Flowers for hours

As always, thanks to Jesse for forcing me to produce and share.

--

Kid on the beach blanket next to me this Saturday:

"Yesterday......a body came up on the beach."

--

You know what's funny?

When the ice cream truck is playing, "We wish you a merry Xmas."

--

Follow me to hell

I hear the weather is warm

And I have short sleeves

Rapunzel did a puzzle, Hansel did a Gretel, served some time and then went to hell.

Hell isn't half bad, it's the world that wins the award-

teeth clenching bored and brothel bound.

--

Websites that should/might exist

overshare.org

orgy.org

--

--

Serpents eat surfboards and surnames

like cough syrup on their pancakes

--

The wife has a knife

And the husband has a gun

Let's make ourselves scarce

--

Barf up a storm cloud

Cancel our date on Friday

I saw you IRL

--

I saw Avatar

And what I took from it was

Damn, I want a tail

--

Everyone is so angry these days.

Anger and hate seem to be what brings the masses together.

I'll take my irony over-easy, thanks.

It's like watching hundreds of hunters spreading hummus on pita with war paint on their face in front of a boar's head on a stick, tongue lolling and flies making babies inside of its eyes.

--

I spied across the lake at her, dillying with the daffodils in her spring-time trousers while I boxed with the bass and my tackle box belied her beauty; the backyard dirt belittling beautymarks and dew-strapped dimples.

I'm writing bullshit, I'm riding whorey-horses, I'm rooting around in the reeds.

I have wrought iron fences.

I can't speak or smile.

I can't even feel you fucking me kind of deal.

Write with your gloves on.

--

Here on Long Island, the sound of a train passing by never seems to disappear.

As if the train runs the extent of the world and the lead car is attached securely to the caboose.

--

I let a doctor cut my throat. Who knew I had the nerve?

Practice your alphabet. Bet I'm your alpha.

People tweet the way birds used to and now I know for sure, birds have more to say than man.

--

I just want to dream

with my toes in the summered grass

and my head rolling past the tree line, out to sea.

I want to feel all my own,

unafraid, unforrowed, unstated, out right and unraided.

--

The beginning to a Bed-time story

Once upon a time

far, far away in the dandelion forest, there lived an owl.

This owl, despite expectation, waas not very old at all and therefore not very wise either.

He knew nothing about banks or bills or jobs or girls.

He knew next to nothing about fiddles or riddles, history, houses, literature, or how to catch his own mouses.

No-

this little owl knew only his mother and that he loved her dearly.

This is not to say that our little owl was not very curious- he surely was.

He longed to know all of the business in the forest and beyond to be had and it was his every night's work to set upon finding this out.

Soaring from branch to branch (for Little Owl was still quite small and his wings quickly tired)

he would explore the treets and forest floor beneath him.

Whenever Little Owl came across someone unfamiliar, he excitedly (but politely) inquired,

"Who? Who?"

On this particular night, Little Owl was perched above a tiny pond, staring down at the Little Owl in the water beneath him.

He had been asking the Little Owl "who" he was for nearly an hour now and was getting quite irritated because the Little Water Owl only repeated back more quietly asking Little Owl "who" he was.

By and by, a Slimy Little Green Owl hopped into view.

"What you yellin' at yourself for?" the Slimy Little Green Owl asked, but to little boys and girls it would have sounded like he only let out a big CROAK.

The Little Owl blinked his eyes in confusion.

Looking at the Slimly Little Green owl, he asked, "Who?"

"Why I'm a Frog," the Frog said. "I'm green and slimy and I live in this pond, eating Flies."

"Who?" the Little Owl asked?

"Flies are those little, tiny things that you see flying around the pond."

The Little Owl blinked and looked at the flies and then he looked back at the Little Owl in the water and asked him WHO! he was.

The Frog laughed and grabbed his belly, but to little boys and girls it looks only like the frog let out a big, "RIBBET!"

"That's your reflection," the Frog said, "That's not another Little Owl, that's YOU!"

"Who!" the Little Owl said.

"That's right," said the Frog.

The Little Owl politely thanked the Frog and flew off to see who else he could meet.

--

Sometimes I hope that I die a peaceful death and other times I hope that I don't ever die.

--

--

The ground and the sky were the same color, so we just walked up to the stars to escape this place. We were a nation bleeding from the temples, a land passing out from the trauma and we limped if we could, holding our howling in if we could, crying only if we were allowed or freshly wounded.

--

One week in notebook

"Had a dream where I decided on an idea for a book that I thought I should write someday while I was still asleep. Meaning that while I was dreaming, I was DREAM-THINKING, 'this is a book that I want to write.' The premise was a love triangle that took place in an apt. building between two women and a man. One of the three is so in love with another that they fill an entire apartment up with objects that they want to give to them as gifts. (There are even objects inside of other objects) The book would basically be a portrait of obsession from the obsessor's eye, telling a linear tale through explication of the objects strewn around the apartment (their placement and their history). Upon waking, I had no real idea what this novel would consist of because the characters immediately began to escape me, but whilst dreaming they were vivid, present, and entirely inhabitable."

"The internet is made up of humans, furiously working to perfect knowledge; ourselves. As a perfectionist myself, it seems the only option available- be perfect or do not be. What does Yoda say? Do- there is no try. So, I won't. It would end me to try and yet fail."

"'My stomach is so big that it actually hurts to lay on. -Eric, on the 4th of July"

"I've learned more from talking to lesser and average intelligenced people than I have from talking to geniuses."

"Drawing smileys on beach pebbles is one of the greatest ideas that I've had to date."

"To reject the internet is evolutionary suicide, so then call me confused in the primordial soup. I'm returning to a better time."

"Life is exciting enough without inciting waves, for some, it seems.
For me, I've always found adventure and knowledge from fellow travelers and from whose who I've traveled upon- dripping loose with lessons."

"Eric and Vinnie are strolling down the beach away from me in similar dawdling strides, red and green shorts making them look quite like a traffic light on a windy afternoon, a box looking to shake free of its intersection."

"Nothing destroys your inner voice like college. Before college, I had the voice of a lion- a bellowing roar that only sounded when you were a mouth's stride away from the inside of my throat. Maybe I was still developing, but at least I was developing. College took my writing to a barreling pause. The pressure to produce journalistic writing with no more compound or complex an adjective than "very" absolutely devastated my creative voice and I doubt that I will ever venture to try again in that vein. Make me a columnist- let them grab their dictionary. I am not dumbing myself down for anybody ever again. Nanci taught me better than that. Nanci taught me that success and what I need to achieve it, are already inside of me. I've been blessed and I need not to forget."

"Hit me, punk ass."

"I dreamed last night that my grandfather was 'scheduled' to die, a dream I once had before about myself. This future world that I dream about- where death can be scheduled and you needn't go it alone... In this building that I stood in then with my closest relatives, all sorts of people were laid up of sitting in caskets that lined the gymnasium-like buildings, some surrounded by families laughing uncomfortably, and others completely alone. A solitary greenish-gray hand moved downward in one casket that I passed, showing that the movement from this world and to the next had not yet been completed. We were there with Grandpa, an IV pumping death into his arm as he lay there, frantic, forcibly composed, and blind. All of these people had their eyes removed- black, empty sockets were brandished and bewildered, eyebrows furrowed up into v's above the holes. I feverishly guarded every new thought that Grandpa and I communicated before he was gone."

"Write loads, think more, listen always, say less, tell nothing."

"I love the smell of my body odor. This is going to be a professional problem."

"Dear journal,

Hi, hello, this is your humble narrator, Gianna, speak writing. I am coming to you after the first full night's un-rest that I've chosen to have in a long while and it feels amazing. I forgot how I've relished my condition in the past at times, and how I did so to harnass my most productive hours! I feel like my old self again and also as if I finally know where I'd gone to and just how divorced from myself I've really been. Honest, I remember myself in this moment.

Last night I began talking about my accident for the first time since I was working through my PTSD. I even looked at the pictures of my truck and couldn't even begin to understand how I survived that car wreck. (Seatbelts and angels to be sure)

I chatted with someone about how this was the first time since my recuperation that I was really talking much about it and how I've felt sort of insecure about discussing it because of my mother's obsession with tragedy, while I've seemed the exact opposite. He said something very succinct on the matter and it went along the lines of:

"Some people enjoy being a victim, other just want to persevere at all costs."

I am definitely of the latter camp, though I do recognize my hardships as having been invaluable teachers to me in my lifetime, events that I would never copy, edit, or delete.

I also came to a stumbling sputtering conclusion that I want to pursue comedy.

(Blame The American, the new Bill Hicks documentary)

I really think it may be the medium that my writing will sing in.

I'm a good in-camera editor and I have a feeling an in-camera edit of my writing on stage could be it.

If not, maybe I need to find myself a "real job."

Someone hold my hair back while I barf into my lungs (again)....

.....And with that, journal, I bid thee adieu (or "adue" as some poor sap said on facebook or "fb"

if you prefer the Orwellian Newspeak that infests every corner of our instated society).

This has been:

one week in notebook from this bulbous-nosed 24-year-old shit clown.

Over and out"