heavy punctuation

trapizemo @ 2006-07-12T16:35:00

2006-07-12T23:35:44Z

nicole: (gives me an evil eye for sitting on the table. i swing my legs in response.) are you on the clock?
me: nope. break. (crunches a tortilla chip)
*she owns the place.

me: i'm not working up front anymore. move me.
mia: okay.
me: and i want a fucking raise mia.
mia: okay.
*why can't it always be that easy.

i did some apartment shit today. i'm not telling anyone where i live this time. i remember when i tried that last year. it went for a while. i'm going to miss jon. but it's time for him, i suppose. i have to pay 100 dollars to keep murphy. she's worth it. i love her.

i'm having an angry day because someone won't leave me alone. the grace period is over.

i can still taste the blood in my mouth. i wish you would do that more often.
i am not going to the pshychic because i don't want someone to tell me things i already know.
it was good to see bobby. i hate greenwood and the rude ass people who work there, drive there, breathe there.
milledgevillage is a continued story i will not be finishing soon. i just don't know.

trapizemo @ 2006-06-30T08:49:00

2006-06-30T15:49:43Z

i'm looking at a new apartment soon. finally something nice.
i finally took tom hunley's advice. i dropped a name today.
i just wish it were for a book deal.
tonight, i believe i need to relax.
i think im about to fall asleep, it's 11 am.
then work. but it's because i'm getting up early. trying to be healthy now. it makes me feel better, but i drink too much, and i'm going to stop. i really am. not all together, just the sloshed thing. i need some food, so i think i'll do that.

i miss you.

i don't make fun of your image issue.

2006-06-21T01:16:28Z

i'm listening to tom waits and the ice of a whiskey sour tell me it is almost time for a refill. today i have started three art projects (thank you mary.) and made a store run with jon, hooked up the crew with some cheap-0 mexican that is at the least filling. then i came back to the apt to fix the vaccum and get this place more clean. my room is making tremendous leaps. it will be nice, soon.
i am sorry i've been so sensitive lately. it was the art, it was. i missed it. i fingered my old paintings and projects until they cut.
i feel much better.
i ate by myself today, and it reminded me of the old times. i used to always eat chinese food by myself so i could just get a plate of noodles and be done with it. food is emotional for me, but i only like it to be when i cook. i leave the drink attendant a dollar and exact change for the bill. i go when it's empty and i don't have to think. i go when i finally have to eat.
i feel much better.
our apt smells like a country breeze. like walmart douche and cigarettes.
;.;
when i was 13 they gave me a test. it was a longing piece of paper with one question on the top. it said "what could you do with a feather?" so i filled up the empty box, i wrote in the margins and finally covered the back. then i asked for another piece of paper. i started on that one and after 30 minutes asked for another. my teacher told me that was enough, but the administrator came over and handed me a wedge of notebook paper. they sent me to the cafeteria so i could have more time. i hate my english class so i kept writing. i took the pages home, 8 of them, and filled them all with more ideas and a short story about a feather. i don't know what that was for. they never told me. but it has always been an awkward memory for me now. i thought about it today and wondered if i was living up to my feathery potential. no. i figured. i went to a counselor about a week after that. our sessions lasted for two weeks. i don't remember it. just that i went. this probably means nothing. but i'm sure the obscurity of it all has a story in it for me. maybe later.

trapizemo @ 2006-06-17T15:28:00

2006-06-17T22:28:44Z

i'm going back to work, some how. that means i am missing murder by death which i have been anticipating for, what, 4 months now. everyone knows i have an obsession. i don't really want to go by myself, i guess that is why i'm going back to work. two shifts. not fun, but maybe i'll get a big tip tonight and it's better than sitting here now that i have officially arranged the apartment how i want it and not the drop it and snooze style jon snyder had previously employed.
i told this kid to go back to michigan today. he said he was from there and wanted to know what was good. moe's has the same food for every menu item. choices are not options.
mary has gone to luhvull for gay day. isn't that every day here? no hate, just saying. i wish i were doing something exciting like that. well, spencer and i might sip kryptonite when we get off work and smuggle ourselves into dark star or three brothers. we are bored and tired of the depressed souls lurking about our apartment.
i saw corey paul's ex today. i told her she was a damn bitch-whore. before the tears came i realized what i was doing and smiled so it would be a joke.
old friend, you are right, when i want something all i do is smile.
last night someone read my poem scrap book, the idea safe. i thought i would throw up. and when she didn't say something about certain verses, i hated myself for not being better. i think maybe she just didn't read them all. i wonder if she tried to apply the lines to me, to what i say, to what i do. i'm not even sure i could say whether the lines were true or not anymore. i'm quixotic. dangerously. but the one poem i always wanted her to see, but was afraid of not being good, she enjoyed. that made me happy. now maybe i should make it a real poem. make it me. ;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
let's be sad-some fuckers.
i have heard of too many broken hearts lately. it's trenchy the way people can be so vain. the way people can have such furrowed personalities that they'll refuse to believe that some things are more important than peace.

i finally got to say it. got to see that what has always been true still was, that i wasn't mistaken.

my shirt is soaked with sweat now, my poem pocket is wet to the ass and i didn't sleep well last night. i was tucked in nicely, but my eyes would not stop rolling me over.

my crutch and cast

2006-06-14T18:04:46Z

do something fast
because when i'm in this tan chair
finally with my double door balcony view
i cannot see across the street where my terror waits
because there is enough unrest
in my eyes
to melt
everything.

i need to feel engaged.
today is a bad day. little monsters was not in its case.

is it that i am too much or am i just a scapegoat for the weight of everyone else.

trapizemo @ 2006-06-10T17:14:00

2006-06-11T00:14:06Z

i don't think you read what i write. and you should.

trapizemo @ 2006-06-06T11:16:00

2006-06-06T18:39:43Z

i miss bobby harrell. and i know he is in south carolina barely getting by and that makes me want to leave this fucking place so i can see how hard it really can be. i want us to run out of gas in the middle of nowhere and hitch rides home with tabacco toothed heritage riders.

do not forget who my favorite poet is.

i believe what you tell me, but i'm still taking reserved breaths. it tooke me so long to build what you took from me. the gnarled fingers and waved mind happen twice as much when you are not here. every day i see her now, toes dragging the ground with every poignant step. she is across the street staring in my window or in the doorway behind my back. how much she is going to collect i do not know. but i know she is punishing me now for what i have done before. i dreamt she whispered to you last night and in the haunted friendship the pike was carved and readied. when will she be finished?

sober tears

2006-06-05T18:12:29Z

it is turning blue
but still
you will not take stands,
or make promises (i know you'll break)
that i believe.
there is nothing
to run from
what winter and bogs
and oncoming silence does for the heart
summer can destroy.
now show me a breeze, a teepee, a shaker village.
i want a roadtrip.

you're breaking my fucking heart.

2006-06-03T07:04:00Z

you [had] it.

trapizemo @ 2006-05-30T03:23:00

2006-05-30T08:45:05Z

i don't feel good anymore.
i've drastically cut down my stimulants, but the numbness hasn't stopped yet.
i knew i was going to pass out this afternoon, that my heart would get so hot it would slip down into my gut.
now it beats too slow in fear.
better this than a night terror? no.

i once said i'd rather brave an army of god than silence between two hearts.
i feel like that building again, the window barren brick frame still pained with litters of shards like bastard lies--you will birth them after all.
all i can say is i love you. it is all i want to speak.

hear the story of the hanged woman, in the stolen rays of light of dying fall. i cut her down and took her home. i loved her.

there was a boy
who loved mexico so much
that he fell in love with
the only woman
who could paint it.
and he carried her pictures
around with him
where ever he went.
he sewed the thinning paper to his chest.
when he died, the stiches had
formed scars on his chest
at his funeral senoritas cried
that someone would steal
this boy's soul
and the painter wept
for the heart she had hidden.

i spent 37 cents trying to wake you up
so i could ask you about your day, see if there were any more crazed latin lapdancers in your night. i want to know if you'll have me down on the new purple sheets. this is not last year, no. i want to sleep in my bed and see if i wake up to a note on my door--from a person who cannot wait to talk to me. tell me everything. pull me please. pull me.

the nerves

2006-05-24T23:27:19Z

doc says you're fat.
i hadn't noticed.
doc says got any more piercings.
every day i think.
doc says you don't shake now.
i believe he should listen to me.
doc says what is stressing you out.
i cannot tell anyone.
they hear just like he does.

they took blood today, from both arms. the nurse made a joke of her fuck up and it reminded me of when i was a kid at the health department with my mother. they put me on this steel table, spinning me by my leg so we could have milk vouchers. the nurse stabbed me twice and both of my veins are swollen like a junkie licorice. i want someone to tell me i'm going to be okay--but they say you need to lose weight, you've gotten fatter, don't drink so much sugar, you really need to start taking care of yourself, and i can tell you are a lazy person.
mary called me last night, i needed to talk to her, but i was sleeping. my fingers had leaped light years that night. i had chewed the side of my index finger raw to busy my nerves on my way to owensboro last night. i rubbed this medicated lotion from the doctors office on it until my thumb was as numb as my hand. now it looks like nothing again. she always makes me feel better. (i don't think i was nice on the phone; it was a spell, i swear, even my parent's smelled it and crept away.)
perhaps i am not sick. i probably don't have diabetes, but i'm dying for an excuse to be silent about my changes, make sure they happen. no more stares, no more worries about when i'll die too soon or clothes that don't fit, and trying so fucking hard to look nice when what people think is cute doesn't fit you well, won't button, or causes you to sweat through each layer of your clothing. a sweaty man who isn't breathing heavily isn't sexy. it is a sickness. i wish people would understand that.

i've had a bad two days. i say they are ending. now i have to watch myself. now i may need further tests. patience, when have i ever asked for more? today i feel like grouting out my eyes (they hurt the way they do) and i wonder how long it will be before someone hugs instead of hates for my silence. i'm afraid. and i need it.

i want to be written out of your script

2006-05-18T06:37:54Z

movies don't exist without drama and apparently neither does life. i've known this for a long time. this is not a revelation blogg.
i'm finally going to the doctor.
yesterday i wrote an expensive sounding blogg, it was even sappy sentimental without the cheesy myspacey type bullshit. jon's computer ate it.
i hate writing. i should have been an engineer. no one would hate me for knowing derivatives.

bobby and a chocolate elvis

2006-05-13T22:08:37Z

i have known bobby harrell since i was a freshman (2nd semester). mary ellem miller suggested that I speak to him, befriend him and work on poems together. she was right. the few things i have ever shown him were not sucked up as invitations to rub my poetic cock, thank God. no, he criticized the hell out of me and gave me enough silence to settle into momentary failure. thank you. he's graduating tonight and leaving tomorrow. i know i'll see him again, but i'm anticipating the absence. it makes me anticipate my own. what if i'd stayed on track to graduate this may? what the fuck would i be doing? i couldn't possibly be ready. i have unfinished business, tasks undone, poems unwritten, hills unsat, swings hanging still, friends still in sand, and conversations yet to start. there are very few oppurtunities left for me now. 365 days to see me. that isn't very much. (i couldn't sleep last night. does that mean i have only a year left of goodnight kisses and wake me up morning love eyes?)
i'm going to take a nap, write a poem maybe about some woman the other day making a rather chauvanist remark to me. she's going to fuck the governor. the future governor. but i'm first, for pleasure, not power. she'll die of silicon poisoning soon, slowly, quick. i bet she has more stds than people i've actualy been with.

i now have a coffin! bobby gave it to me. and it looks like i don't get to see Thursday. i can't afford it. i spend more money than i have. i'm more poor than you think.

here

2006-05-04T08:18:04Z

there is a zimbabwean proverb about a man who worried about his own death so much that one day as he ran to keep the sunset, afraid it would be his last, he went over the edge of a gorge. i know because i had to memorize it in swahili. (i don't remember how to spell that.) i have let only one person really know me my life. everyone has been given half portions or full lies. one is enough. i say this at 21. now i wonder when my zimbabwe cliff diving is to come.
i write too much about friends. i talk about losing them keeping them. basically when they depend on me, i tire of them. needy people press me. but i still like it. the feeling of suffocation. i suppose it is when they do not return the favor--when life becomes a task of making them happy and feeling no fun in return. the fair wheather ones. when someone needs alcohol or loses a girlfriend or boyfriend or a ride or to borrow something, when it's always them needing something, you lose it. this is true with everyone. we all feel this way. no one wants to be used. but people do it. i wonder if it is inevitable. when you are the center of everyone's attention, i guess that can happen quite frequently. missing out, that is. why do we neglect our true friends for new breeds? i had a brief friend who thought little things were more important than the grand moments. i believe that. i try to keep those cosas pequenas cerca de mi corazon. "my mother says someday, someone will make me happy." that's why, today, i know who my friends are. mary said something like that tonight. the idea she gestured is so very accurate.
last night, mary had me as a date to an Evening of Dance. the performance wasn't so great, but it turned out to be the best night of the past school year, even nearing the top of my moments. (it was fantastic being out like that, at an event like that. i have missed it so much.) i might write about it for the magazine, though i just realized i missed my reapp deadline, but i guess i don't really care. maybe i do. but i'm feeling better about things now, knowing i'm getting things straight. the housing, the tick, the worry. '
(i need my late night talks back)

the world means just as much to just as many people.

2006-05-02T19:41:25Z

i feel like i'm not allowed to do the things i used to. someone stole the brass knuckles i bequethed to mary. i will never use them again probably, now the principle is that someone stole them from me and i know who did and he lied to me about it, which means...well, tate, jarred, rom, scott (owes me), whoever. i don't need assistance getting them back, but those are not people you want disliking you--they really hate thieves. the point is, however, that i feel like i have to take a mature step to something. i believe i already have, but i'm having withdrawls from the moments of before. i don't say it's whatever so much anymore. i haven't been in a fight since...november when mary started talking to me again. though this was a bad semester, i am serious about writing again. i don't care about shows much anymore, but i like hardcore music again. i'm not angry about anything really. i'm stressed out beyond relief, but not upset or mad. it's the fear of the future. i need calm to settle with it. this is what i've talked with sara s. about (recently called boo-47) i like things more calm and intimate these days. close friends and drinks, people i know, people that aren't out to get wasted because they're young, nieve, and insecure. i'm tired of kids who run around with who likes whom and all that shit. if someone doesn't like you in return to your half-tide crush, sorry. but you do not need to berate them with why! that's fucking ridiculous.
"but this is one of those nights
when you make 20 phone calls
just to stay alive.
when you'd talk to anyone
just to hear some light...my throat is cut and i'm barely breathing."

come to the senior reading tomorrow at 3! cherry hall 125! it's bound to be an okay gig.

i'm going to go for a drive. find some property to rent, i guess. mainly just to not be inside. i'm going to a dance thing tonight, so i'll be unavailable, not that i'm ever on hand. but i'm looking forward to it. i'm glad to have been invited. more than i've told my company. i'm overjoyed actually.

so with no fortune

2006-04-29T08:16:42Z

i cannot sleep. i have the tosses. luckily, i suppose my horrible, no good, very bad day--fucking awful--day is over. what good news i did get wasn't able to be enjoyed. that's why i can't sleep. it doesn't feel like it's to be over now. where is my goddamn celebration? it feels like my birthday--at least there is no one screaming or spitting at me. (yes this is a bad thing) now, chris tussa has e-mailed me. he's the creative writing director at LSU and though he thinks i'm a very, very good, extremely talented writer, he can't publish my poems because they don't fit in with the rest of the publication's choices. i almost would rather him to have said i suck; then, at least, i would have tried to make them better. now their just pretty and apparently unpublishable. i feel the kind of uncomfortable that slithers into me, rest behind my eyes and hides its tail in my lungs, the uncomfortable that comes before i start drinking too much again. i don't think i will. but i feel it. i need to feel what's going to stop me.

stay out

2006-04-27T23:56:54Z

i am trapped in my own apartment. not really locked in, but constricted, suffocated. i hate being there. people i do not like or respect are always there. apparently, my glory hole roommates left some strange ass people here who in the name of getting warm turned on our stove and left it on for 12 plus hours. awesome. and it always smells like pot here. next time, i'm saying something--i'm sure it will involve involvement of the law or me huffing my way to a new apartment.
it smells like shit in this fucking living room.
itunes is a pc dulling program. i'm buying a mac.
i brought home fajitas from moe's last night for everyone in my apartment. now it smells like they ate them and then defacated them back onto the coffee table, after which they ashed their disgusting fucking cigarettes onto them before they poured their stale ass busch beer about the concoction.
i'm going to a full effect meeting tonight. i slacked off. i have to get back on top, but it is hard for me to function in this type of drag-ass enviorment.

stay out

2006-04-27T23:54:08Z

i am trapped in my own apartment. not really locked in, but constricted, suffocated. i hate being there. people i do not like or respect are always there. apparently, my glory hole roommates left some strange ass people here who in the name of getting warm turned on our stove and left it on for 12 plus hours. awesome. and it always smells like pot here. next time, i'm saying something--i'm sure it will involve involvement of the law or me huffing my way to a new apartment.
it smells like shit in this fucking living room.
itunes is a pc dulling program. i'm buying a mac.
i brought home fajitas from moe's last night for everyone in my apartment. now it smells like that ate them and then defacated them back onto the coffee table, after which they ashed their disgusting fucking cigarettes onto them before they poured their stale ass busch beer about the concoction.
i'm going to a full effect meeting tonight. i slacked off. i have to get back on top, but it is hard for me to function in this type of drag-ass enviorment.

i don't believe in block, but i understand the held hand

2006-04-26T16:49:03Z

i don't believe in writer's block. i have ideas, lotsa ideas, but i can't write any. they are there like children swinging in awkward rhythms of threatening increases to the potent launch, before the exodus, they hope.
i don't think i mention Thunder. i suppose there is reason enough for that. there is nothing to say. traffic. awkward crowds. expensive shitty food. fireworks, though spectacular to me, that never had a chance of fixing my day. so i made what could be made of it. happy hour at o's with sara and bobby. sara and i chatted, finally for real and not just filler banter over a cell phone pushed to my face.
mary had trampled off to some party after walking what she says was 5 miles. (silence on this yadda) but bobby and i walked the three blocks to the car, pulled to the road, and made our getaway fairly easy minus nervous moments of desolation and the fear of being carjacked by a gang of hispanic men. maybe they weren't. but it's
i hit mary in the face with a top to a bottle of dannon water. why? because i hate her. it struck somewhere near the eye. i hope it hurt. why? because i hate her.

i got the kind of love, girl, don't know

2006-04-21T19:51:37Z

it's muggy as fuck today. that's the worst part about the rain; it makes me feel like sex, the sweat trapsing necks--i like that feeling, but not right now.
i ate disgusting fazoli's. cheese pizza, and teesha served it up. it was nice seeing her, but i wish it weren't at fazoli's, then we could have chatted.
i guess we're going to luhvull tonight: thunder. but i am not as excited about it as i was anymore. who knows. i want to read at the Rudyard Kipling tonight. i would love that. tom hunley is reading there afterward, i think it would be a lovely juxtaposition. haha. no no, i'm not trying to be mean, i would just like the exposure. it would be good to impress some people, especially the people who are reading tonight, and i have some new stuff that i am very much impressed with, that i think would definitely impress them too. maybe

strung in

2006-04-19T20:21:11Z

i came home today, fish belly, and amy gross was sitting on my duct tape couch next to jon snyder the birthday boy. yah.

sleep

2006-04-18T01:55:08Z

one day i'm fine, the next day i feel horrible. my stomach feels like fuzz--it's the hunger. tonight was the i am the avalanche show, but i didn't go. i've seen them before--loved it--but this time they were headlining. the lyrics were good for me when i needed them; they're a band i'll always be loyal to. i'm not working much this week because i got off today and this weekend for some big plans that i know nothing about but worry will go awkward. my testosterone leaking into louisville air. i wish i still liked louisville, but it definitely lost something with me. it can stay weird. all these bruises make me feel like i've been in a fight. it's been a while, actually and i'm pleased with that. i honestly believe it's the good influence mary has on me.
i was supposed to go meet with the magazine staff tonight. i slept through it. but! i did submit some poetry, exchanged quick, forgetable words with a creative writing professor who has given me hope for the future--he's punked out--and that makes me feel safer, that my words are more important. it must be true, even in the south. i feel like i miss someone; it's the wheather.

easter is a lonely day, a tired day

2006-04-16T21:30:32Z

Easter has always been rainy. I suppose if I were God and had to be reminded of the same mistake–letting my son be tortured to death–I’d be upset too. That, however, isn’t to say I’ve been buying inot any of it.

I haven’t wanted to talk to anyone today, I feel sick and ugly today. Last night, I went to a gathering, people talked about how hot I was–that made me feel awkward. I told them I didn’t understand that I was fat, so it didn’t really count; however, they said it didn’t look bad, it didn’t matter and there was just something about me.

That should have made me feel good, and it might have, but they started talking about my penis. I don’t understand how random people know anything about that–or anyone at all, really, but they do. I don’t like it. I do not talk flattery very well–especially for things I have no control over.
Today, I do not have to work. The restaurant is closed, but I have to write. I ate some really good food earlier today; it was food I can’t afford, but it is Easter: my excuse.

When I got off work last night, I drank some beer with Cory and Jon. Cory and I ate hotdogs with our beer; Jon ate acid. For some reason, my hotdogs gave me more hallucinations than him. Horrible dreams that I half remember and all want to forget. I also dreamed that Mary was harassed by an obsessive ex, once again. This morning, she called to confirm what she didn’t know. Sometimes, I think these dreams happen because I refuse to believe in God.

i smell like a steak...

2006-04-14T22:42:36Z

unfortunately, that's not too attractive. today, i cooked steaks and chickens and blah blah. when you eat at a restaurant, you might love it; that is, of course, until you work there. after that, you'll stomach it when poor, or dead on gas and unable to go anywhere else. so now, i have to scrub this smell off. i hear it won't come off. i hear it will stay in my shirts even after i wash them. i have heard that i will actually lose weight working there, because i won't want to eat the food (those high calorie types anymore). you lose interest in richness.

think rich, look poor. i've always been able to pull that off, i think.

i'm keeping this job. it keeps me going and exhausted. i enjoy that feeling.
now i'm going to be heading out for some puerto's with mary, chris & elysia.

this very large couple, today, requested extra cheese on their food. what they wanted actually already had 1800 calories of cheese on it. they wanted the double 3600 calorie dose. all in one meal. i sometimes feel obligated to grab them by the hand, beg them to stop, warn them, but i can tell they have given up. their scars are thicker than anyone else's. i feel the same ones. i feel them finally healing, though.

it's okay to wait

2006-04-13T18:53:38Z

i've been waiting to hear back from brevity for 3 days. this is the normal day they reject people. oh, it's a nonfiction journal. anyway, if they take longer, it means you probably got in, or they liked your piece and the editor is saying something nice before he tells you to "keep trying" (i never want to hear that. i've been trying my entire goddamn life; now i'm doing it. this isn't teeball motherfucker) i'm really hungry for some sort of ethnic food right now, which means chinese in case you were wondering.

odds are against me on this, but this time next year i'll be moving to nashville. it's fucking expensive, especially for a one bedroom apt. anyone want to be my roommate? it's hard to get anything downtown, decent, for less than 600 dollars. there's a flat i round for 700. that's not too bad if i get the job at vanderbilt, but i'd like to eat--in luxury. I LOVE NASHVILLE! do not ever eat at rotier's. they claim to have the best burgers, but they are shitty and don't give refills and are generous with miniscule portions. fucking hell.

oh, and i saw stellastarr* tuesday night with mary. it was my favorite show, EVER.