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[23 Apr 2006|08:15am] |
dos poemas:
THE ONE ABOUT HIPPIES
global warming has microwaved
the heads of an entire generation.
soft-hearted dewy-eyed conversation
starters, you don't dig my style.
i throw aluminum cans into
trash receptacles as you weep into your
protein deprived claws about
organic food.
you make profound fashion statements,
refusing to wash for days. cuts down
on gray water, you say.
dreds, i say, you're living in a fantasy world.
here's what:
maybe i would respect you
if you hunted for your own food,
wore buckskin- hand dried-
if you constructed lean-tos
from broken twigs and wandered,
nomadic and serene across
the Wilderness of North America.
don't fake extremity
as you drive the three blocks
to the whole foods, you conservative
radicals, you careful rebels.
THE ONE ABOUT ME
want to feel your breath
on the hot sacred hidden places,
new and old to me.
to me i am still a virgin
until we have sex,
places on my body
like islands, like unexplored rain forest,
like topless jungle societies
untouched by technology and sin.
don't bother with your idiotic pleasantries,
your inane cheek kisses and hand holds.
just want hot breath and polite
can come after like an apology.
want to be ravaged and taken advantage of
like nature and deer--
want that sad, solemn, knowing look
that fawns have despite their innocence.
i am a virgin until we fuck,
until it's dirty and friendships
are ruined, until the sex is scary
and with you.
i am done with sexless passion,
with good solid friendship.
want meaningful, sultry looks
and uncertainty.
want expedition and adventure.
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[26 Feb 2006|07:47pm] |
excitement about writing renewed? good. in chronological order, una cuenta. una poema:
i saw god last night. in the next year i will become a country singer, voice full of twang and horrible, crooning about being saved. i saw him. it. last night in the car. it was the moon. my friends and i drove over a hill and there he was, half full and brown and huge in between radio towers, red lights blinking attention. once in a life time, we murmured, where's my camera? but captured on film it would be a tragedy. without the car and the hill and the night's confusion and eventual intent it would look sour and disgusting. we marvel and sing for absolution spews out of the speakers in a kind of perfection that will never happen again.
he disappears beneath trees and is tiny on the horizon. we continue to marvel, teary eyed, until we turn a corner and it's there again, inches above the road, yellow as a globed street lamp. we gasp again and re-obsess and misunderstand life, the world.
it was everything and nothing, blank and overstuffed on the edge of non-existence. it was round and soft like a woman, but yellow and pock marked like most beautiful men. yellow like old books. yellow like reality.
there was nothing to be done but continue our moving paralysis and for the moment we touched each other sexlessly with our eyes and formed a triangle of undeserving but pure hearts. we turn another corner and he is gone, severing momentary connections, leaving us to drive aimlessly into oblivion or newark ohio, leaving us to decide for hope or despair.
plans were carried out and we return to the car, forgetful. the moon was the moon again and we said we knew it couldn't last.
and:
don't tell me bout poetry
cause my daddy knows all them beats.
cracker jack said don't tell me bout meaning
it's all bout them sounds.
daddy don't know about
the pot spot,
hot spot in the trees,
psychedelic mystical clearing.
add the deer, dear
and it all comes clear
like water and the clearing,
that yellow spot with leaves,
please, on the hill.
old roommate and her massive
bowl, green smell and blur
and seven deer, eight deer
and a fawn with white
spots.
purity and the lack of it,
say kerouac and i
in unison.
revision and the lack of it.
sex and the lack of it.
wanna spit a river down
this hill.
daddy don't know
bout the time i laid in bed,
thought i was having
seizures but was really
shivering. felt like the
soft edge. the hard edge.
the softhard edge of orgasms,
that trailing scary edge nobody
ever feels. thinking i'd
rather be drunk.
doesn't know bout my sister
smoking from a beer can
cause texas stole my bowl.
texas the state?
yes, dallas, texas.
doesn't know bout
selling those old cds
for drinking money.
tells about a time he sold
his ginsberg so that he
could eat,
that patron of patronization
and dive bars. that
kerouacian reviser.
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[24 Jan 2006|09:25pm] |
POEM:
in the car
we sit, crowded
like cartoned eggs,
still hopeful.
we leave the tattered
edges of dive bars,
us girls underage, sober,
lucid.
you three drunk
and essential.
matt is almost asleep
on my left. kevin bubbles,
spilling over onto car seats
and my right knee.
you and i, we're separate.
you talk, simple as sweat,
pure as everything,
about the velvet underground,
about His voice, about
passing street lamps.
she yells at you,
voice like the ticking
of a clock, driving wildly
even in her sobriety,
hair turning red
and flying from the sunroof.
she is loud and laughing,
loud and sobbing, loud.
you let it happen,
let her suck your
cock and fidelity.
you laugh, spilling
everything that is good
from your cheeks,
filling the car
with love and cigarette smoke,
and i am trapped
in the middle of alcoholism.
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[17 Jan 2006|07:54am] |
THE LIBERATION FROM JACK KEROUAC
my professor says
to change things.
beat beat beat
poets keep running
through university paths,
tapping on windows
with dead and not dead
and imaginary fingers,
telling me not to revise.
tapping like typewriters
and keyboards that aren't.
tapping like nature taps
in the woods, trying to
tell me not to litter,
not to waste paper.
the faces of people i don't
know are sketched
and erased and sketched
on my forearms thoughtlessly.
the faces of people i know
are sketched on nothing
and eventually disappear
because nobody wants to
bother changing.
and. i say to myself.
the process of revision
is inane.
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[13 Jan 2006|10:23pm] |
wrote something bitter today. tristan laughed at it:
steak'n'shake is inherently flawed. fourteen year old waitresses bustle about, adjusting their bow ties and tightening their ponytails in order to squeeze a few more cents from the pedaphilic tables of old men staring at their under developed chests. they understand racism and sexism like they're sixth and seventh senses, avoiding blacks, latinos, any minority, and speaking in high, porn star voices because they know they're being fucked and fucked and fucked. they pile on layer and layer of makeup because nobody wants a waitress with zits, with fat, with split ends, with flaws. they scramble to be sweet to you, hovering like vultures, kicking and scratching to seat you in their section. they stand, bored like prostitutes, until they have a chance to convince you that you're loved, safe, served.
i am too young for this. i still have ideals and a pure heart. i still think i can save the world, change everything. i'm not ready for my naivete to be served on corporate platters and ripped apart by strangers. i'm not ready to equate money with love, sex with love, nasal, disgusting intonation with love. the entire idea makes me feel nauseous and smell like grease.
there must be something i can say to these people that would make everything better, something i can slip discreetly between "welcome to steak'n'shake" and "our soups today are..." something like "my name is katie and i am a person." somehow i think everything you say sounds meaningless when you're wearing a bow tie.
one day i'll save up my tips and buy a sail boat. i'll live on it and the only person i'll have to serve food to will be my dog. i'll float around talking to her in my real voice for the rest of my life. or at least until i run out of cigarettes.
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[06 Dec 2005|02:40pm] |
here's a good old fashioned dilemma: should i or shouldn't i post a personal narrative about me wanting to have sex with my best friend's boyfriend?
meh. fuck subtlety.
Here's the truth of things: I slept with Ezra's best friend because I wanted to sleep with Ezra. Freud was completely uninvolved; there was no subconscious, no slip, no superego or even ego or even id.
I did it because it needed to be done.
Here's what: It happened in Ezra's house. In his mother's bed. I'll tell you again that Freud was not involved, but you won't believe it. We searched his mother's bed stand for condoms. We soiled his mother's sheets and rearranged her dresser drawers.
I did it because of his best friend's voice.
His name was John and his middle name was Patrick, which is only notable because I had a series of one night stands with a boy who had that same name. You CAN have a series of one night stands, I learned from him. They have nothing to do with the frequency and everything to do with the feeling. When it's a one night stand, you feel as though you can't stay the night comfortably, that the whole thing could just be happening because you're drunk. Again, let me tell you, Freud had nothing to do with anything.
But anyway, his voice.
John and Ezra's voices were different. Ezra's voice is wonderful and sarcastic and sometimes (these are the best times) angry. John's voice was soft and unobtrusive and secretive.
Here's the thing though: sometimes their voices would intersect. I don't know who started it, which of them opened his mouth one day and let all his anger and hurt out in several over-enunciated syllables, the lovely ridiculous voice that comes during joking or making fun, but if I closed my eyes and imagined his smell, I could see Ezra in front of me while John was talking. And later, as he was touching my thighs and kissing my eyelids and doing all the other things you do when you feign romantic interest, all I could see was long dark hair and fingers stained with poetry smudges instead of mechanic's grease. All I could feel was the vague sting of misanthropy instead of heavy, exploring fingers.
The voice is what really convinced me to sleep with him. The voice was probably the only thing we had in common.
Here's what John told me when he was still trying to seduce me:
He told me he was a terrible writer and a slow reader. He said that he didn't watch movies. He said that he loved death metal. He said that he could write academic papers all day, that he could calculate anything I wanted him to, but if I asked him to write a story or a poem or something along those lines, I might as well be asking him to walk on water. He said that being a mechanic was his calling.
I didn't argue with anything and soon we were making out on Ezra's couch. Don't talk to me about Freud. I knew what I was doing.
Here's what I desperately wanted as John was shoving his tongue down my throat and his hand up my shirt; here's exactly what I was thinking:
If Ezra walked up here, would he be jealous? Would he rip John off of me and yell "what are you doing with her?" Would there be a fist fight? Would he finally tell me how much I mean to him, teary eyed and stuttering? Would we finally kiss and lay together all night, reveling in the fact of our slow inevitable discovering of one another?
Ezra never came up from his basement room and John and I moved to his mother's bed.
I faked everything, even the parts that were his to fake. I choked on him and answered his "are you alright?" with a quiet and almost painless yeah."
Don't talk to me about Freud. Don't talk to me about symbolism. It doesn't exist.
I let him do what he would and then we went to sleep on Ezra's couch. Sleeping in his mother's bed would have been sacrilege. I left him early in the morning, sore thighs and cramping neck screaming for my own bed, driving during the time between drunkenness and hangover, ready to really sleep everything off.
We got breakfast the next morning, Ezra, my best friend. Ashley and I. John was not invited. Ashley told me, mouth full of French toast, that John had told her to give me his number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of red paper. He had told her that if I wanted to do that again-no strings attached-that he wanted to. She told me that he had said I give good head.
"I should be so lucky." Ezra said and they looked at each other. She hit his arm and laughed. He laughed too, and kissed her.
This is the very last time I'll say it: Freud had nothing to do with it.
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| new(ish) poem. |
[11 Oct 2005|07:27pm] |
you are mysterious and confusing
like the original source of language.
you just happened
and i am left bewildered,
wondering if there is really meaning
in anything.
you say "you think too much"
and it's true. not everything
needs analysis, an origin.
it's this science craze.
i need to know where you come
from like i need to know
how tumors grow and what
emphysema is caused by and
what the cure for aids is.
i'm scared of you
like everyone is scared of germs.
i know you're unhealthy,
have been sitting out too long
cultivating ecoli and salmonella
like that hamburger place
in the middle of the desert
i heard about once.
i heard some little girl died,
maybe, eating spoiled meat,
but i can't be sure. my memory's
no longer reliable.
i can't even remember
if i believed in disease
in the first place.
dallas says that i need to develop the relationship between the known and unknown, the explained and inexplicable.
he's probably right.
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[06 Oct 2005|09:39am] |
today has been absolutely AMAZING so far. let me tell you. It's nine fucking forty and already i feel horrible.
here's what i get to complain about:
1. last night, i basically didn't sleep at all. it was extremely weird because i was drunk and usually when intoxicated i pass out and sleep like a log for anywhere from 7 to 12 hours. instead, last night i tossed and turned, threw my cell phone off of my bed, (apparently) looked down at maria and asked her "what?", and generally wiggled a lot.
2. this morning i woke up kind of later than i had planned to (due to the fact that i use my cell phone as an alarm clock and when i chucked it in my sleep the battery was detached). hung out for awhile, took a shower, things of that sort. then i checked my america reads schedule at about 8:57. i was under the impression that i had to work at 9:30. apparently, i was mistaken and had to be there by 9.
3. i ran up the hill to get to slayter, where the car to get to america reads was. i wheezed a lot because i'm out of shape and smoke too much. i almost collapsed a lung, but made it up to slayter at about five after.
4. i went to the security office and asked the lady working if someone had picked up the dca car for america reads. she said that the girl had gone to get it and told her that she would be right back. i was ecstatic.
5. i sat on a window thingy in the parking lot and smoked a cigarette to celebrate. i waited for awhile and got kind of nervous, until i saw a tan car pulling up. i was kind of behind a van so she must not have seen me because she just turned around and drove away.
6. i kind of tried to attract her attention, but i'm not really a yeller or a waver or a jumper, so it didn't really work out. i got really really sad and walked back down the hill.
blahhh. today is going to be horrible.
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[19 Sep 2005|02:48pm] |
i've been writing nasty emails all day. i must be in a bad mood.
i got an email from the academic support and enrichment center saying that i missed a meeting about my grades last friday. they said they had rescheduled the meeting for this thursday. i sent this back:
Dear Ms. Payne,
I will not be attending a meeting. In fact, I am extremely angry that one was scheduled in the first place. I am an adult and, despite the fact that my grades dropped last semester, can handle my own affairs. I was having very personal family issues last semester, and would rather not discuss them at all. If I need a meeting with the Academic Support and Enrichment Center, I can schedule one very easily on my own. I do not appreciate being patronized.
Best Regards,
Katie Berta
and then some kid wrote an article in the bullsheet about how he hates denison and how everyone just gets drunk and tries to get ass. my response:
To Mr. Drew Gibson,
Dude. Chill the fuck out. You are probably the biggest complainer on the face of the fucking earth. I mean, sure, whine to your friends about how shitty everything is and how no one understands you and how life sucks, but leave your bullshit out of the Bullsheet. No one really wants to read about how you’re lacking intellectual stimulation or how much better you are than the rest of Denison campus. There is no reason for you to use the Bullsheet as your fucking diary. Buy a notebook. Start a blog. Something. Just spare me your incessant
egotistical inanities.
Sincerely,
Katie Berta
yep. i guess today wasn't for making friends....
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[15 Sep 2005|08:46pm] |
so. pretty bad day.
i wrote a really shitty poem about fucking shit up. here:
the world is soft
and fragile as i sit
outside denting it,
almost meditating,
cigarette in hand on knee.
i am like magic,
i can make ashes and smoke
and destruction with only
my mouth and a lighter.
i could burn down houses
without even meaning to
but i haven't- i use
my power for good.
i could not eat
for days and feel my body
disintegrate- feel me
fall away from myself
like dirt eroding off of a hill.
i can waste notebooks,
writing terrible, meaningless
words on every page until
they're filthy with lack
of talent. i can ignore
people until relationships
are in shambles- rotting
wood and moldy curtains,
overgrown grass tightening
around ankles until
i can't feel my toes.
there is nothing i cannot
crush unconsciously. there
is no paper or person
immune to my matches
or lack thereof.
this is the first step to me dropping out of school and waitressing. you'll see. i'll write a novel about diners.
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[06 Sep 2005|10:00pm] |
POEM
it's 9:32
and my whole life
is ahead of me.
i walk to a gas station
in the dark
and buy a pack
of camel lights and some
doritos. on my way back
i sit in a graveyard
surrounded by doll houses
and eat the entire
bag of chips and smoke
seven cigarettes.
i imagine that the only traces
of me pedestrians get
are puffs of smoke
over the graveyard wall
and a muffled crunching.
on the street:
a police chase, a honking
fire truck, a pack of runners.
in my room:
typing, headphones.
my whole life is ahead of me.
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[02 Sep 2005|10:56am] |
oh man. yesterday was terrible. so i wrote shitty poetry:
television took
all the fight out of americans
you told me, voice like jack kerouac.
jack kerouac always talks
about america like she's a flawed
woman, selfish and stupid.
he was probably sexist.
in the basement of my house
my sister's 16 year old friends
get drunk. a boy holds a girl
down, twisting arms at wrists,
huge fingers thick as trees.
just because you're stronger
than her doesn't mean you can
control her, my sister shrieks.
he lets go suddenly and everyone
is embarrassed.
she's probably sexist too.
jack kerouac was always
drunk, i've been told. how
can we claim alcoholics
waste their lives? that's just
stupid shit our fathers tell us
to keep us from drowning
in their mistakes.
my father sucks
the marrow from my mother's
bones. i watch her get dry
and pale and wash dishes.
i don't need his shit,
his crazy warnings. i won't
ever drain people or bottles
like he did when he was young.
if he knew, i'm sure he
would cry. i don't need
his guilt.
i don't want to hate him:
my father
or jack kerouac.
i am going to avoid
being the one who sucks
you dry and i refuse
to be the one whose life
gets stolen.
i'll hug everyone but you.
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[17 Aug 2005|05:33pm] |
POEM (pieced together from random thoughts that happened over the last week):
a song is still a song
even if it has no lyrics
i tell you, soft, in the car.
out the window
firemen tiptoe,
avoiding tulips planted
around a hydrant.
i want to write
i love you
on your hands
while you sleep.
you will wake up
to the humming of a mystery,
and wonder while you shower
if you are your own
secret admirer.
your palms sweat
love letters, you give
yourself an erection.
i tell you
to forget about feminism.
i say it's for fucktards
and politicians. i say
objectify me, while i paste
a human rights sticker on my car.
we drive past the burning
house and the tender men
worrying about their hoses
crushing shrubbery.
subtlety is passe, i whine,
i want to be raped
by a shy computer repairman.
i want boys dressed in
women's clothing, pecks peeking
out of lace like a very confused
turtle. i say,
i want you to kiss me in this
car, your stupid face
obscuring the road.
you look into your lap,
staring at folded hands,
and i silently hate you
from the driver's seat.
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[11 Aug 2005|02:59pm] |
LAST NIGHT (in my journal):
i have restarted my computer more times today than i have in the entire rest of my computer's life. it is dying. i put my head on its little plastic chest and listened to the erratic ticking beneath and said "hey man, you should calm the fuck down or you're going to wear yourself out entirely."
it may be a sign of the apocalypse. a sign that my dog will die soon. a sign that my dad is going to catch me smoking. the health of my computer is a metaphor for my life. when things go wrong for it, things go wrong for me.
here's what i was thinking about this morning, unaware of the impending sickness that would soon take over my hard drive (it all seems so silly now):
1. how hot my body looks now that i've been working out. this one time in tenth grade when he was still following me around like i was jesus, john saggocio made me touch his abs. they were the nicest abs i've ever touched. it was a paper thin stretch of skin thrown over ridiculously hard muscle. i was feeling my abs this morning, and though they're certainly not there yet, they're getting closer every day.
2. pick up lines. the moment i woke up dallas sent me a text message pickup line that read "when was the last time you got laid?" and then "yeah? wanna change that?" i sent him the one about the walnuts: "got any walnuts? no? how about a date then?"
3. my dreams. i dreamed that i had won some contest and that i was getting on a bus to meet pamela anderson. and then suddenly meg and i were loitering in a shoe store. the store clerk decided we weren't buying anything and that we should leave. i got really pissed and ripped down a bunch of post it notes (dallas says i want to forget something) that the clerk had behind the register and ran out the door. i was suddenly alone in the street and disproportionately afraid of having my purse snatched. a group of boys pass and one of them was saying "dude. i thought we were going to score some hash today." i followed them and asked if i could buy pot with them. they protested at first, said that i was lame, but finally agreed. i woke up.
4. clothing psychology. today i wore some cowboy boots, red tights, a pleated skirt and a plain black shirt. and i came up with reasons for everything. i wore the boots because i want to be a free spirit and do crazy things and explore like cowboys. the red tights mean i'm ridiculously horny. the skirt comes from my need to fit in: private school and the black shirt, clearly, is the unknown, or possibly cynicism.
i just ran norton's anti-virus and i've got about thirty thousand "problems" (and a bitch ain't one).
i'm going to contract carpal tunnel syndrome just from tonight....
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[04 Aug 2005|11:05pm] |
i met the stupidest bug today. he was all on his back, struggling to turn himself upright so i was like "i haven't done a good deed today!" and flipped him over with my lighter.
he flew in a little circle, rammed into my chair, and fell back onto his back again.
i was like "that little fucker. he's the stupidest bug ever." and flipped him over again.
good deeds don't count if the subject of the deed undoes it immediately.
so we kept fighting about whether he belonged on his front or back until i was done with my cigarette.
at which point, i put it out on his little back.
sometimes i think i'm the next jeff dahmer.
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[30 Jul 2005|11:36pm] |
the ending i tacked onto the previous poem:
want the hypnotism
of windmills, spokes spinning
against the blazing blue
windstorms sweeping
yellow desert.
want graying coverbands
saying "here's a little tune
by otis redding" and beating
on their guitars
the way you hit your best friend.
want dirt as red as punctuation
and sunburn, want trees
that fuck the sky, want
a book on tape whose words
mumble into nothing.
wrote a silly tuneless song:
my charlie horses are
charlie horsing.
and we decide zombies might
be the best thing.
and if i needa shoot a bitch
i use my belt buckle
or nose ring.
because we are so hardcore.
yeah, we're so hardcore.
i've got t-shirts full of dinosaurs
and hats with no letters.
some bitches might
call us whores,
but we all know better.
we dress how we wanna
as long as we wear the same thing.
because we are so hardcore.
yeah, we're so hardcore.
tell your friends how to suck
a dick
but you've never done it.
shoplifting charges
never stick.
yeah, we know how to run it.
we like all them awesome bands
that don't know how to sing.
because we are so hardcore.
yeah, we're so hardcore.
(i think i was drunk when i wrote that)
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[25 Jul 2005|09:20am] |
i'm in a hotel in memphis. i haven't showered. i haven't had internet access. i feel like a tiny ball of sweat.
i started a poem the other day, and have been waiting to post it.
here it is:
i long for california,
for yellow light sinking
into the cracks of everything
like the west is a jar
full of honey.
want to see the moon
predicting the mountains
below like a murky crystal ball.
want the road to stretch
ahead of me, want
places with no speed limit,
want to listen to bob dylan
during the day and billie holiday
at night, the light of folk
guitar easing into the soft
croaking of blues.
want to wait under avocado
trees for rain that won't come,
want my cigarette smoke
to be the only cloud in the sky,
want to stay on the couches
of old friends and wake
up to the rising of the same
midwestern sun leaking
through huge picture windows.
i want to add a part about a cover band saying "here's a little song by otis redding" and beating on their guitars the same way you hit your best friend, but i haven't gotten around to it.
i guess i've got to go. i'm on the verge of missing continental breakfast.
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| Two Poems |
[02 Jul 2005|12:44am] |
6-08-05
The frogs know it's the weekend.
They harmonize throatily
as I smoke a lonesome
cigarette on the balcony
of my family's tiny apartment.
Through the week
they are quiet, diligently
doing whatever they do,
but on Friday night
they get together
and sing bluegrass.
In the city
there's a man on a street
corner with a microphone,
talking to people, saving them.
He talks and talks
without looking into people's eyes.
And I wonder what the frogs accomplish
with their croaking.
6-11-05
I drive down dead end
roads until asphalt bleeds into
dirt and houses fade
to trailers.
The sun burns
everything orange. My hand
ripples the air outside
the car window and my fingers
need to be longer.
An imagined yelp
as I hit a rabbit.
I look back at its carcass
and love it with the ache
you feel for someone
you want to know better.
The road ends in cranes
and bulldozers
and I turn and go back home.
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[04 Jun 2005|08:46am] |
haven't updated in awhile.
moving in several minutes.
hung over.
a poem:
POEM:
You can spend the day
driving and liking Mexico,
drinking orange soda
like corn tortillas,
smoking and coughing
in snorts of carcinogens.
You wish for something
wholesome and go to
the apartments of friends of friends
in order to smoke pot
without your parents finding out.
You can write notes
to boys you love that say
"Te quiero." in tiny letters,
can take four dollars
without asking,
can lay on the floor
of your room
dissatisfied with philosophy.
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[27 Apr 2005|10:09pm] |
man. am i bitchy today. bitchy things i did:
1) threw a brownie at a girl as she was pudding wrestling. it didn't hit her, but my intent was for it to smash into her eye.
2) made fun of everyone. ever.
3) yelled at people (specifically the ra from the first floor of shorney. i guess he was sort of... mcing the pudding wrestling and i kept yelling "why do people keep giving him a microphone?! somebody go up there and punch him in the stomach.")
4) there were some boys playing soccer in the hall of smith today and the ball hit my door. i screamed "fucker!" at the top of my lungs. then the boy came to my door and peeked in and i did the sort of... open-armed, what the fuck gesture. he said "yeah, it was this room." and continued with his game.
he must not have gotten the point.
i am a curmudgeon.
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