hallucination genny

i'd like to build one.
to fuel without using.

its just,
i'd like to keep all my teeth.

-hallucination genny.

i found a hole

AHA.

i found a hole
heavy with an obnoxious lack of existence.

someone had their hand over it
it took mere seconds to be positive
it was there.

eyes squeezed tight so they wouldn't leak...
embarrassingly obvious there was
nothing beneath his palm.

just some remains of the outside world
coaxed then corraled then
haphazardly shoved into the abyss
floating and sinking to the salted floor.

i found a hole
hurting

he found the hole
easy

i need to fill it.
somehow.

peering down
i see
a saltflat with tear ducts
half-buried, half-eaten hearts
and helping hands
shiny objects and bits
of books
used condom and
candy wrappers
like carrion.

but maybe it isn't a hole.
maybe its isn't 3 dimensional at all.
maybe filling it isn't the objective.
i'm thinking a dirty canvas
still takes paint.

you know, i really don't like being used,

as a Person. generally, i am too "understanding" of other's neurosis. i don't care if they get it, as long as i do, and if i do, i excuse a hell of a lot of things. it comes from being in a most fucked up family of unconditional love. you get used to forgiving people their trespasses, believe it.

but feeling used. and the difference between having someone appreciate your helping hand and using you is the quiet sound on the other end of line when you know the person wants you to volunteer/stick your neck out. the sound of guilt- without that noise you could believe you meant something to them as a Person. not as a mere means to an end, whether it be emotional or monetary or otherwise. all this time.

quite painful. i am extricating myself from this most unholy mess. without a fight. just with a smile and a nod. it will be tacit. and understood. my tone of voice will change. my words will become surface gliders. i will not be here anymore. and i think thats best for everyone.

you're bending

stand up straight when i push you. that way i'll know you can hold me up without breaking if ever i need it.

ha.

funny what you don't want after its served on a silver platter. with gold accents. because you've been avoiding it on purpose. for good reason. for years. and now all you can see is the underbelly of the tarnished servlet. unattended and overlooked. the appetizer overdone and choked with remorse for being so late to the table.

nothing to see here

large phantoms run amok with me, created by people who i don't see. i can feel the shadows they cast in gray but for these invisible creators, the shadows blink in unbalanced technicolor. what do you do when people cast their own greenish tint on your idiosyncrisity? a yellow pallor to your frank words? as long as I feel it in gray i'm ok. but when the color seeps in, i'm down, i'm tired, i'm dissapointed or dissapointing, thats when my super-imposed ghosts get to me. the illustrators hide their faces from me. but i recognize them from the chains around their necks that bind them together, as far as the eye can see. a sea of people who don't want to get off the boat so we can tump it and let fresh air in before we drown in hypercritical homogeny. well clearly i'm rockin it, and you're goin over one way or another just for being in the same boat as i, your bad luck, and for that i am given phantoms and finger points for breakfast lunch and dinner. listen and i'll play it straight. dive in and you won't have to be pushed. why am i the bad guy?

the origin of things

it began early. we had this fantastic metal push-pull machine as kids, my dad would drag it from the back porch, set it out in the yard under the stars and we'd each get on one end, sit in the chair and grab on the handle bar. push with your feet pull with your arms pull with your arms, the opposite person your mirror, pulling when you are pushing, laughing as we began a faster spin round and round and round we go rush rush rush the stars go round and round giggles and mirth and rush rush rush. and dad would stop and enjoy his little girls' laughter. maybe knowing, but probably not, that we already loved the rush rush rush. as he did then and still does now in his own way. and it was something we would continue to seek. especially me, the elder by 16 months. the "smart" one. the one who cringed when people stopped and looked with wonder at her younger sister full of sugar words for her and saccharine for me. the one who enjoys the things too early too young for these things. and ever the tease. ever the one who craves attention, any kind, for the power the intoxication of it. i wonder- would things be different if my little sister had been a funny looking little thing like myself? people just don't know that little kids know. by feeling for timbres and echos. listening to the things adults can't hear, busy rationalizing their tones to keep going and going and going. a culture of soma addicts fighting over who is god who is good who deserves it who likes it too much may he be shunned and ostracized and cast out of the rush rush rush for more. more sex more love more food more drinks more drugs more cars more shoes more rush rush rush.