somedays

I am unsure whether I am Livor dead. 

the fury

v. is casket at both ends burning. 

restless

v. is sleepy but full of nightmares, still awake, restless for the storms and the end of waiting. 

for what it is

 

I’m becoming a statistic. AquaNet is the glue holding it all together.  I miss listening to MTVJams in the morning, first thing when I wake up.  I look at the coffee pot on the counter and wonder how many days old it is.  I decide to drink it right from the pot. 

 I’ve always been the kind of person who sees the world for what it is rather than what it can be.  Dreamers help balance me out.

summer 2006

I’m not a fucking nun; I happen to like kool-aid flavored chapstick; ordering “the vegetable flavored thing”  on Main St. with 2 of my favs; "that shirt reminds me of a funeral..."; like bananas in the fridge, I’m learning, red, white, yellow, “be my inverse,” every 7 seconds btwn lightning and thunder equals 1 mile, light travels faster than sound; "how long can you tread water?"; GW's first first call, having "terrible chest pains," crying wolf, going vert, RIP.   

poem perceptive on pressure, perfection & parents

How my mind works:

Overwhelming contemplations and concerns over the future recently,
anxiety over present perfection to prepare for future legacy:
I’ve got some big shoes waiting in my closet (amongst the skeleton collection),
for that earth shattering day or night
when I become an orphan,
when I become the legacy,
when I become the only.

Tonight, reading an old New York Times article:
A statistic startled me,
the number required me to first check the calendar,
then forced some quick math,
a subtraction reveled the difference,
the difference took my breath away.

U.S.:
Annual Deaths:
Will reach 3 million between the years 2010 & 2040,
when Baby Boomers are expected to take their last breaths.

And in my mind:
(F***).
Today is already 2009.
(we’re all running out of time)
My parents.
(are they Boomers?)
I don’t know.
Dad’s 50^th this year.
add another 50,
(please, god),
year 2059.

No, not Boomers, I guess.
but still, it’s 2009..the time…

The future feels as close as it ever has,
perfection is nevermore near.
pressure builds
until the big boom.

perfection always sounds better before procrastination

I'm writing a 30 page research essay on the currently perceived professional status of funeral directors.

Why is it I always tackle topics of this nature: all real ideas and opinions so few facts and proof.

I must choose these topics because I am trying to prove something.  

Time is running out (a terminal condition) but I'm paralyzed somewhere between perfection and procrastination.   

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard if I were already perfect; perhaps the struggle stems from trying to be something I'm not: perfect.