Buffalo ‘66 (Vincent Gallo, 1998)
Buffalo ‘66 (Vincent Gallo, 1998)
She said she prayed for me,
That once the sun went down,
She got on her knees and pleaded with the sky for me,
She said she worried for me, like a sword swallower’s mother,
She said she cried for me, like the best friend of a criminal,
She said she couldn’t sleep because of me,
She said she stayed up all night calling hospitals because she missed me,
But she said she never waited for me,
She never set a place at the table for someone who was never coming home,
She said it was because she knew me.
(even paid Lil Debs’ dancers to dance for her instead)
Lil Deb: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mx6Ho8ylrOo
Yea, lets keep on paying the liars and crooks to be our kings and queens.
Don’t worship false talent, even more so stop turning cheeks to false humanity.
Celebrity is disgusting.
I’m walkin’ back down this mountain with the strength of a turnin’ tide.
I listened to stories from empty men about tingling stubs that used to be limbs, about nightmares of having arms and legs, about the pain that appears when a piece of you is ripped away, when so much goes missing you can’t recognize your reflection anymore, someone else’s hands and feet nailed to you bedroom floor, empty spaces replacing shaky knees, straps and braces replacing bones and veins, phantom whispers where hardened palms used to be,
I listened to ghosts talk about men and I wondered if all along I was just your missing limb, if I was just a piece of you that was torn away, just a part of you someone else had already claimed, just an arm or leg, something without a face, without a heart or a head, I wondered if all along you would have been better off dead, better off never having met me at all, better off without me rattling your closet door,
I never wanted to be your ghost, especially one that found a home in your bones, I didn’t want to be the foot on your chest, I never set out to be your phantom limb pains, I had full intentions of a clean break, but you opened your arms and I built four walls and a roof, and when the storms rolled in, I brought in a wrecking crew,
You built a monument there in that space, you built a tombstone for me, a standing grave in time for your first missing leg, you light candles for your hollow chest and I stay awake all night giving away everything I took with me,
You can’t walk away from a missing limb, you can’t fill a hollow chests with paper mache organs, there’s no refilling a broken glass, and now I have no intentions of coming back, I left you glue on the bedside table, and I drew a map on your bedroom floor, I hope you figure out how to put your self back together, I put all the pieces I took in bottles and dropped them in the nearest ocean, I don’t know if they’ll get to you, but there’s no point in both of us being broken.
Your missing leg
No remnants of the young, wild girl in your head,
because she will be alive and well, and then she’ll be dead.
Chasing time like a dog off the leash, carrying my mistakes in a house sat on my shoulders, four walls I built from the ground up in my head, carving the word home into every doorway, leaning planks of splintering wood against each other, a house of cards built with water stained jokers, a million dominoes on Californian fault lines, a glass house carved out of clay hills, balancing pretty plates on bamboo sticks, bending and swaying under the weight, it’s organized chaos, liquid tornadoes in plastic bottles, child’s play in the most dangerous of ways, stumbling through life like a drunk girl in heels, looking like Bambi learning how to walk, slipping on the ice, skidding in the rain, it’s sharp corners, and dead ends and brick walls all the way, as far as the eye can see, it’s dirt roads, and tree’s down, and map’s with cigarette holes in them, it’s car crashes and skinned knees, it’s atoms bouncing off of one another, it’s fingers tying knots, and de-ja-voo, it’s bodies folding into themselves, it’s buildings following suit, it’s sunsets, and spring showers, and flowers that bloom in the dead of winter, it’s Detroit Michigan and the Salton Sea, it’s the way the waves always catch up to the beach, it’s stones dancing on water, and daytime breaking through glass, it’s stealing hotel ashtrays, and flat tires, it’s walking three miles to get gas on New Years Eve, its breaking into florist shops, it’s sleepless morning sunrises through a car window, it’s city views from rooftops under a sleepy sun, first kiss kind of stuff, dancing under streetlights, stumbling into the fire, eyes meeting like magnets, and hearts capable of tidal waves, it’s pins and needles, and the sounds of bones breaking, it’s backs used as bridges, and tongues whittled down to knives, it’s you and me and the miles of flatland in between (To Be Continued…)
Bill Murray appreciation post, because this will always be awesome.
Seeking validation between lips and thighs,
Drawing praise out with your tongue,
You never could shut your mouth.
Atlantic to the Caribbean, carrying bodies in my hand,
He said being a rolling stone will only turn you into sand,
That sounded perfect to me, insignificant and everywhere,
Boulders whittled down by time slipping through young fingers,
What a beautiful end,
Grenades into ash, dirt into dust,
I was to be sand,
Being stone took too much.
The heartless ones are the ones who cared too much,
They’re the ones who handed there insides away long ago,
So yes, they are cold, yes, they are hollow,
But they spent years filled to the brim, handing out there insides to whoever said they would keep them,
They spent years stumbling and falling into paper people, years building homes in the space between other peoples arms,
These are the ones who have nothing left to give, these are the ones who did it all wrong,
The first time, the second time, the third time,
These are broken bodies and hollow chests, they can’t do it again,
They decided that instead of giving their insides away they would bury them in the ground,
That instead of ever risking being hollow again, they would just master the craft of playing dead,
These are your defeated, they’re your roadkill, your forgotten,
They’re oceans nothing can float on, they’re once great monuments mother nature unleashed her wrath on,
They’re the wounded, the beaten,
They’re the ones that need a warm body more than anybody else, but they’re the first to be abandoned, given up on,
They’re too much work, they’re too far gone, they’re already cold,
No one sticks around for the broken ones,
Everyone likes the allure at first, it feels like catching fire, holding it between your hands, but there’s no man I have ever met that can withstand the flames,
They get bored or they get burnt and then they run off into oblivion,
Leaving us there to dissipate in empty rooms, to question our own bones, they leave us there to die, with nothing left but ashes,
But they forgot the way we rise, the way we always end up standing, because the only way to be a phoenix is to first be something broken, the only way to be reborn is first to die at someones hands,
Let them have your head, just remember to get back up again.
You smelled like the ocean when you cried,
All brine and salt; harsh and half dead,
I didn’t want you to stop,
I wanted you to make new body’s of water with your insides,
Make a sea for me out of you,
I wanted to swim inside of your sadness, carry it in my lungs,
Fill myself like a well with your broken parts,
Drowned myself in your man-made sea,
Born as anchors, we never learned to float,
We couldn’t see anything in the darkness,
No windows in the safe room, thriving in blackness,
All hands and hips with the lights out,
We dug ourselves graves and helped one another in,
Six feet was never deep enough for us,
So we dug until our hands bled, until our backs gave,
We dug until we forgot why we were digging, until we forgot who we were,
Going for hours clawing at the earth for an end,
For something solid or something dead,
Bone, steel, cement,
Something to tell us we were done,
Something to tell us that dirt wasn’t ours
That grave didn’t belong under our names,
Something to show us we had no home there,
We were gun powder and whiskey,
All rage and naivety,
We were fireworks at a tennis match,
Ten years too late,
We’ll never fit,
The world can’t keep things searching for oblivion,
We were grenades rolled into living rooms,
We were shattered mirrors reassembled, lying to everyone,
We fought until the sun came up,
Pushing against each other like two negative charges,
Bare knuckled and bloodied learning how to love in the back of my car,
We loved hard,
It felt a lot like dying,
The only time we knew it was real was when we were on our knees begging for it to stop,
We were all guts and no glory,
We were natural disasters, and we ended up with a death toll,
There was no pardon for our story,
You can’t erase poems written in blood,
All the greats went down burning,
So it will be flames for us.
… and you’re mad, so very mad, and you realize this, like everything else has happened slowly and then all at once, just like the book said it would, you remember that first day, that day when you turned your cheek, or laid down or rolled over, that day when you swallowed your pride like a live horse, bucking and screeching the whole way to your stomach,
but you swallowed, and you gagged, and you choked,
until it was silent, until it lay dead in your gut, after that everything went down easier, quieter, it all began secretly building, like layers of sediment behind your ribs, like volcanic pressure, slowly and evenly, unnoticeable until it was too late, until you were ready to explode, or erupt, until you were ready to take down whole cities with the fire in your gut, erase histories, and monuments, and generations and anything else that stood in the way of your heat,
you were so mad, you could have eaten them whole, but you don’t need fire or lava, or volcanic ash, all you need is your teeth, and you had those when you were born, you came out that way, maybe the fire took years to build but you were born with those teeth, you were always a carnivore, an animal, a predator, you were never a victim, you were never the pray, and now is not the time to cut off your own feet, stay mad, get angry, build fires, and hunt your meat, there’s no more rolling over, there’s no more falling to your knees, fight, don’t fight for them, just fight for me.
I’m sorry for being lonely, and doing what lonely people do,
I’m sorry for passing out in dirty bathrooms, for kissing strangers in crowded rooms, i’m sorry for drinking too much, and burning things down in my mouth,
I’m sorry for screaming in your ear as you slept, I’m sorry for clawing at your neck, and looking for attention like a neglected little kid
I’m sorry for dragging you and pulling you, I’m sorry for walking you like a dog into the dark,
I’m sorry for building homes in the space between other peoples arms, i’m sorry I could never find one in yours
I’m sorry for looking for you in the bottom of a bottle, I’m sorry for treating you like a tiny man-made ship, I’m sorry for never giving you back to the ocean,
I’m sorry for never understanding that I was the one who set myself on fire, I’m sorry for sitting you down and making you watch,
I’m sorry I was no tidal wave, no volcano, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to wipe away the world before you turned twenty-six,
I’m sorry you woke up alone that day, I’m sorry for the hole I left in your bed, and for the fact that you could never sleep while I was in it,
I’m sorry for crying so much, I’m sorry for never having a good reason too, I’m sorry for being broken, I’m sorry for shattering in front of you, I’m sorry you cut your hands on my jagged pieces,
I’m sorry for expecting so much of you, I’m sorry for looking for a cure in your chest, I’m sorry for using your tongue as medicine and mine as knives, I’m sorry for snapping you in two and using your back like a bridge,
I’m sorry i broke you, I’m sorry I ground you into dust between my teeth,
I’m sorry I turned you into me.
Most people treated me like something fragile, or broken, like a porcelain doll they couldn’t take out of the box because the shear pressure of their excited fingers would shatter me whole beneath their sweaty palms. Kind of like I was permanently walking on a line that divided life and death, teetering back and forth perpetually. People had the tendency to go into mom-mode (for lack of better words), constantly asking if I’m okay or if I needed anything, in particular water, or a seat, like a glass of water, and sitting for a few minutes would magically fix all the tiny mis-connected wires and short fuses that made up my disobedient body. It was annoying really, immensely frustrating. It started a fire in my gut for some reason, a red, hot anger that never ceased to grow larger each time they asked. I tried to remind myself that they simply didn’t know what to do, that they were at a loss on how to act around me, and offering me water was the only logical retort popping into their tiny, overcrowded heads, but it still bothered me. It was a constant reminder that I was sick, that I was different, so even in those small moments when I was capable of forgetting, someone was always there to offer me a seat and chain my reality back to my ankle.
I tried not to mention it for as long as possible when meeting new people. Unfortunately my friends had the bad habit of explaining it all the minute I walked away, I assumed out of some form of protection, but in the back of my head I always wondered if in some way they were simply putting themselves into something that wasn’t theirs. I know it sounds sick, but I think my illness sometimes became a wild card for them, like having a dying friend was so hard, they had to tell everyone, and collect all the sad eyes they could. I would walk away and watch them use their hands to explain just how sad their story was, and out of the corner of my eye I would watch as they received condolences and hugs and pats on the back, I would watch mouths drawing out slow I’m sorry’s, and it was almost like it was them dying or like I was already dead, I wasn’t sure which, but either way it bothered me.
Every time I met someone new I would get this minuscule amount of time, before my friends spilled their guts, or I accidentally spilled mine, I would have this small amount of time when I was just Dahlia (place holder name), just a normal, healthy, ‘just like everyone else’ girl, those small moments, those were my infinities. Those few hours or days, or second, when no one looked at me with ‘I’m sorry’ eyes or ever once asked if I needed water or a seat or a hand, they just lived beside me, instead of above me, we just stood there on level ground, and for a small infinity I was just living. Boldly and fully, without any outstretched arms waiting to catch me or any heavy eyes assuming I would fall.
I went through a phase where I would spend most of my free time going to empty dive bars and lonely heart club diners, searching for more people who didn’t know or care that all my wires were a few millimeters too short to fully function. Scavenging through the city for as many small infinities as I could find. It became something like an addiction, and by that I mean it became a very apparent addiction. I decided I would much rather spend what little time I had left with people who could careless if I lived or died, with people who I wasn’t indirectly hurting, and people who wouldn’t offer me seats or cry when if stopped breathing. Those people were easier to carry, they were lighter. I got so tired lugging around all of those heavy hearts. I would get this pain in my side, like when you were little and you would walk too fast for your tiny child legs to carry you, you would feel it starting to happen, feel it creeping up your rib cage, but you just kept walking faster and faster, until it punched you in the chest hard enough to sit you down, every time they looked at me I got that pain. It was much more comfortable to be with people who didn’t have those eyes.
I didn’t like hurting them. I tried to play healthy and cement a smile on my face, but they knew too much. I was hurting them by simply existing, because I was a constant reminder of just how temporary that in itself was. I went back and forth with the idea of distance, I contemplated moving to Texas and dying alone somewhere in a field of wild flowers under the relenting southern sun, or just walking in a straight line until my legs gave out and laid me down forever, but I figured that would be worse. I thought of them questioning where I was, and if my heart was still beating, kicking themselves for missing their goodbye ques, I decided there was no way for them to get out of this unharmed. No matter how hard I tried to leave them without scars, they would end up looking like one big case of road rash by the end of all of this. I think the image of them post Dahlia (place holder name) was a lot scarier than dying itself. Dying usually becomes more about the people around you than the fact that you’re dying. Trying to find ways to hurt as few people as possible is hard to do when you’re a time-bomb in a crowded room.