Free Floating Funk

she is electric, can I be electric, too?

July 1, 2009

I’d disappoint you, too.

please

Listen, please:
so-so-some days I just wake up
in love.
unusually and unfairly.
immaturely and irrationally.
frustratingly in love.
You walked so casually into my life
flicked on the light and said
tell me tell me tell me
I’ll give you everything.
see me see me see me.
this is better than anything.
this is better than nothing.
but a consciousness must be recognized
a consciousness must be respected
we’ve gotta let bygones be bygones
repeat “bye-bye gones, I’m moving on.”
and smile.
(and isn’t it strange how “smile”
is such an ugly word?)
per-per-perhaps we have overlooked
our loyalties?
replaced them with hurt feelings
replaced them with misplaced concern
I-I-I don’t know what we’re doing
these arguments?
this awkward silence?
repeat “bye-bye gones, I’m moving on.”
I love-love-love you
please stop hurting me.

June 25, 2009

this needs to get out of my head. now.

In years prior, familiar highways were two-lane dirt roads. Our haughty, enormous airport was more humble and people got along just fine without cell phones. Technology had advanced enough to provide citizens with automobiles, but being typical humans they weren’t always as careful as they ought to be.

Wolfe had been invited to speak at the local college. He was to deliver a speech on literature: how to be a successful novelist without pandering to the public. None of this vegetarian werewolf or sparkling vampire nonsense that seemed to be sweeping the nation—real, substantial stories.

He prepared his speech in the back of the cab. Rearranging pages. Writing in margins. Going through the motions it takes to convince those surrounding that, yes, like you, I get nervous.

The cab driver glanced in the rear view and wondered if his passenger, for all his supposed worldly word knowledge, was familiar with the word “eyesore”. In his stark white suite, Wolfe definitely did well to get noticed.

Wolfe glanced out the dirty taxi window. Ahead, he saw a car on the side of the road. And another. And another. People, whom one could only assume were the drivers and passengers of said cars, were also on the side of the road and were standing, together. Looking at something just out of view.

Wolfe asked for the car to be stopped.
Rolling his eyes, the driver rolled his foot from the gas to the brake.

What the people were staring at, stagnant in their hesitance, was wreckage. A young man had flipped his car and was lying motionless in a pool of blood and glass beside it. Clearly wrought with worry for his wellbeing, the onlookers stood motionless, mumbling to themselves—to each other—but ultimately failing to put forth anything more.

Wolfe pushed past the people.
He tumbled gracefully down the small slope, his feet knowing well the combination of loose dirt and hurry. He tripped, fell to his knees beside the young man and felt immediately for a pulse. A fading moan escaped. Slight finger twitch.

“Has anyone gone for a doctor?”

He heard a door slam.
A car start.
No. No one had. Yet.

Without the promise of help in form of an ambulance wail, Wolfe took his coat off and wrapped it about the young man; bring him gently into his arms as he did so. He cooed kind words, hummed low the song “Trouble”, and rocked slightly.

How striking the scene, too.

Fretful and unmoving, the crowd remained. The stoic man in his once-white suit, now covered in deep bloodstains, presented an unfamiliar humanity.

When Wolfe looked up at them he spoke. And there was a tremor in his voice as he did so:

“And aren’t you ashamed?”

June 17, 2009

what difference do you think that it makes?

     She yawned;
           stretched in such a way
                     the way she always did,
       that cracked her back
                     boisterously.
     Looking about a sense of
urgency
        overtook her.
                   Squirmed in her seat,
              feline noises falling faintly from
        her lips.
     The desire to shout at all the sleeping
         people
for no reason
               other than to see the surprised
 pantheon of glaring,
     sleep-encrusted eyes
s!
  n!
    a!
      p!
    open
        was unquestionable,
        was begrudgingly couched.
  A baby cried
                        somewhere
       near the front of the
  plane
   and she cursed herself
               for allowing
           such a beast to steal her potential
   thunder.
               It was doing what she
         longed so strongly
                  to do.
   She imaged wrapping tight herself
       in the airline issued blanket
             and inching down the isle.
  She’d move as a worm might
and upon reaching the
                 miniature manthing,
       she’d take it into her arms
                          into her cocoon
            and coo it into silence
            and hold it
            and rock until
the loud thing
         suffocated.

June 9, 2009

i’m going to buy an island

Greetings from sunny Hawaii!

It’s beautiful here, but I’m sunburnt.
Here’s a picture of my feet:

my feet

June 4, 2009

my weird heart wanders and my brave heart breaks.

I am madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with everyone and everything today.

-Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

I have days, and I have them a lot, in which I find myself completely infatuated. With everyone. With anyone. Something heavy gets tossed upon the schoolgirl crush gland in my mind—in my heart—and my adoration plants itself upon anyone who makes me smile, if only for an instant.

Momentary crushes. Fleeting lovetimes when the heart bleats to remind me—those are the days I get that falling feeling. That weird, tingling glee; as though a steel-wool creature just yawned, it’s expanding belly extending to push against the small of my back.

The next day I realize who I had a crush on and I realize it was one of those days.
And thank goodness for self-control.
And thank goodness for foresight.
And thank goodness for being shy in such matters.
But god damn, the fun I’d have if it weren’t for such things.
And thank goodness for not having fun with such things
Because, god damn, the trouble that’d cause.
Trouble. Trouble. Trouble.

May 31, 2009

things are going so well. I don’t understand why this is so goddamn hard.

today means coffee and vodka. means get to the top of the stairs to watch the gutters overflow. storm today. cringe when it finds its way overhead, raging like a paparazzi mob—flash!snap!boom! straight ahead, through the trees I see missouri. I see st. louis; the outskirts of town on the coattails of family: childhood grudges and genetic vices and mindful mistakes. you’re dead, now, sure, but I still see you around. walked, with cane, with beard and belly, to the stage that night and I felt like crying out to— I saw you there, upstaged by youths, downplayed in volume — you, though I knew better. you’d never have performed as such, but I saw you and—what music! today means changing tense mid-story. today is no longer now, it’s then. the thunder rattled the tin roof, metal stairs, iron handrails. the smell of the approaching rain is an easy call. the concrete exhales its extra moisture in moist anticipation. the parking lot asphalt coughs.

and that’s for making a scene.
and that’s for not smiling enough.
and that’s for checking the time.
and that’s for being so. goddamn. cliché.

I’m at home, I’m at home, I’m at home.

I’m so cloudy. unclear, myself, really. so sincere last night when usually so snarky. I appreciated it, unexpected as it was. thank you for allowing me to reconnect, for allowing me in. a bit. I relate, I do. I just don’t know how to tell you.

I have a very hard time verbally expressing positive feelings towards people. lets say I love you (and I do)—you’ll rarely hear me say it, though I may write it in excess. expressions as such choke me up. in the hospital in february someone brought in balloons that simply read “we love you”.
I had to leave the room.

don’t doubt me, though.
I do love you.
I’m proud of you.
I think you’re marvelous.
I wish you luck.
I just… can’t say that.

May 22, 2009

You don’t know what love is? You can leave.

       I carry Photobucket;
       I carry that work and the
               people who helped me through
                 [it]
                    with me, everywhere.
I am heavy.
       I am weighed down by this
                      choice of baggage
            but I do not despair.
                          [It] has made me exactly who
                          [It] has made me exactly what
                                         I am now.
                                           Today.
                                        Who I am:
                  an empathetic, emotional
       ball of jaded
                         sweetness.
          Heavy though I am,
                 there are ways to alleviate the weight:
       for sake of instance:
      I run down stairs, leap toward for the landing
                        from
                    so close the bottom
                        and sing my sweet, literary
             proclamation as I’m
                    --you shall know my velocity—
                                           momentarily
                                           momentarily
                                  weightless

May 20, 2009

Otis IS the Canary in a Catsuit!

May 17, 2009

TA QUIRE A LYTTL HIDACK

Proximity affection certainly works on an individual basis, but dear lord—anyone around us this weekend could feel the goddamn love.  Friday night was aces, but Saturday took the cake. The baby cake, that is.

You’re looking at the most delicious, creative cake ever made: 100% organic, vegan, dismembered baby cake. I apologize for the poor quality of the photos, as I had to use my iphone as opposed to a real camera. Regardless, you can see its glory even through the grainy, poor quality.

We all met at Sputnik and got giggly and stupid on mimosas.

Did I mention the cake?  This lady and her lovely husband made it. I ate the shit out of my piece, and I don’t even like cake.

After mimosas we headed up to Glenwood for shopping, hot springs, sunsets, and Venture Brothers. I bought Nag Champa body oil; I’m the best smelling girl for miles. O! Zach got a free puppet-ostrich with his purchase.

Cuuuuute.

[Slept.]

Woke up to coffee and a walk to a plaque afore a waterfall in which we discovered a man had lived to be 74 (a downright magical phenomenon during the mining times) and attributed his good health and long life to never bathing or kissing a woman. I think that should really just be one reason, as the two given go hand in hand

THEN!
More hot springs. And breakfast.

(photobynatja)

I fucking love you guys.
So hard.

May 16, 2009

as everyone around me gets better i look in the mirror and all i see is myself

It’s been a rough few months. But! I feel like things are picking up.
This past month has been relatively enjoyable, and the ones to follow promise nothing less.

I owe a lot of my current contentment to the Kruts. While I feel as though I’m lacking the words to phrase the proper ode-to, I can honestly say they’ve been one of the major components in reviving my positive side.
Consider them my confidence pace-maker[s].

Additionally: We did it. Nick and I, that is. We custom kicked our “professional” lives and made our own web design LLC. We successfully sold a design, acquired leads, and lined up more than one potential client. I really didn’t think we’d actually accomplish anything past, say, talking about it—but here it is. Fruition, finally.

Frankly, I’m impressed.


celebration sol & fish tacos & strong margarita & cute waitress & mofuggcelebration


A slow and hopeless epidemic had consumed me as
   February brought with it the feeling of
                           perpetual rut and
   March’s lion begot no ewe,
                     choosing instead to
                              tear the place up.
 Wrought with lethargy—
                gnashing, languid depression—
             I mourned my amputated enthusiasms
                greeted the day with lucid sleep
        and the night with open bottles.
I swatted—
I reached impatiently above my head.
    “Someone will help me.”

They provided me with bootstraps,
                                   not hands. 

I’m better for it.



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