Permission to Covet

(eat me)


"in the place where i make no mistakes
in the place where i have what it takes...i'm never
gonna know you now
but i'm gonna love
you anyhow"
--elliot smith, r.i.p. to a fabulous songwriter.
why do people like him have to die and yet there never seems to be a shortage of the paris hiltons and the ted nugents and the rush limbaughs and all the other horsefuckers who don't deserve their own talkshows?? can you tell me?

"sing to me."
(blur)

i'm listening to an old mix i made for Shawn the Prawn, Shawn-B-Gone, Shawn the Demon Spawn...whew, Beulah just came on, what a sweet little long, how can i not feel better? ("calm go the wild seas," it's called). that fucker probably never even listened to this cd anyway.

"cut my heart out but it's still beating
on and on and on and on,
my sails are tattered, they're worn bone-thin..."

eventually, will there be a time when i won't feel so raw? will i not be buzzing and clicking like exposed, uninsulated wires? will this stupid heartbreak shit stop being the only thing i think about? will i ever stop thinking about the words, the assurances....the question marks? when will the tears come at a more appropriate time?

"come, child
come rescue me..
cuz you have seen some unbelievable things...."
(cat power)

you too can own this compilation for only $19.95! (god knows i need the money, i'm about to become a welfare whore again.)

i wish i could write songs. i wish i could write. i wish i could. i wish i. i wish. i. . could stop being so self-conscious.


it's disturbing to me that someone has hurt a friend and that my stupid blog seems to have become a vehicle of pain for someone, or two someones. i dunno what to say about it. i'm just a weirdo in pennsylvania. that's about it.

from, kristin hersh, "me and my charms:"

"i'm checking out today.
me and my charms
me and my charms
when i kiss the angel
i have a taste of you.
when i take the angel
i have a piece of you
i have a piece
i have a piece
i have a piece...

you can come back,
i haven't left you yet.
and when the lights go out
i pick the angel up
i only have 2 left feet...

all i have in my hands.
all i have in my hands..."


now there's a cool jersey girl. ;)

that color was hard to see. this one's not great either, but it'll be better on the dark background.
anyway, here's a crappy poem to end things:



"The Bird Bride"


I.

Once this feather was attached to my body,
enabled me to cut through air and flutter my
squat, brittle body
up and 'round the apartment
like a tiny zeppelin.


II.

"It needs more beans."
She stared hard at the garlic bleeding onto her fingers. "My Mom uses Pork n' Beans in her chili, we got any?"
Just then the blanket became a stretching cat
out of the corner of my eye.
The room stewed in the lemon dish detergent light.
She felt painted, regal, naked except for the purple blanket
over the towel, tucked under her armpits.
Good enough to be in a catalog.


III.

The air was silted, clouds of Country Time Lemonade mix.
The bird fidgeted in its cage.
Crumbs, rubber bands, a ravaged paperback.
The bird cocked its head toward the reflected sun patches
of the mini-blinds on the wall.
The bird yelped and instinctively she blew air out of her mouth at him
Don't make me hate you.
But the bird only screeched louder and she threw a beige cloth over his cage.
The children outside, intermittently asking "Mom?" and barking at one another.
Sneakers, plates of leftover chili.
From across the room she spotted a small black bug climbing
in a series of stillframes down, down the wall. Her back itched and the hairs
crawled. The air was now dustier, crumbs of light, sedimented with
false peripheral movements. A patch of light in the hall, tattered cotton pulled
across the off-white walls. From below the cover she could see the point
at the end of the bird's tail.


IV.

From below the veil I saw her outline.
All I can do is answer the tribes around me,
shrill legions of finch and starling.
I answer them, I call her,
I make sure I'm alive and loud enough in here.


V.

He did like her pork chops. She enjoyed this, although she didn't like making them. The meat was always too rubbery, and it cooked too fast. Not challenging. He liked the rosemary and dill.


VI.

"I'm going to microwave your ass," he told the bird as he banged on its cage.
His alarm haad gone off. (Or was it hers?)
The comforter had slipped off her shoulders and she gathered it back,
not embarassed of being naked but of having to write the word, "naked."
The chatter of budgerigars from the other room soothed her.
He'd probably hit the snooze, although he didn't quite know how to work her alarm clock.
And he would see that she'd gotten no sleep again, and the dusty ghosts would settle in his hollows and shimmer around him, peppering his golden skin with slaughterhouses.


jlr 2000(?)



my hands hurt, i swear i have arthritis. (thinking of that commercial with the lady playing the piano very emphatically, and then declaring that she had arthritis but arthritis didn't have her!)
that poem's pretty weird, huh. it's about when i lived with my ex-fiance and my cockatiel and my 2 parakeets. (boris is the one in the poem)

going to check on my mom.

much love, somehow...

jamie lynn.