Deux

Each breath shorter than the last
followed by empty bellows
lost in the ether.
Your fingers run the length of my spine
and find their way to their home,
deep in the petals,
that mark the difference between you and I.
Moisture on my neck
a hesitation builds inside me
only to release in the moment it should so choose.
My fingers reach and coil
and grasp for flesh to appease
the hunger in all "dix."
My lips separate softly
my furrowed brow
my glistening skin
by candlelight is defined
do you see me now?

My Application for Death

OK....all this death is out of control. I know people die on a daily basis, but people I know personally, and famous people I enjoyed have kinda topped the chart in the last 365. I propose an application for dying. Here is my rough draft.

______________________________________________________

Name:

Age:

Sex:

Immediate family still surviving:




Do you have any chronic conditions leading to death?





Do you plan to OD? If yes, on what?




Do I know you personally? (If yes, skip to section B)



Are you a famous musician or actor?



If an actor, were you in any life changing, culture defining roles; a cult classic; or on SNL? (If yes, skip to section B)



If a musician, were you part of REM, ICP, or Kings of Leon? (If yes, stop application here, you're free to go, peacefully if you so choose.)



If you answered no to the previous question, were you part of a cultural defining musical group? (if yes, please skip to section B)


Thank you for your answers. You will receive a response as to the status of your application within 1 business day.

Section B

Due to the answers you provided, your application for death has been denied. You can reapply in 365 calendar days. Thank you.
___________________________________________________________________

My Worst Enemy

Ya know what really pisses me of? Heroin. Amidst all the things I have experimented with in my life, I was always adamant that I would stay away from this one in particular, because unlike the propaganda against weed, the propaganda against heroin is actually true.

Annually, our nation spends in the ballpark of 42 million dollars on the war on weed....a "drug" that isn't really ruining anything. How much do we spend on heroin? Anyone? Bueller....Bueller....? I can't even find a number. I looked everywhere, like a good little researcher but came up empty handed. I did come up with one number though....100,000,000. That's the estimated number of people that die each year from heroin (according to wiki answers). Guess how many people died from weed? Yep, zero.

Like I said earlier, I have tried a lot of things, found some addictions, cleaned myself up, kept some old favorites around for fun....but have always stayed away from heroin. All my circles of friends have kept this cancer out of our circle...until someone comes along with a pocket full of "something to do." As adamant as I've been about keeping this drug away from myself, it always finds a way to weasel it's way into my life, and hurt the people I care about. Whether or not they die from it is irrelevant....either way, it is taking their lives away, however slowly.

I have friends that have lost what semblance of life they have left, spent time in prison, been deported out of the country, lost their children, and then friends that have actually died from this disease, and ya know what? I'm fuckin' done. I am throwing my hands up, putting my foot down, and promising that I will do whatever I can to keep this disgusting, soul-suck away from the people I love.

No matter how hard I've tried to limit it's affect on my life....it has affected me IMMENSELY. Getting that phone call, or watching someones life fade away slowly is the worst thing I've had to do as a friend. Putting that needle in your vein, makes you as good as gone....you may not die from it, but your life can be fucked forever. Are you really prepared for that?

And Ryan....we may not have been the best of friends, but it's too bad it ended that way for ya. You'll be missed.

My Dear Jon

Dear Christina Aguilara,

You're just not the new hot thing anymore. It's not you, it's America....we just don't love you. Grasping at straws is certainly not going to help you. In reality, the only thing you ever did that was worth while was the "Dirty" video, which was really only cool....because it was busted as all hell. I am not the first person to blog about your obvious failure, and I probably won't be the last. You aren't going to be Lady GaGa, and certainly will never be Madonna. I understand being inspired....but just straight up reproducing someone else's work.....not winning you any points. Your new video...a very provocative rip off




Hmmm....not reminiscent at all of the story line of.....




and certainly didn't take the rest from this one....




and bits and pieces from this one...




It's totally okay to take inspiration....but in the future I would probably advise you not to blatantly rip off two of the greatest pop divas EVER. You're just not enough for it.

Love Always,

Moi'

Destitution

I go through circles, and circles,
and infinite cycles
only to come across a void
demanding seven pounds to pass.
I heave and pull,
plucking destitution from my eyes
as it pours through my veins
leaving my mouth dry and gasping for air.
It slowly runs it's fingers up my spine
to become a tightness in my throat.
It's sweet breath dances on my neck
as it malevolently whispers in my ear,
"everything comes full circle."

This is a poetry piece, and an Avant Garde original. Please do not copy or restate.

Just thought it deserved to be said

Babble babble bitch bitch
Rebel rebel party party
Sex sex sex and don't forget the "violence"
Blah blah blah got your lovey-dovey sad-and-lonely
Stick your STUPID SLOGAN in:
Everybody sing along.

The Doctors Office

I actually had to write a descriptive narrative for one of my classes. She said I could do a little story telling with it too, so this is what came out. I really liked it. The one thing I think though, is that all the descriptions and everything would be completely different if the girl in the story was....say.....ten years older or so? I dunno. Very interesting. Might add some new pieces to this.


The Doctor's Office

I grabbed the cool silver doorknob and turned it slowly clockwise until it stopped. I let out a slow sigh before pushing the heavy cherry wood door open and meekly stepping inside, letting it close behind me. The office had a corner waiting room with tall windows that reached the bright white ceiling, so in mid-afternoon on a calm spring day the sun filled it to the brim casting a warm glow on the faces of the women sitting in the tattered purple office chairs, the kind linked in long rows so you have to share the armrest with the person next to you. I could tell at first glance they would be entirely uncomfortable. I hoped the wait was not long.

I saw the young women working behind the counter. The two working the phones had matching scrubs that appeared to have been dyed in Pepto-Bismol, while the nurses scurrying quickly behind them with manila folders in hand all seemed to have chosen different cartoon characters; tweedy bird, snoopy, and two with Garfield.

I made my way around the ornate round glass table with a vase far too oversized for it set atop filled with what I could only assume were expensive silk irises because they looked so real I could almost smell them. I set my purse on the counter softly and waited for one of the pink ladies to finish their phone call. The one on the right hung up the phone and stepped the left, “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I have a four o’clock with Dr. Lamb.”

“Four o’clock,” she said picking up her clip-board and dragging her finger down the lined paper. The sound of her finger dragging down the page seemed so loud it echoed through my ears like nails on a chalkboard. “Ok, yes. First prenatal visit…” she said, almost in the form of a question before looking up to me. I looked at her a moment and nodded.

“Okay,” she began clearly trying to get herself back on track, “I will need you to fill this out.”

I took the clipboard and cheap office-style pen from her and hurried to the seat I had so dreaded before. I chose one in the corner, out of the way and began filling out the answers to my Spanish Inquisition. I could nearly feel the unmistakable smell of “Dr.'s office” dance through the air in a full assault on my nostrils; litocane, antiseptic, and some generic form of Cintas set in the corner to offset the medical scent.

I filled out the first blue paper with ease…name in the top box, followed by my emergency contact in the bottom box. The second page was yellow, explaining my HIPPA rights, which I’ve read a million times. The third page was pink. Again, patient name, then followed by the questions I have been dreading most. ‘Babies father’s name:’ I will just leave that blank for now. ‘Patient age:’ I ran my finger down the hard edge of the overused clip-board before writing ‘sixteen’ in blue ink. I hurried through the remaining questions before pushing myself to a stand using the hard rubber armrests. I could feel my feet dragging across the cheap blue carpet as I forced myself back to the counter. Both of the counter girls were waiting for me, watching me walk up with their quaint smiles and friendly demeanor.

“I’ll take that,” said the pink lady as I handed her my clipboard. “Dr. Lamb will see you now,” she whispered and pointed to the door to the right of the desk.
“Thanks,” I replied, and made my way quickly towards the door.