Connote

I took the elevator

to the rooftop.  I

walked out of the

moving box, opened

the door, held secure

with a huge latch, and

stepped out into the

grandness of it all.  The

immense gray sky lies on

my head as a large hat, the cement

rooftop bore the weight of

my obese body, like my shoes,

and I, intense, stretched

dimensionless, tarried at

the edge of the rooftop.

Your image stood up in

my brain as I studied the

people puny, taking a

pinch of steps on the

sidewalks.  In sync with

the view, my dysthymia

shrunk into a small

crumb.  Ah, yes, that’s

much, much, better.

Redundant Killer

The Heroine

smokes Heroin.

Heroin

destroys  the Heroine.

Hairoine sucks.

Harrowen blows.

Hareowin kills.

Whichever spelling,

Heroin Destroys

the Heroine

who smokes it.
(or shoots it ).

To Write is to Forget...

 You or I?
Or to enthrall
the third eye of
detection?
To realize the
surroundings of the
border of self.
Where a gentle
mist falls on deaf
skin and green and
purple trees confuse
hearing eyes.  For they
sound the same when
swayed by the wind.
Where birds bark and
cats tweet, to the third
eye, it's not
revolutionary,
it's reality in side out.
A child skips by speaking
the language dead, Latin.
The child's innocence,
the nudeness of pallet
of his brain, impressionable
perhaps.  Definable, indefinite.
All the while, the tide rushes into
nothingness, so it effects nothing.
The third eye blinks,
blackness, then what?

Don't Read This

Please, because out of a read
you may make waste. (shit rather)
My aimless prattle and pointless dribble
may cause you to bang your head (on a counter).
How interesting can a 36 year old woman's
life, on disability (the mental kind) and meds be?
Unless it's spruced up a bit...
Say, she made out with a movie star
in her college years,
in her twenties she thought over and over
that she'd kill her father by way of stabbing,
and to wrap it up, in her early thirties
she escapes death by a hairbreath from her own hand.
What if her future buzzes before her, like a humming bird?
What if for every second her future adds up, a dollar collects?
What if her writing improves as experience drips from every word?
What if she base lines, becomes normal, not shining?
I told you not to read this.   

Everyone

Knowone nose.
No1 noz.
0 knoze
Noone knows
gno won nozes
    but me.

Shhhhh.....

Please speak softly to me.
The ache begins like a
bullet to the back of my brain.
Oh, hell, could you turn the
lights down, the light shoots
poisonous darts into my eyeballs.
What? Are you kidding?
Im laughing, hee,hee, as I cry.
Tears of joy, Tears of pain
Both are King of my Domain.
Like water in a light socket
or a boney ass on hard ice,
They are my love(to hate) and my vice.
Ok, calm down.  I need to rest.
It's so vital  to the smallest detail,
that I welcome the lulluby of the darkness.
Still, in my wakefullness, gentle, smoothe hands
caress me down, into sleep by way of sadness.

Restrained

Restrained

Six men strong hold me.

I wither into a lifeless doll.

Yet, I hear someone screaming.

The six men roll the doll

onto a stretcher.

I reclaim my body again.

I wiggle, kick and punch.

One hand, the second hand,

one foot, the other foot.

Four point restraints pinch

my wrists and ankles, I scream bloody hell.

The six men lift the stretcher

off of the ground.

Into a room I’m pushed

with one light and no sound.

I’m alone.  How long this time?

Twenty- four or forty-eight hours?

I’m spinning upwards, spinning.

I’m a propeller, I defy gravity.

I defy six wimps on top of me.

Soon, I’m not restrained.

I’m restored to my right mind.

I soar above the bullshit.

You can restrain my body,

You can’t restrain my mind.

I eye I eye I eye I eye

      Some of this information may be disturbing to some viewers.  Viewer discretion is ill-advised, unless you desire to live a crafted life by Danielle Steele or hell, a life with your eyes half open.
      Please buy a barf bag if you must.  Real blood smells alive.  Until it sits out in the oxygen for awhile, then it's putrid.  That's the test of a well written piece.  At first it jumps off the page, it smells like print and it if read aloud it's vibrant.  Let it sit through generations, in a corner of cyberspace, with cyberdust collected all over it, and let it slowly decay in its corner, soon it's as if it never existed.  A putrid smell replaces the book, where in cyberspace, a leaky cyberpipe of acidic fluid drips on the cyberfloor. It's heartbreaking, I know.  It's like euthenasia.  Just because the piece futuristicly stinks, why must it go.  To put a living and breathing, soul bearing heart wrenching ass clenching essay on the Internet and know that the essay will age into a raisin faster than I can type the next word, it's disgusting, frustrating and extremely tiresome.  God only knows I could wear my Grandmother's
knickers if my ass were not so big. (from sitting and writing worthless boobage on the computer).
     Am I an old fuddy duddy?  I've  inappropriate crust at appropriate places, I can't complain.  If I increase the volume of output in a day isn't that medically unhealthy.  I mean if I put out what society asks me to won't I crash?  Can I say early death? Divorce?  Fucked up Kids?  Gangs? Drugs? Guns? Jails, lots of fucking Jails?  
     I'm sorry, come again?  You want to look cool with the new IPad.  "I" out of IPad asshole is the whole idea...

You See It's Like This...

     The idea of an audience for which I write limits me, instills fear and devalues the truth of my voice in the piece that I write.  I refuse to believe that I stick your damn head in the oven forcefully, until a half an inch of your death.  My angry, cynical, emotional pieces compel the reader to react.  If reader, this causes a discomfort inside your luxury suite of a brain that stirs your heart or allows fuck, shit and damn to penetrate the suites security, and you shirk at the words in front of you on the computer screen what shall you do?  An enema is always a sure way to clean out the "toxins" inside your body.  You don't have to stop at one.  Keep reading, because if you read to the finish it's like eating spinach, and you just might get layed by a lovely lady named Olive. Ladies, Olive possess every toy ever needed to simulate guy sex, no, hot guy sex.
      When I write, I am the judge and the jury, and I'm accountable for simply a well written piece.  Or not.  As long as I use the word fuck in the right context, I refuse to grill myself.  For the love of God, I hardly think about of one thing I do.  For the love of fun and fury, I swim in the absurd and shit my pants.  If the smell offends your nose or your then return to the absurd, but it's absurd for a woman my age to shit her pants.  Ok, the cycle I propose leads back to reading my piece.  Look around at the setting that surrounds you, and tell me that what I write hardly adds to depth of reality you swoon in, really. 

Why You Tellin' Me?

Why you tellin’ me

What to do with my

Dough?

I rolled around in the mud

For days to secure my

Future.

My mama knows

How to save my

capital

We might as well

Throw it in the air and

See the people who take it.

The banks and stores and bills

All invisible; God only knows

Our irresponsibility.

So mama gonna watch it

With a twelve gauge vision

She is sworn to protect

So you stop wailin’

Like a child who lost

His pacifier.

A Shade of Humility Closer to Black Than Nearer to White

I am a building

and

I’m no architect.

When I start to

think

otherwise

I collapse from the

outside

into

the vulnerable inside.

No, I did not

 build myself

into a beautiful palace.

It took hours of

consultation

along with various mistakes.

 It took

studying other

buildings to understand.

It took a     

realization

that not all buildings

are built alike.

I am a building

and

I’m no architect.

Please, a round of applause

for the modest

individuals in charge.

Temporary Insanity (How long is temporary?)

“ The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them; that’s the essence of inhumanity.”

Goerge Bernard Shaw

I am thirteen,

and I fall

From youth.

I drink vodka

in the woods

I trash.

I pollute my

body pure,

with drugs.

To me, the woods

are struck dead

and gone.

I hate me and

you and them.

I’m done.

I abuse both

body and

forest.

Nothing matters.

I’m filled with

not caring.

I stay angry,

until the dawn

rouses me.

                                                                             Jessica Carnes

The Coffee Queen

     Rises above the mist caused by the breath of the mediocre.  She blesses the coffee crazed upper-class quickly and deftly.  As she swifly fills an order she parts with a morsel of edible information.  She thought well ahead when she decorated her shop, putting a couch, a chair (big), and a table for four in the back of her shop.  Not only is she a Coffee Queen, she also has a knack for conversation and if you catch her smiling, tell her so because it befuddles her.  Her heart shines like gold, she helps people in dire straights.  She also attracts characters. strange and triangular, into her shop.  The Coffee Queen keeps an open mind which is open for business 6 days a week.  Her small stature lends to her bold effect on the populas around her.  You may think she is thirty years of age, please don't rethink that. She carries a bit of cynicism around with her inside the pocket of her cute black apron.  It's funny and entertaining.  Lastly, ask to see the  Queen in her sock monkey hat.  That is an accurate reflection of her true character.  Here's to good coffee!!!

Crude Thoughtlessness

The more air I breathe

as I watch the tube

as I read Tolstoy

and

as I ponder Carroll’s carcass

the more bored I become

with the air as its forced

into my lungs.

I must wonder

where the boredom

began.

Days elapsed into years

and my brain’s synapses

lacked creative lubrication.

I have surmised

that the first gasp

of air I breathed

that’s when the boredom

started.

A Poem

    

Jacked up

Pacing

Cruel thoughts

Cutting

Dumb numb

Tears start

Purging

Sun glows

Swallowing

A sigh

Soul fire

Hatred

I burn

For

You.

BuuuuZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

     Recipe

20mg Ritalin taken orally
4 moderate cups of coffee at home
4 moderate cups of coffee  away from home
1 medium coffee w/1 shot of espresso

NO FOOD UNTIL 3PM

     This is a legal buzz to a gal who prefers all things down and about death.  By the middle of my day, my body buzzes to the high dangerously pitched tune of Ritalin.  Although my focus falls on random scenes of disinterest, encircling my focus is a neon water sound, persistent and very disagreeable. My skin vibrates and, my brain cells pulsate to the loud bass of the speakers turned up full blast in an extremely small area.  The skin on my head feels like cardboard at times, being folded inward.  Reading a good book, to a Ritalin lullaby, similar to a madwoman shaking one to death during a blood curdling scream, became impossible as my insides soaked in a Ritalin glaze.
     Is there any hope for your favorite hypersomniac?  Cause this recipe is killing me, landing me in the sack, by 3pm or 4pm.  However, if I dare not indulge in a Ritalin Recipe, my day will not progress, cause I will be soooo sleepy.  I will snore and snore my life away, and oh my god, I'll snooze through my final day.

Duped

                                                              One
                                                             day I
                                                           browsed
                                                        through a local
                                                    rag's classifieds jobs.
                                                 To my utter delight I saw
                                               "earn $1000 dollars a month
                                             from home." My honest nature did
                                          not detect a bogus offer.  I sent the $30
                                      in to the "main office"' to receive my beginner's
                                  package.  I looked for it in the mail with a naive glee
                               and it arrived seven days later.  I opened it, and read the
                            responsibilities of my new "job".  You motherfuckers suckered
                        me into thinking I might actually work for a living.  You're dogs that
                    should be put down for good.  I see you now, I know your trick.  Bite me.