Freedom Isn't Free

...The Cost Is Seeing The Slaves For What They Are.... And Where They Are.

I Lost The Wood Glue, Also.

I have a broken chair that sits up against my wall. It stares at me like a despondent Sesame Street character I expect to come to life any minute and sadly ask when I'm going to fix it.

This chair has spent a long 5 months in wooden hospice waiting for me to give it a few more years to live. It's slowly starting to tell me horrible things about myself in it's disjointed state as I continue to decorate it with post-it's and dirty t-shirts, turning it into some kind of collegiate Christmas tree.

As much as I love the added convenience of such decoration I need to fix the chair because:

1.) It is not my chair.
2.) I broke the chair.

You should know the chair was weak to begin with. I did not jump or stand on the chair, I do not weigh 300 lbs, and I was not using it for any form of attack or defense. I sat in the chair and it broke. Yes, disappointing and anti-climactic.

Had it been my chair I would have patched it back together a long while ago just to break it again. Intently. I would have kicked and screamed, made it about my mom and dad, society, the government and being queer. I would have taken it out back and set it on fire, breathing in the fumes of a failed servant to me.

There's a reason almost all of my furniture is plastic. I am still not grown up enough to have anything destructible besides something already destructed. It's a neglectful, deeply painful relationship between the chair and I. Someday soon the healing will begin for both of us.

a8

the anti-me to the anti-you
it can't be like this but i can't stop it
the stranger blond quixote
who traveled south with an existence fucked
lonely nights drawing down tears
over her broken life and her broken luck
you had to re-stack the deck
between us a strange form of evolution
that i can deny myself
anti-acceptance of an anti-solution
i pray i am fucking delusional and you don't see this at all
i hate how you can quiet me under your thumb
i hate how you make me so fucking dumb

a7

it was a coyotes midnight swan song
it sounded so goddamn lonely
sending sounds in hopes of reciprocation
at the expense of humanities condemnation
a lasting vocal desperate hope
loud and brazen
the dark suburb lights up like a christmas tree
responding to an animal that proclaims
"you don't own me!"
fantasies broken that if you drive far enough
you can ignore nature
foolish fantasies that with enough money you can bypass
biological nomenclature

a6

i ran away from home
i think that says a lot about me
i couldn't spend one more day there
offering pound for pound matches
of his single parent despair
i slept in back alleys
i rifled through dumpsters
cleaned peoples houses for money
i never once wondered
why I did it
maybe some people could have suffered more tosses
but i'm the kind of girl who likes to cut down on her losses
i ran away from home

Americana Squared 1

She wasn't born crippled..not physically anyway. The first night she ever drove drunk in a Jaguar changed all of that. She asked that her right leg be preserved in the event medical science could one day re-attach it. She kept the jarred leg in her living room and would stare at it as her husband watched TV. This particular night she found him rubbing it as she came back from the bathroom. He was feeling frisky again.

a5

maybe i am trouble
maybe you just need to step closer
everybody is somebody else's freak
someone elses's unfortunate interloper
in the night i send out signals
pulses and tones in hopes returned
i want to see your face
and to hear your stories
i need to know life lessons learned
my stories don't mean shit
edits of edits of edits
not to sound like a martyr
if you speak i swear ill listen
if you whisper ill listen harder