at last. a bit of time to wrap up chapter five of my
scrappy little manual, the (poignant) guide. i hope
no one minds if i open up and talk about this for just
i love my sister. she's a knockout. the eyes, the
prominent cheekbone. her teeth are sparkly. but, better
yet, she can improvise. i can sing, "who's locked the
cupboard and kept me from my shiny metal whistle?" and she
will not hesitate, "call the judges, call the county!
the law states that you must die!!" moves into jazzy
numbers, moves into hymns, moves into heavy metal anthems
and sloppy falsettos. and she is brave enough to misstep,
which used to cause her dates to leave. and she got one
guy to chase cantaloupes.
but now her everyday is a painful, wretched skeleton grip.
with enough marijuana, with enough shrooms, with enough
vodka, whoa whoa no-no on the sleeping pills. no, you
will die. (but, i want to die.) hang on, kid, hang on.
(i've hurt everyone, i need to go away.) that's the vodka,
girl. that's not you at all, at all. her eyes are sad.
my eyes are sad. but we look at each other for a while
and we take a walk and we play with some chimes. and we
can still make up songs, but this is going to take years.
it's okay, there's a sky and there's a lake and there's
and i go home and draw cats and doctors in space. without
the medication. i'm a stiff. an upright. i'll never pass
a joint. maybe mj works, maybe mj's death. i have too much
mental illness in my blood to find out. narco+alco have
turned kooky people i love into obliterated people i love.
god, god, god, please keep her alive. (if i'm lucky maybe
god will let a horse run by.)
families are a network of lost packets and bad routing.
cause you got spouses on the vpn. it's not all that bad,
but it's fun to moan, ya know.
i love working on an obscure book. people cling to ideas,
because they're supposed to be vouchers for a million
dollars. no, write an obscure book. build something
outside all that pressure. i guess treehouses for kids
ok, well, i'm sounding like livejournal. pathetic. ;)