to cry my
invisible. I'm not
h e r e
press fingers to my lips
i'll bite.

leave your branches
where you've fallen,
take your golden promise
and your gentle bones.
did you promise?
did you share?


drive these needles
into my delicate flesh
and be gentle with those
mothball hands
and
d
r
i
p

Two

could you explain to me
how often you
draw your lines
and open your mouth
when daggers
emerge from your
nervous lips?

Will you share your
sex and shoot up
my golden veins?

How often do you
tickle my spine
with voodoo fingers
the bite almost like
the radio stations
too often played but
still forgotten?

Do I ask too many question
and talk too little
with needles
and too often for
you?

Does emptiness
make you feel safe
and lollipops
remind you of childhoods
spent like
hourglass sand,
stealthily slipping?

Why does the rain never
seem to stop?

one

Making sense of modern art,
a heavy
perscription. Buy me my
painkillers and spike my
soda with
the shells of butterflies so
i can fly.

Tiptoe quietly in my
suicide note and hope
there isn't quicksand.
Whisper quickly those secrets
glued to your lips
the palms of your hands
every strand
of misery. Do you still sing?
Because my lyrics are silent
stagnant
suffering under me.

Coat your tongue in
my fingertips
glass pains and panes
love notes you never finished
and started too late
for carrying.

Trace my spine with
infidelity
and poise poses on tippity top
mountaintops.
and tightrope youself
to sleep

...

Blogging is so difficult when youre always busy or waaaay too lazy. I really have bunches of stuff to say, but i can't think of any of it when i sit down at the computer.
I'm back from california, without having seen my dear anna, which totally sucked. it sucked soooo hard. Because every second i was in San Francisco, i was wishing she were there, too. Because she always told me how i would love it. And i did. I got this amazing dress and a super cool book of beat poetry (look it up!)
Now i'm home and only two nights so far have been in my own bed. Yay for sleepovers that dont end. I wish all summer were like that.
I'm super stressing school. only a week and a half?! what is this blasphemy?!