I plan to go into this blindsided and just make stuff up.

Dear dearest invisible readers of my silliness; HAI.
Did you all see the movie Tangled? So dreamy. That part when the lanterns descend on them.........excuse me while I widen my eyes kitten-like and, tucking my clasped hands under my chin, squeal "AWWWWW HOW CUUUUUUUUUUUTE!!!!!!" I've been feeling romantic as of late, to say the least. And I must admit I swooned and fell about laughing when Flynn Ryder said "I know not who you are or how I came to be here with you but may I just say; HAI (Insert stupid grin)" So that's what I did with my week, that and work. Yes, I realize it is unorthodox for an unknown writer not to be an unemployed alcoholic living at home but I have big plans for my future and I won't let what people call 'selling out' destroy that. So there. Now if you don't mind, I am going to write a poem about 'Tangled'. Because I am a loop-de-loop and I feel compelled to live my life to it's extent as such.

Fairy Tales

An old-timey lady
with locks of love and stuff
and those wide green eyes,
like her mother a bit.
That's the problem with women,
they always become like their mothers.
Men never do.

Hey doll face,
did it surprise you
when you found your heart in his sack?
I don't suppose you believed that bit,
until the smoulder set in,
and your eyes grew wide
inside of his.
Charm is never dead,
even if chivalry is.

This would be a good time for a joke
about how he stole your heart
y'know, considering that he's a thief...
but let's move beyond that,
to the part of the show
where you ride off into the sunset
on his white horse,
graceful as always,
at the words flutter across the screen,
'and they lived
HAPPILY EVER AFTER.'

This is the part where I sign out in an 1/2 sarcastic, 1/2 adorkable way. So, insert that here.
Bye

Excitement over pettinesses.

I've gone to an art store. I have always had the deep-seated wish that I could wake up one day and just magically be a painter. In the mirror late at night I practice the pose and poise of it, they way my pale pink mouth would sneer with disgust at others works, the way my right hand would cradle a dying cigarette and my left would whip a paintbrush with deft accuracy and artistic praises would bloom around me like roses. And yet, I have writer writ across my heart and hands with an ink that just won't wash off, trust me, I've tried. But my wishful thinking took over and I bought an 8x10 scratchboard and some sketch pens. I plan to break out my print-out of Van Gogh's Milk Pitcher and spend the next month and a half frustrated and and praying that my painter skills with just magically appear like a superpower and I will be able to mimic the one-eared master's works. It is doubtful after all, someone is only allowed so much out of life and somethings are just not meant to be. But a dreamer can dream right? I saw Tangled the other day. Have I told you how pathetic I am when it comes to cute, romantic children's movies? It's bad, it's really bad. I didn't realize how bad it was until I found an entire notebook of poetry written about cute romantic children's movies. Whenever I feel a dark bit of teenage angst creeping up inside of me, I whip out the hazelnut chocolate and the cute romantic children's movies and hide out until it creeps away in shame. I don't want my life to be added to the youth suicide statistics. I like to imagine myself as a knight with hazelnut chocolate as a sword and cute romantic children's movies as a shield riding my white horse name 'Living Room Couch'.  Maybe I should shut up and poeticize.

Story of Old Man Kangaroo

Ankles askew,
or furthermore akimbo,
galumphing across
the plain planes,
sweating in the rude awakening
of the summer summer sun,
or winter sun
what's the difference?

Carry to your home-
keys, mangos, lipsticks,
aspirin, wallet photographs,
all inside your pooching pouch.

Old as the days are long,
old as the hills in fact,
(We all know they are ANCIENT)
You with your sweater on quite backwards,
zipped up over your thumping tail,
Age is never what it wants to be.

But do come along any way
We can beat you at any old race
but you've got us on storytelling.
So, sing-song it
Old Man Kangaroo
tell us what we need to know.

ACCIDENT

So I accidently hit the 'New Post' button instead of the 'View Blog' one. Now I feel compelled to write as if this is a sign from the great heavens above. (It isn't, this will be RUBBISH) Got published at Magic Cat Press. You've read the poems already. (Ballgame and Oh Love) One small step for unknown pale blogger, one giant step for unknown pale blogger-kind. Here is the link, feel free to hop up there and give them some LOVE. They deserve it. http://magiccatpress.weebly.com/index.html They're cool cats. (PUNDAY) Well, since you've been such good readers, having sat through my on-and-on-ing, HERE YOU GO

Cat-call over the hillsides,
the sides with smiles
Cheshire-like in their wildness.

Tell me my lovelyness seven times over.
I need to know somehow,
somehow I just must
find it beyond these hillsides,
smile as they may.

I can't hold it inside
or outside anymore
it's vanished from me
like the bunny-runners.

I need it told to me
am I still okay,
still sewn up tight as the night,
with stiches straight as the stars.
Cat call over these hillsides
and tell me I'm perfect.

It's lacking a title, feel free.

Happy Fiesta

SO hai there. I've spent the day with a grand two hours of slumber under my belt. Now would be a good time to write because everything would come out all lazy-slow and curled together like a wind-blown cloud. I will tell you the reasons for my insomniatic escapades, it's that darned balloon fiesta. It has come 'round the good ol' state your truly recently moved to and I am determined to be as New Mexican as possible, which means I must waking up at four and tromping down in the freeze-your-buttocks-off cold to watch the hot air balloons fly up into the welcoming sk- Oop, no, they aren't going up today, too rainy. In my pursuit to become a New Mexican, I have also become an expert on answering the Chile question, which is a huge improvement on my earlier idiocy. When the poor man at the breakfast burrito counter asked me 'Red or green?' in a sad little monotone, I (obviously) sat back on my Los Angeles hip and snarkily said 'Red or green WHAT?'. He looked at me for a moment like I was dumb or somethin' as my native friend tugged my shirtsleeve and said, 'He means chilies.'. I grin my this-will-fix-everything smile and told him green. He charged my extra on my burrito and probably spat in it. Now we're even. I also hope to one day use the slang term for my city, smoke hookah and drive as badly as these dear people that I have grown to love. Wink wink. Anyway, where was I going with this? Right, I was giving the sad excuse as to why I have not updated in forEVER. I started a novel I find quite engrossing. It's love I think. I am not going to write much more due to that sweet page-turner. I plan to go balloon chasing tomorrow and I am going to stay up all night reading then swath myself in thick wools and fleeces at the crack of dawn and creep out the door to watch and bathe in the festivities of the Land Of Enchantment. Lord help me. So, to cut to the bleeding chase, as if I can even do that now, here's a poem to tide you over. Goodnight. Or morning. Whatever, it's doesn't matter.

Mara

Those of the metal hearts, I am; tonight.
welded in Assyria by Plato
without seams, so it seems, to you.

He used to say he was falling in love
with the little poet-girl, such a lie
to grace such previously unmarked lips
'Love he said, there in the Nota Bene

But, nevertheless, a metal heart
traded; given was the crumbly black one
shedding it's tired aorta into my stomach

Now I am the mighty child of Ababbar
bore of the breath of sweet, vain Nuit
her kiss to bring me life, her stars in my chest
Tonight, I am; metal-hearted--gilded.