a little bitter

“a little bitter”

just a little bit angry
a little bit sad
just a little bit
little bit
crying inside

just a little bit ugly
a little bit destroyed
a little bit nothing
a little bit unemployed

a little bit in this body
a little bit dead and gone
a little bit right
a little bit wrong.

..

no one reads my poetry

so fucking what

..

inside this room my head explodes
thoughts are trapped and love implodes
it hurts, it hurts, i carry on
just another roadside carrion
negotiating with the reaper
he’s the one, she’s a keeper
we live, we die, we misrepresent
vultures circle in hungry descent
while our souls ascend in laughter
our bodies decay into matter
with fire that burns all decency
what shall be, shall be.
turning in on wicked thoughts
we toss in sleep, we sorrowful sots
drunken dreams in technicolor
broken, broken, song of lover
inside this room i cannot breath
inside this death i cannot leave
i drink and sing accolades
dearest wish, addiction fades

cry me a river

we are not bodies of water
we are not golems and guts
we are souls kissing matter
we are entwined with stars

we are more than our fathers
whom we enlisted to defend
we are no different from the angels
we just like to pretend

we sing in voices high and narrow
that speak of fear
depreciated
we smell like tears

we are kindness and we are sorrow
we are the doom creating tomorrow
we are love and we are hate
we regret and we incubate

we are the forgiveness of mothers
we are the love we hate

another disappointment

suddenly
like a heart attack
i feel
the surprise
of this sunrise
i remember i’m real
deep breath with you
like the sound of a single wing
screaming

NOW

time and tide, inspiration waits for no man. perhaps this is why the creative souls must have it ALL, NOW. only inspiration can flow outside of time and tide.

grow

plant green vegetables
upon the dead and buried
weep not for the living
in the lichyard

they too must feed.

quiet smile
her fists unfold
spilling flowers

Butterfly

Who would spread her wings for a man who objectifies women?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I am passion. Dollars can’t catch me!

Who would spread her wings for a man who can’t see her soul?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I am the dream. Can’t you see?

Who would spread her wings for a man who wants to control?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I dance my own story. Let me be.

Who would spread her wings for a man that destroys heaven?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I define my apex. You are not my apogee.

Who would spread her wings for a man in eternal conflict?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I am peace. Do not define free.

Who would spread her wings for a man with shallow interest?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I drink deeply of the world. I am She.

Who would spread her wings for a man that fumbles desperate caress?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I am true love. I wait not for thee.

Who would spread her wings for a man uncompromising and strict?
Not I! Said Madame Butterfly. I float in the breeze. I sing of the sea.

I am the Butterfly, You wish to tame the Flea.
My Dear, My Dear, I love you, but it was not meant for We.

This is not an apology.

Julie Generic copyright august 9 2014

Vomiteria

Halfway through your burrito at the cheapest taqueria in the Mission, you notice the cook has a yellow tinge to his skin. You don’t want to see it, look once look twice, but you do.There’s no mistaking the banana skin, marigold eyes. You knew someone who had a roommate with hepatitis last year. You try to remember things you know about hepatitis, you read in ‘Fight Club’ that a hep germ can live on stainless steel for an unholy long fucking time.

You have a mouthful of food, grilled steak burrito, and realize it has turned to cardboard death in your mouth. The half-chewed bite goes surreptitiously into a napkin. The place is packed, it’s always busy here, almost around the clock. How many people has this guy prepared food for? His co-workers haven’t noticed, they see him every day, gradual events assimilate. They probably wouldn’t notice even if he dropped dead on the spot, right in the middle of sweating all over his grilling meats and refried beans.

Slowly you set your burrito back on its paper plate, rise, back away as if the Reaper himself has appeared in the form of a perspiring, overweight line cook and prepared this specific dish to hasten your demise under the clever guise of nourishment. Of a sudden you feel a prickly self consciousness, as if under intense scrutiny, a leering, pervasive sense that every germ in the place is sneering at you behind your back while cheering their kin who now merrily do the backstroke to your gut.

As you step onto the sidewalk, the world appears in an almost fourth dimensional, deeply unsettling new perspective. Every splatter of phlegm, pigeon shit, trickles and stagnant pools of nameless fluid, all hold a hitherto unperceived threat. You’re going to fucking die, you will probably never see it coming, no reason. Will you even know until it’s too late? You shortcut into an alley, it’s broad daylight and though dozens of people walk by, your finger down your throat as you lean behind a dumpster, stench of piss, retch, gag, vomit half a grilled steak burrito on the wet spot. More grisly germs. You wipe the sweat and puke off of your face, your upper lip, find a 14 Mission stop, sit, in a super-charged dream state as if you have already left your body.

There are smatterings of beef and digestive fluids on your boots. You stare numbly at them, consider the implications. Toilet seats, shaking hands? Kid stuff! No,death is everywhere, ignominious, lurking in filth encrusted corners flagrantly or unobtrusively on paper plates, in the air itself, circling the drain. In a moment of accelerated awareness, you look down and see, in relentless detail, each granule of crust and grime packed into the slats of your bench. Adrenaline surges, you jump away and directly into the path of a garage bound bus that barely made the red light.

Eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.