what was normal in the evening by the morning seems insane.

The Piano Speaks

After Erik Satie

by Sandra Beasley

For an hour I forgot my fat self,

my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment.

For an hour I forgot my fear of rain.

For an hour I was a salamander

shimmying through the kelp in search of shore,

and under his fingers the notes slid loose

from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs

that took root in the mud. And what

would hatch, I did not know—

a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass.

For an hour I stood on two legs

and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped.

For an hour I was a maple tree,

and under the summer of his fingers

the notes seeded and winged away

in the clutch of small, elegant helicopters.

_______

minimum wage steals the night away
& morning always comes too soon

what's the point of being special if noone's there to see it?
midnight
one
two
three
halflit cigarette fills a porchlight with smoke

chases away the demons of the night

midnight to dawn;
this is the hour of the wolf


and we're all too fucked up to feel it
that sudden sinking
that unseen terror
we've no guns or knives or blunt sticks
we arm ourselves with nicotine
booze
steel-plated hearts

just to make it to the sunrise.




I've been experimenting with new mediums. My new typewriter for one, which is why only one poem of late. The rest wouldn't translate well. they aren't worth the time it would take to type again, anyways. Blackout poetry, too. Pages sliced from a book that now acts as a jewlery box. I've picked up knitting, again. I've picked up a new turn table. I've picked myself up and knocked me back down all over again.

It's been a while since I last wrote about life, and I suppose things have changed. I am still the teenaged mother, though with my aunts passing it's gotten easier and more difficult and I find myself snapping at odd times because I am the strong one and I can't, I can not, allow myself to become an emotional wreck again.

Of course, no matter what I do, I turn into a completely different mess.

I drink too much and I smoke too much and I hate myself too much and I am too out of control and too stuck in myself and too big for my own two hands and for this island and for people to understand what I am going through. It's all my fault, but I can't help it. I can't stop it.

There are so many blurry nights lately. I've fallen into old habits easy. And I want you to understand, I do. I just worry that you worry and it tears me apart. I let someone know once and they just couldn't keep caring. Not that I could blame them.

Missed meals and the ones had lost soon after with a quick little finger trick. Long digits are good for something, at least. Lately it's been easier. I forget sometimes, I do. But I am trying. It's just hard when I see the weight dropping off and the compliments finally come, the first kind thing my mother has said in years.

I am tired of being the disappointment.

I hate that I love the nights of fudge with shrooms that tastes like easter candy in august, chalky and stale and straight to your head, lights blooming like flowers until all the words are ripped from you and tears stream down your face. I hate that I love the numbing of the pain pills, the lightheaded giddy seperation from everything. I hate that I love the blackout nights, the sloppy drinking, the half empty vodka bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other. I hate that I love waking up to the bruises and the missed memories and the knowledge that at least, for a few hours, I was free from my mind and my mother and my OCD and manic depression and hypochondria and body issues.

I hate that when I feel out of control, I feel beautiful.

I hate that I love the way my eyes look so blue when they are so red, when my head is a bubble about to burst and every moment is like waking up from a bad dream into something wonderful.

I hate that I love skipping the iron pills, playing russian roulette with the days until I am walking and my legs give out to the black explosion in my mind, falling forwards into disorientation. I hate that I laugh afterwards. I hate that I do the same thing a few days later.

I hate that my mother calls me a failure. I hate that my brother calls me a drunk. I hate that my father doesn't even call me anything, I am not that important.

I hate that when I am happy, it doesn't last long until this comes back. I hate that when this comes, I hate all of you. I hate your talent and your beauty and your flaws, because no matter what they are, they are more glamorous than mine. I hate that I could write books about you, I could love you all forever, but I know that in reality, I will always be the afterthought. The fuck up. The mess.

I hate that when the high wears off, I hate myself more than ever. I hate that people have to play 'mother' like I am some deranged child incapable of caring for itself. I hate that I am exactly that. I hate that I can never shake the feeling another mistake is around the corner. I hate that it's what keeps me going.

I know you'll never understand it.

I know you'll worry.

I know this will come back to haunt me somehow.

But I know I will be alright.

Just give me time to make my mistakes.