11.20.20

GARFIELD
This was never supposed to be battle.
Never wanted arrows from release, daggers from “let go.”

These words were supposed to be pure and open. Parts of the secrete self agreeing to hug the public.

They’ve made pistols from the fabric of my most mad, most insane.

Pacifists turned target practice.

Scared meerkats heard mirror call them “monsters”. Now they burrow in paper pages, noses twitch with guilt when they poke out from their dirt home. Dirt like un-pure, like un-polished, like un-refined, un-pretty.

Was that the wrong thing to think? Yes of course it was. What they saw wasn’t a release. It was an exorcism.

Detailed and cataloged, they circle back to the bookmarks of the great purge to cover your intentions with the stench and vomit of what was, but was never real.

I’m running out of safe words.

GARFIELD

11.5.20
I’m not sure what foundation you built that requires disrespect to hold its own. You’re carving arrows with your eyes, and throwing knives with your words. Do you realize how small you’ve become? I see cower in your posture, a snarl hiding shaking hands what don’t you want me to see right now?

I feel these words are revenge for a past I was never part off. Hate for hate.

But this? This borders on ingratitude. Hate for love.

I hope you find what healing looks like for you.

For me, it means removing my friendship as the welcome mat you wipe your day on.

GARFIELD

10.21.20
the unwilling morning is the hardest time to be awake
and 4 AM knows all my secretes
she knows i only sleep with people i love
which is probably not helping my current case of insomnia
after all,
you can’t just sleep with the moon.

my neck hurts, my shoulders hurt, my head aches
a type of tired that repeats old patterns it makes you
say the same thing twice
say the same thing twice

or maybe, instead of counting sheep i’ll
count the buckles of my future straightjacket
how many, do you think, to hold me down?

most people seek to be proven wrong
i seek to be proven human
can’t tell if i’m looking to escape my body
or trying to find it in other people
it’s better to offer no excuse, than a bad one

I don’t in fact suffer from insanity. Turns out most days I can actually say that I enjoy it. Because for fucks sake we’re all damaged. It’s a universal component of the human condition, like the stages of grief, deja vu, and expired coupons. The human brain wasn’t engineered to be othered the way insanity demands.

So fucking fuck you, you fucking dick prick brain. Fear’s a bullshit artist, and you almost had me paying museum fees. But I know there’s a pandemic out there, and courage is the ability to face what’s not defined.

I wasn’t made for predictability. And above all, I’m not willing to pay the interest rate due in debt that comes with worry. So, If I find myself in fears or desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world. So may I bless this stupid rock with some alien morality while I’m still kicking.

GARFIELD

9.28.20
note to self;
cooking wine is not drinking wine.

GARFIELD

9.4.20 | P.M
to illustrate
put on your best tie for me, cook me your best dinner
I’ll sample these two variables, assign you an average
Mean? No. Bias? Yes.
You’ve got a wide margin of error
so relax
your odds have been predetermined

at prima facie
we are all prairie girls and doe eyes
all the modes we operate within
so
let’s talk about rice
scatter-plot of time and skepticism, the type you scoff at
the slow burn kind, build up in under your skin kind
Prairie girl flashing Daddy’s more stratum then outlier kind.

let this be a lesson
my dearest, Empirical King;
control deviated from the group,
and is breaking bread with the sum of my power.

Your crown matches your tie, looking handsome as ever
on your knees,
from your throne.

GARFIELD

9.4.20 | A.M

Monday. Poor, martyr Monday. She’ll have to fire two employees first thing in the morning. She hates her job, but who’s going take care of Mom? She’s got the charisma of a half finished cold cup of coffee. I guess that’s what endless to-do lists will do to you. That spring in her step? I don’t buy it. She probably stole Saturday’s cocaine. She’s trying her best.

Fuck Tuesday. If Monday is a well, then Tuesday is some child’s aimless rock. One more thing thrown at the bottom of nothing “just to see what sound it makes.” Tuesday is thunk! It is also plop! splat! bump! clank! thud! slosh!, and on a good day, buzz.

Wednesday smells like the warmth of intimacy. No, not sex. Intimacy.

Thursday, likes to live in the forbidden things. The only history taught on Thursdays is the one never written. Thursday’s righteous. He carries within him the superiority complex of one who’s been experimented upon, and come out alive. Thursday is rock-paper-siccors and always taking your turn too soon.

Piece of unsolicited advice? Stay on Friday’s good side. I’m not saying she’s bad or anything, her bilingual experience is unique, that’s all. Her and Monday carry the weight of the week (Friday, more than Monday really, but we don’t point that out) on their back. The difference being; Friday’s mini-van shoulders will never pass up a dance.

Saturday picked up Friday’s make up from behind the bar’s dumpster, she nursed it back to health with breakfast and a few mirror-facing orgasms. She ran away from military school and has been hitchhiking her way to freedom ever since.

Sunday lives just off of Premature Rd, up there by Melancholy Hill. I’m sure you know the one.
She knows exactly who she is, but unlike Saturdays almost boastful overcompensation– Sunday pours herself in her mug just right. Not a drop spilled. She’s the sweetness of breakfast for dinner, the type that tries to role-play morning with the moon. She doesn’t ask too many questions, she doesn’t need to. Her eyes are the color of loosing all the things we love, but getting to love them anyway, and being all the better for it.
If she wanted to, Sunday could carry the martyr of Monday and the petulance of Tuesday. She already embodies the tenderness of Wednesday and rebellion of Thursday, albeit with more subtlety and grace. Sunday’s duality rivals Friday, and despite just as free as Saturday, Sunday decides not to act on that chaotic immediacy. Instead, Sunday meal preps for the rest of week and laughs out-loud when she finds a funny shaped potato. Sunday lives alone.

GARFIELD

8.30.20
we’ve discussed water and air
let us go ahead and define fire

fire is the happy ceremonial reunion between oxygen and… well, matter. particle piñatas, atomic red rover, instances of chemical “wooptee doo’s!”

so, if we assume all of this is true – and it is, for 2020 is the year of the proverbial cosmic pumpkin – then we can also safely assume that the burning down of police stations holds hands with the swaggering homecoming of a million jovial little molecules.

there’s been match-works in my retina ever since
I picked up English (along with many of my other bad habits)
the type that ignite interest. That micro-perk on your neck. A kind of listen that makes ears all the more self aware of their belly-buttons. Holes are like that; gluttonous and insatiable despite curiosity being such and inspiring drill sergeant.

however you interpret this twinkle in my eye
depth, wisdom, madness
in reality it is simply the unnameable tickle of the spine,
a rise in spirit, a kind of wild-card joy being the direct result of
the secrete heart having a very,
very private experience.

and what a pleasurable pocket mischief
to tear minor rivets in the wallpaper of society
catching knowing glances with yourself
painting in double meanings with the brush of word-stuff
the happy little homecoming
of days and dreams

"For reason, ruling alone, is a force confining 
and passion, unattended, 
is a flame that burns to its own destruction."
-Kahlil Gibran

GARFIELD

8.18.20
it must be a full moon
but instead of turning into a werewolf
i turn into every street my country has ever danced on

GARFIELD

7.15.20
catharsis implies release
people cry out of fatigue
but how horrible it is to hear someone say,
“she’s just tired!”
Tired, yes, certainly, but just?
there is nothing just about it.