From the Diary of Mrs. X

Last night I was assured that all signs of close heart string encounters
 are relative to the homoerotic vessel that abducts this agency.
You're quite the hostess darling, how utterly domestic of you.
A regular fag-hag wifey.
And meanwhile, all these unsaid words could fill a dictionary.
A vocabulary of secret nothings.
Where A stands for ah, never-mind, I hardly even recognize you anyway.

My special place is covered in ash, after time erupted meaning away.
But I could put on lipstick with the color of my cracked nail cover--
ox blood for my black witch heart that glimmers in the artificial evening light.
And I could cast a web, with fine silk strings, or threads ripped from lace lingerie.
I could cast a web and catch a glimpse of something beyond this chasm of cordial gnashing teeth.
And what if the gaze saw through the veil and really looked for once at me?
Could I drink once more from the cup of fucked up fragmented poetry,
and feel for the first time in years, a break in the beat, a cut in my flesh,
something utterly beautiful,terrifyingly real?

sixteen clumsy and shy

about me,

get to know your audience. there is nothing much to say. i am blatantly fucking up the place, it's not very lady like. i'm not very careful, and the fun factor is a fickle sister.

Flu Season

Floating balloon skull  1 adrift clouds of crystal daggers  2 this weightless edge  3 of dulled desperation  4 has exasperated my mind.  5 I cradle my quiet urge to land on my knees  6 face down pressing the cold ground,  7 broken and surrendered  8 to the weight of countless moons.  9     I have a haunted child-  10 it brings me dead flowers that neither smell nor look  11 for anything much.  12 Just a crumpled mess,  13 just a life cut short of it's beauty,  14 it's potential to radiate.  15     I'm pathetic, pity this sad white face,  16 acid breath, red cheeks, cracked by the wind of indifference.  17 I'm old now too, this isn't endearing, this isn't palatable, this isn't cool.  18 There is nothing to articulate, my reasons are minute and infinite.  19 It's just malaise, a dulled pounding head  20 with glimpses of short half formulated renderings  21 of a whole picture, a sketch, smears of carbon  22 by  a hand with stiff bones  23 and a mouth,  24 stale hollow slipping sordid soliloquies.  25

Alone in the Mission

Alone in the Mission
concrete caucasian
dressing undressing
shop by shop
head in the headphones
soundtrack to the pace
of a lonely languid beat.

Drinking not drinking
one is enough
as I read lines
of Parisian Czech men
reminiscing American
in an overpriced vegan
Mexican restaurant.
What a fucking melting rot.

I walk out, full of empty
nothing like me.
Nothing like this glitzy
shitty, pity city.
Oh the signs they are blazing
as my mind goes all hazy
looking glassy church praising
loud and amazing
that woman she's praying
and splaying
Jesus Christe forgive me
her heart is a prism
and I, a cliche cataclysm.

blarggggg

I am writing frantically. I am writing with the agitated notion of having to step away from the keyboard at any moment to pee painful pink droplets of infected urine. What is wrong with me? Today is a day where I feel like everything about me is unraveling. This happens all to often...

I didn't get very far, nature calls, and today nature is a creepy stalker who dials my number, breaths heavily into the phone and just as I ask who's calling it hangs up. It's done this like 12312434 times in one long and relentless afternoon.

It's evening now and consequently Whole Foods profits $50 from my personal checking account in return for a magic powder potion from Vibrant Health called Mannose & Botanicals: U.T. Vibrance, Crisis Intervention Formula. Consumer report to follow. I also picked up an Echinacia & Golden Seal tincture cos my immune system has been destroying my ability to have guilt free access to sex and booze. This is such a tragedy. Why is my vagina so sensitive to everything? Oh well I guess I wasn't suppose to have sex prior to my two week recovery post cervical biopsy. Biopsy, shmyopsy. Obviously my ovulating hormones know what is best for my reproductive health. Or not.

I'm beginning to think something is terribly wrong with me, in a psycho spiritual physiological sense...if that's even a thing. Whatever the prognosis of my ill foreboding neurosis I'm putting all my chips on it not being Cancer. Oh yes, you heard right, without further ado let me introduce our guest topic of the night, the large, imposing elephant standing in the middle of the room Mr. C, formally known as Cervical Cancer. But why get all dramatic like that you ask? The biopsy was only a hyper precautionary procedure for a faint detection of abnormal cervical cell growth. Nothing to worry about says the professionals. Yet secretly, ever since a morbid encounter with a overly imaginative Ouija board seance in junior high, I've had this morbid obsession with dying of cancer, at the ripe age of thirty. I suppose this wasn't such an insubstantial imagined fate considering the long family legacy of cancer victims and survivors, including my father, aunts, cousins, grandparents and not to mention a great grandmother who died of cervical cancer.

Pregnant pause. Well, way to bring down a party, Jessica. Who invited this guy anyway?

Okay, relax friends, I really don't think I'm going to die of cancer next year, despite what the spirits running through my pubescent nimble fingers may have forewarned. First of all, I've got 15 months tops to fulfill this macabre of a fantasy which is not much time for someone who exercises daily, eats lots of veggies and rarely gets colds. Secondly, I'm just too damn busy for disease. I'm currently attending 3 colleges, holding onto a lovely stable job, living in a socially intense co-op, spending lots of time nurturing a beautiful relationship and juggling an impressive array of extra curricular adventures from bicycle touring to boogie boarding to power yoga to study groups and whatever else tickles my fancy. And trust me, my fancy is extremely ticklish. What I mean to say is I use every second of my precious life to the fullest so Mr. C please take your devilish demise and bother someone a little lazier (If you must). I guess I shouldn't imply that anyone is deserving of cancer. That's a bit cruel, even for my standards. Oh and the most important factor for refusing to concede to cancer: I'm just too damn poor. I haven't had health insurance for the majority of my twenties and I just don't think it's a viable way to waste a perfectly treatable malignancy on someone who'd have a hell of a time dealing with the financial burdens. No need to pick on someone who would have to chose between food and chemo or shelter and radiation. Gaaah, I'm just not into this at all. As much as obscure childhood dreams fuel adult realities I refuse to deal with it. Not now, not later. So there. In one week, when I get the big call back it better be benign. I'll just leave it at that.

And in other news; I was able to finish the rest of this blog without dancing in my pants. Small wonder.

watercolor (playlist)

one rill rill by sleigh bells off treats two the reeling by passion pit off manners three someone great by lcd soundsystem off sound of silver four lover of mine by beach house off teen dream five 1969 by boards of cananda off geogaddi six norway by beach house off of teen dream seven a thing for me (breakbot remix) by metronomy off a thing for me eight our deal by best coast off crazy for you nine sleepyhead by passion pit off manners ten swing tree by discovery off their lp eleven feel it all around by washed out off of life of leisure twelve talamak by toro y moi off causers of this thirteen blessa by toro y moi off causers of this

dedicated to esoteric existentialists and star crossed nutters

"never write like hemingyway"

and if my last breath depended on it i would die trying.

no,

this is

-a song discovered openly, innocently
-a casual casualty

w/

THEMES AND VARIATIONS

experience something incredily FACE VALUE
(he had a nice face)