The Dreams Are Vivid
***
My older brother, who is younger than I, sat across the room and spoke meekly, “Can I have a coke?”
“What kind,” I say, “You want a regular coke?”
“Yeah, just Coke.”
I dug change from the bottom of my purse where it spilled from my wallet the day before when I paid the parking fee. I left to fetch his drink, and vaguely recalled the drinks were sixty cents and that I could get a root beer for myself. The machines at work never had root beer. The drinks were cold, my hand numbing from the long walk.
“Well, I need ice,” he said, sitting across the room, staring hard at me.
“You need ice,” I said to the wall. I poured the water from the plastic hospital pitcher that couldn’t keep snow cold outside in winter, rinsed his cup while I was at it, and then headed back down the hall for ice.
I carried plenty of cash in my purse; hadn’t done that in years, not since we cut back on eating out, and not since we started using the cash card for everything in order to record our expenses. Cash always spent too easy, but it was mostly singles for parking and cokes, or an occasional bite to eat for myself.
***
You lay frightened in the bed, barely lucid, eyes staring wide. I never wanted to be strong. I wanted to crumble and fall. I’ve been weary, tired of dealing and coping with the hardships of life, but I rose, stiff from sitting, knees drawn close by aching arms, and I went to you, wondering what you must be thinking…
***
There’s a lady beside my bed, smiling calmly. I think I know her. Yes, yes, I do know her. “You’re shirt’s purple”. No, that isn’t what I meant at all.
“Yep, that’s right,” she says. She smiles pretty, with her eyes and with her lips. She looks happy. She grins funny, with her teeth, stretching her mouth wide, and I grin back. Her shirt’s my favorite color.
“You’re my sister. You’re a girl.”
“Right again, buddy boy. How you doin’ there, huh?”
“You want some coke?” the man asks. I forgot that he was there beside me and I have to think hard. It’s important that I remember him, “You’re my father, right?”
The lady answers for him and I look at her face again, “Coke?”
“Here ya go,” the mans says, and I watch the lady smile while my mouth tries to find the straw.
***
You lay frightened in the bed, barely lucid, eyes staring wide. I came upon you once, screaming to the empty room.
***
I sat in a corner watching you, but mostly stood, leaning on the bed rail, holding your hand. Your brow and nose shone with weeks of neglect and I washed my hands again. Looking in the mirror, feeling guilty, I wet a washcloth and patted and stroked your face. The hospice nurse said you already knew, but it was good to say aloud. And while Daddy watched you, I knew his words wouldn’t come. I talked close and spoke so soft, I wondered if you could hear me at all through your staring gaze. I told you that the doctor wanted to stop dialysis, that it wasn’t working, that without it, your kidney would fail and without your kidney, your heart would stop. I asked you if you understood and saw the tears roll from your dull, flat eyes. I gave you what I could and told you not to worry, that I would take care of everyone. I tried. I recalled a few days previous when you looked at me with all the wonder and delight of a child, and you knew me in a way. But I didn’t know it was already too late then and I grew tired and exhausted and knew I needed to sleep, “Don’t wait for me Bubba, okay?…you go when you need to go.” I said and touched your hand. I was hesitant to leave you, but I slept deeply. The phone rang and I didn’t need to know. You left early that next morning. I looked at my husband and he at me and hung up the phone. I turned, sleeping longer and deeper. Daddy would be home and we would both need coffee. I had done what I could and it was his turn.
***
I sometimes wonder if you’re on that beach I gave you. Warm sand, warm sun, cool breezes, and clear blue ocean. A peaceful place, the only one I had to share. I visit in my dreams now and then, but I never see you.
Saturday, July 26, 2003
I
There's that expression
And you're suddenly
Out of the moment
70 miles per hour.
I don't have to know
(A lull in the traffic
And silence fills the
Lapse.)
What you're thinking,
Only that you are.
II
My autobiography title will be, "How do you raise yourself from scratch?"
My eulogy will be, "She lived not too quietly."
III
Teach me to dance,
Beat, deep and pounding, rush.
And I will come alive.
IV
The white peach
Famed the most sweet,
Here, they grow
And bleed into a deep red crush.
True southern girls
Are just born to it.
There's that expression
And you're suddenly
Out of the moment
70 miles per hour.
I don't have to know
(A lull in the traffic
And silence fills the
Lapse.)
What you're thinking,
Only that you are.
II
My autobiography title will be, "How do you raise yourself from scratch?"
My eulogy will be, "She lived not too quietly."
III
Teach me to dance,
Beat, deep and pounding, rush.
And I will come alive.
IV
The white peach
Famed the most sweet,
Here, they grow
And bleed into a deep red crush.
True southern girls
Are just born to it.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
I
Today, I
Laughed deeply and heartily
Today, I
Smiled genuinely.
Today, I
Took not one, but two deep breaths,
And chose to rise above them all.
And therefore, tomorrow, I
Shall do more than persevere.
II
If I can have but one brief kiss or touch or smile, I will last the day. If the day passes and I do without, I will say, ah, well, there's always tomorrow.
Today, I
Laughed deeply and heartily
Today, I
Smiled genuinely.
Today, I
Took not one, but two deep breaths,
And chose to rise above them all.
And therefore, tomorrow, I
Shall do more than persevere.
II
If I can have but one brief kiss or touch or smile, I will last the day. If the day passes and I do without, I will say, ah, well, there's always tomorrow.
I
You catch me off guard when my mind is elsewhere. (Isn't it always elsewhere?) And just that single second in time thrills me. Then as the heat settles into a deep red crush, I fan my face. The moment is complete and we move on to the rest of the day.
II
Silence. Verbally non-adroit. My fingers bleed with words my tongue cannot form. I communcate in other ways. Expressing joy, I revel in a heightened sense of touch, smell, taste, the sight of you.
You catch me off guard when my mind is elsewhere. (Isn't it always elsewhere?) And just that single second in time thrills me. Then as the heat settles into a deep red crush, I fan my face. The moment is complete and we move on to the rest of the day.
II
Silence. Verbally non-adroit. My fingers bleed with words my tongue cannot form. I communcate in other ways. Expressing joy, I revel in a heightened sense of touch, smell, taste, the sight of you.
Maybe the recognition is enough and actions are unnecessary? Maybe I'm a coward making excuses. Either way, I move forward and into the next day. On one hand my middle name is perseverence and adversity. I must have really fucked up in my last life, because I'm paying for it in this one. On the other hand, heaven is a whole in the heart of desire and I awake gladly into the new day. So it's a wash. And I'll take it.
Wednesday, July 23, 2003
I
I Turn, face to the warm, bright sun
That fades into the cool night of
Goodbyes and fleeting shadows.
The firm earth supports me.
II
If you ever reach the core of me,
There’s a stillness, a quiet.
Pray, turn away, and run.
For all my cool flesh and softness
The emotions, the bruising easily,
Is simply the meat of the fruit,
Sweetness and pure bravado.
Deep inside lies a seed sown,
An old soul, tired and
Weary of the world.
A hard core.
III
You came and went this morning. I never saw you, but you left behind a warm towel and I pressed my face to it, breathing deep.
I Turn, face to the warm, bright sun
That fades into the cool night of
Goodbyes and fleeting shadows.
The firm earth supports me.
II
If you ever reach the core of me,
There’s a stillness, a quiet.
Pray, turn away, and run.
For all my cool flesh and softness
The emotions, the bruising easily,
Is simply the meat of the fruit,
Sweetness and pure bravado.
Deep inside lies a seed sown,
An old soul, tired and
Weary of the world.
A hard core.
III
You came and went this morning. I never saw you, but you left behind a warm towel and I pressed my face to it, breathing deep.
Tuesday, July 22, 2003
I
Did I use you
to kill the pain?
to redirect the focus?
If so, I need more.
II
So, really, can you have a permanant or long lasting relationship that's part-time, now and then?
Cause I care for you a lot, but I don't want more than we've had. Just longer lasting.
I like the way you make me think outside myself.
III
I don't need time or space - that just gives me the opportunity to think.
IV
I've slipped into a cool funk, but dragging myself back.
Did I use you
to kill the pain?
to redirect the focus?
If so, I need more.
II
So, really, can you have a permanant or long lasting relationship that's part-time, now and then?
Cause I care for you a lot, but I don't want more than we've had. Just longer lasting.
I like the way you make me think outside myself.
III
I don't need time or space - that just gives me the opportunity to think.
IV
I've slipped into a cool funk, but dragging myself back.
Capricorn: "It is important for you to not over-analyze every little detail of your situation at this time, dear Capricorn, especially when it comes to issues regarding love and romance. It could be that you are jumping to ridiculous conclusions based on purely circumstantial evidence. Don't lose sleep over things that you don't even know to be true. Release your stranglehold on certain issues, and concentrate on simply rebuilding your own self-confidence. " LMAO....sorry, but sometimes horoscopes and personality type assessments have a grain of truth...
I
Another fucking useles tuesday
hits me hard between the eyes;
But I see you first thing
and the simple sight of you
makes me smile.
II
Where you been Cynder Lynn?
You sure took a long time coming...
Hovering beneath the
surface, simmering silently.
Not like that girl I drug screaming
and kicking out into the
world, wide-eyed and unwilling.
Another fucking useles tuesday
hits me hard between the eyes;
But I see you first thing
and the simple sight of you
makes me smile.
II
Where you been Cynder Lynn?
You sure took a long time coming...
Hovering beneath the
surface, simmering silently.
Not like that girl I drug screaming
and kicking out into the
world, wide-eyed and unwilling.
Monday, July 21, 2003
OK! I'm gonna be brave and give up something more than random thoughts...this is the shortest of my stories, so it's fairly flash...the last revision was in April...
Bruises
A few weeks ago I slipped stepping into the tub, landing bare-assed on the floor, right leg extended toward shiny white porcelain, bruising the bone and knotting desperately. A few days ago, I slipped while de-icing the car before work – work that ended up being closed the entire day, not just until noon – the other leg, not so big a knot. Cutting a corner too close at the café recently, molding striking soft flesh, barely missing the connection between leg and thigh, just tender to the touch. Back right calf, barely there, almost faded, left outside kneecap, two places –I hadn’t noticed them before today. Should I circle them and make a notation in permanent ink – tub, doorframe, side of fireplace, dog. Or start a diary – dear diary, turned too quick while standing still, hit x with y, x much harder, resulting in level one bruise. I wonder does my husband notice them as he runs cool fingers along too hot flesh. He never mentions them. He doesn’t wear his glasses when we sleep, though; they just get in the way.
I think of my grandmother and of her arms, soft and fleshy, sleeveless against the morning chill; later in life, her skin became paper-thin, only two layers, the material touching too close, bruising, cool baths, Ivory Gentle Flakes. I should have paid attention more, maybe… My grandfather noticed, we were reminded with a soft reprimand each visit – you know mother bruises easy, watch her condition, now – and we would hug her gently at arms length. The house remained – probably until her death – aglow in a burnished orange haze, the curtains never opened and never replaced. She would don dark glasses when stepping onto the long porch in the early evening shadows, rarely approaching the steps. Steps where, until the age of ten, I drank Cokes in green glass bottles and ate Moonpies from the wrapper. Bare legs extended and face toward the sun, I would bask in the warmth of it all. It would be more than ten years before my father and his father reconciled. It would be another ten before my brother and father reconciled. I wondered what other unseen bruises had been carried by my grandmother besides transgressions of which I was vaguely aware.
I sported marks on the back of both arms from allergy shots for almost a year; each arm, twice then once a week, alternating pollen and mold by the arm – pollen was the bruiser. People asked, I told them. Stress last fall resulted in a slight irregularity, they took blood, and the needle left a creeping bruise in the crease of my elbow. People asked, I told them. There are others of varying depths and color that lay unseen by the naked eye, I wear these on my sleeve sometimes and in my eyes, my heart breaking with deep regret and sadness and loss; crying in my car every morning for four months, tears spilling to sad songs that made me think too much, my father’s big eyes, helpless beside me as we watched without recourse. Seeing eyes could never know my last words before I left my brother to die that night – left to die without me.
I wonder how something so innocent as life can be taken so cruelly; why people are how they are, their actions, their motives, and I wonder if their bruises, like mine, are hidden deep, just below the surface, each an island unto themselves, eaten away by the ebbing tide, but always there.
Bruises
A few weeks ago I slipped stepping into the tub, landing bare-assed on the floor, right leg extended toward shiny white porcelain, bruising the bone and knotting desperately. A few days ago, I slipped while de-icing the car before work – work that ended up being closed the entire day, not just until noon – the other leg, not so big a knot. Cutting a corner too close at the café recently, molding striking soft flesh, barely missing the connection between leg and thigh, just tender to the touch. Back right calf, barely there, almost faded, left outside kneecap, two places –I hadn’t noticed them before today. Should I circle them and make a notation in permanent ink – tub, doorframe, side of fireplace, dog. Or start a diary – dear diary, turned too quick while standing still, hit x with y, x much harder, resulting in level one bruise. I wonder does my husband notice them as he runs cool fingers along too hot flesh. He never mentions them. He doesn’t wear his glasses when we sleep, though; they just get in the way.
I think of my grandmother and of her arms, soft and fleshy, sleeveless against the morning chill; later in life, her skin became paper-thin, only two layers, the material touching too close, bruising, cool baths, Ivory Gentle Flakes. I should have paid attention more, maybe… My grandfather noticed, we were reminded with a soft reprimand each visit – you know mother bruises easy, watch her condition, now – and we would hug her gently at arms length. The house remained – probably until her death – aglow in a burnished orange haze, the curtains never opened and never replaced. She would don dark glasses when stepping onto the long porch in the early evening shadows, rarely approaching the steps. Steps where, until the age of ten, I drank Cokes in green glass bottles and ate Moonpies from the wrapper. Bare legs extended and face toward the sun, I would bask in the warmth of it all. It would be more than ten years before my father and his father reconciled. It would be another ten before my brother and father reconciled. I wondered what other unseen bruises had been carried by my grandmother besides transgressions of which I was vaguely aware.
I sported marks on the back of both arms from allergy shots for almost a year; each arm, twice then once a week, alternating pollen and mold by the arm – pollen was the bruiser. People asked, I told them. Stress last fall resulted in a slight irregularity, they took blood, and the needle left a creeping bruise in the crease of my elbow. People asked, I told them. There are others of varying depths and color that lay unseen by the naked eye, I wear these on my sleeve sometimes and in my eyes, my heart breaking with deep regret and sadness and loss; crying in my car every morning for four months, tears spilling to sad songs that made me think too much, my father’s big eyes, helpless beside me as we watched without recourse. Seeing eyes could never know my last words before I left my brother to die that night – left to die without me.
I wonder how something so innocent as life can be taken so cruelly; why people are how they are, their actions, their motives, and I wonder if their bruises, like mine, are hidden deep, just below the surface, each an island unto themselves, eaten away by the ebbing tide, but always there.
Once, I walked along side Hope, the white buffalo. I would run my fingers through her course pelt and speak to her in gutteral tones. I hung from bone and sinew that ripped at the tender flesh of my chest and contemplated the great spirit. I ran with the wind, and fell like a stone when the whites came. I was a man, a warrior, and I died along side the river listening to the cry of women and children. I have been a women since, I am a woman now. But sometimes I dream of running wild and free and I wake to the smell of long meadow grass, and know sadness for the death of Hope.
Upon the evening of my demise, the birds slowed in the sky, a hovering stillness. And silence grew to defening porportions. All I knew was the beating of your heart and the pulsing of your veins. All that engulfed was the darkness and a deep seeded hunger that burned with the taste on your lips and the grazing of teeth.
I
I will never deny you
Words or food
Or the smallest piece of me
That bit there
Between desire and need
II
Peaches are best in the summer months. Plump and sweet when juice runs down tanned skin. How else would you eat a peach except greedily? Hungrily, as if there were no other delight in the world.
III
When did my nipples grow larger, my breasts heavier, my hips take on flesh. When did I become beautiful in my own right, comfortable in my own skin? And was it about that time or later that I grew restless? Later, I think, much later - after sadness, after dispair, and but certainly just before I met you.
I will never deny you
Words or food
Or the smallest piece of me
That bit there
Between desire and need
II
Peaches are best in the summer months. Plump and sweet when juice runs down tanned skin. How else would you eat a peach except greedily? Hungrily, as if there were no other delight in the world.
III
When did my nipples grow larger, my breasts heavier, my hips take on flesh. When did I become beautiful in my own right, comfortable in my own skin? And was it about that time or later that I grew restless? Later, I think, much later - after sadness, after dispair, and but certainly just before I met you.
Sunday, July 20, 2003
June poems for robert...
I
When you left,
you left a hole
I anticipated your return
I would lie awake nights
as the air turned cool
And the trees shed their tender skin
I wept most days
but still no you
I gave you my beach
in your dying days
And I think of you there,
Toes sucking sand
cool breezes drifting out to aquamarine horizons
Surrounded by golden boys
Laughing and playing
eyes bright and smiling at me
As I embrace myself
and try to breed
As I grasp life with no intention but to live and know
II
You will never again know the touch of soft, tender, silent lips treading silent kisses across your arm, or the look of need, whispering softly, indiscernible over inebriate desire. You took desire in life. I can only hope you find peace in death.
II
Thanos courted me as a child
But I was not afraid, and will never deny what was
I can only hope you lie in his gentle embrace,
Loved as I was, purely for my soul
Undated June poems...
I
I step outside myself and into the bright sunlight.
Breathing deep the smell of you,
Savoring the touch, the taste,
I pause to wonder just how long we could have made June last.
II
I love
My southern summers with their heat
And the sound of cicada waxing, waning.
I love
Those lazy, languid days when desire throbs
Unrequited and the coolness of your skin burns.
I love
The soft flesh of your lips pressed against me
And the flush that creeps steadily, intensely, deeper.
I love
Unknowingly as my heart aches in silent splinters, unspoken,
Unacknowledged, held at arms length, forced into the depths of
Never-Never, gone the way of fairy kings, softly into that good night.
III
“And he toucheth hir wombe ful softe”
Januarie to May, Chaucer's Merchant's Tale
I
When you left,
you left a hole
I anticipated your return
I would lie awake nights
as the air turned cool
And the trees shed their tender skin
I wept most days
but still no you
I gave you my beach
in your dying days
And I think of you there,
Toes sucking sand
cool breezes drifting out to aquamarine horizons
Surrounded by golden boys
Laughing and playing
eyes bright and smiling at me
As I embrace myself
and try to breed
As I grasp life with no intention but to live and know
II
You will never again know the touch of soft, tender, silent lips treading silent kisses across your arm, or the look of need, whispering softly, indiscernible over inebriate desire. You took desire in life. I can only hope you find peace in death.
II
Thanos courted me as a child
But I was not afraid, and will never deny what was
I can only hope you lie in his gentle embrace,
Loved as I was, purely for my soul
Undated June poems...
I
I step outside myself and into the bright sunlight.
Breathing deep the smell of you,
Savoring the touch, the taste,
I pause to wonder just how long we could have made June last.
II
I love
My southern summers with their heat
And the sound of cicada waxing, waning.
I love
Those lazy, languid days when desire throbs
Unrequited and the coolness of your skin burns.
I love
The soft flesh of your lips pressed against me
And the flush that creeps steadily, intensely, deeper.
I love
Unknowingly as my heart aches in silent splinters, unspoken,
Unacknowledged, held at arms length, forced into the depths of
Never-Never, gone the way of fairy kings, softly into that good night.
III
“And he toucheth hir wombe ful softe”
Januarie to May, Chaucer's Merchant's Tale
Portraits
DANI
Sadness filled the dark room where Dani Lynn sat. The silence engulfed her as the screen glowed harsh against her faded tan and short blonde hair. But even working couldn’t take her mind off him. With every word she wrote, her thoughts turned. Every sentence. Every breath. She wanted to reach out and touch his heart. His mind. She wanted those things that would never be hers. She dressed for him on any day she thought brought hope, and she sighed most nights, lovelorn.
Dani had his flesh, though, and yet not completely. She could never adorn him with the marks she ached to leave. She could never have him in the abundance she craved. She thought too often of his flesh. Warm and smooth beneath her hands, stirring and hard beneath her mouth. It excited her to have her mouth on him, pulling and tugging, sucking. It excited her, his quickness to come, his appreciation of her gentle, imperfect curves. It excited her and left her wanting. He was also quick to leave.
Dani didn’t kid herself. She knew she would never walk with him hand in hand beneath the glorious sun, the soft sounds of summer drifting on the too warm breeze. She would never look at him longingly, openly for the world to see. Or lean back into his warm embrace for comfort. Her desire for him was hers alone, and she would hold it close and keep it safe, guard it well. Caressingly, lovingly, she would bring it out on those starry nights, and touch herself while thoughts of him drifted hazily off into a softly muttered, oh. And then silence would again engulf her.
No, Dani didn’t kid herself, but took what he allowed and was thankful. He brought her to the brink and she was afraid to lose even a single instance of feeling alive.
Dani turned toward the bed and slid beneath the cool fresh sheets, and touched her husband’s warm back. She pulled the linens close and huddled tightly on the edge of the bed and slept fitfully, dreaming of the unknown.
VERA
Vera sometimes thinks of her brother, not the one she grew up with, but the one her mother miscarried the year before she was born. She feels bound to him, that she may be leading his life, that if he had survived, Vera herself, never would have been, that it’s not her mother’s Murphy blood that continually thwarts her, but his fate – interrupting.
He haunts her dreams and many waking moments. He has for years. And yet, there is the briefest occasion when she sees him so clearly she could weep. His name is Sadness, Remorse, Despair, and her love for him is unbearable, unshakable, and even palpable at times.
He kisses Vera on the cheek and her heart bleeds for the touch of him. She wakes, to too cool flesh still responding to the heat of his touch, and ponders Freud, and though he reminds her of her father, tall and lithe with dark hair and the sallow skin of the Portugese, yet he does not necessarily have the look of him. And what did Freud say of women? We are the non-entities.
DANI
Sadness filled the dark room where Dani Lynn sat. The silence engulfed her as the screen glowed harsh against her faded tan and short blonde hair. But even working couldn’t take her mind off him. With every word she wrote, her thoughts turned. Every sentence. Every breath. She wanted to reach out and touch his heart. His mind. She wanted those things that would never be hers. She dressed for him on any day she thought brought hope, and she sighed most nights, lovelorn.
Dani had his flesh, though, and yet not completely. She could never adorn him with the marks she ached to leave. She could never have him in the abundance she craved. She thought too often of his flesh. Warm and smooth beneath her hands, stirring and hard beneath her mouth. It excited her to have her mouth on him, pulling and tugging, sucking. It excited her, his quickness to come, his appreciation of her gentle, imperfect curves. It excited her and left her wanting. He was also quick to leave.
Dani didn’t kid herself. She knew she would never walk with him hand in hand beneath the glorious sun, the soft sounds of summer drifting on the too warm breeze. She would never look at him longingly, openly for the world to see. Or lean back into his warm embrace for comfort. Her desire for him was hers alone, and she would hold it close and keep it safe, guard it well. Caressingly, lovingly, she would bring it out on those starry nights, and touch herself while thoughts of him drifted hazily off into a softly muttered, oh. And then silence would again engulf her.
No, Dani didn’t kid herself, but took what he allowed and was thankful. He brought her to the brink and she was afraid to lose even a single instance of feeling alive.
Dani turned toward the bed and slid beneath the cool fresh sheets, and touched her husband’s warm back. She pulled the linens close and huddled tightly on the edge of the bed and slept fitfully, dreaming of the unknown.
VERA
Vera sometimes thinks of her brother, not the one she grew up with, but the one her mother miscarried the year before she was born. She feels bound to him, that she may be leading his life, that if he had survived, Vera herself, never would have been, that it’s not her mother’s Murphy blood that continually thwarts her, but his fate – interrupting.
He haunts her dreams and many waking moments. He has for years. And yet, there is the briefest occasion when she sees him so clearly she could weep. His name is Sadness, Remorse, Despair, and her love for him is unbearable, unshakable, and even palpable at times.
He kisses Vera on the cheek and her heart bleeds for the touch of him. She wakes, to too cool flesh still responding to the heat of his touch, and ponders Freud, and though he reminds her of her father, tall and lithe with dark hair and the sallow skin of the Portugese, yet he does not necessarily have the look of him. And what did Freud say of women? We are the non-entities.
Here's an email I have recieved:
To: HRH_peach@yahoo.com
Subject: nice page
Date: Sun, 20 Jul 2003 09:50:41 -0500
You like to use the word fuck…..hehehehehe
[LOUS] :Sch: Kernlicious [L]
"Quod sum eris"
WELL! dear kernilicious, thanks for your feedback. I can't wait to get a comments seection so that we can discuss things more easily. Yeah, I like to use the word FUCK a lot. First, it's one of my few addictionsand favorite passtimes...that, books, steak, coffee and avocados, sustain me through this hellish life. Further more, I like to drive fast, play my music loud AND cuss, often, and usually at the same time. Makes me feel good. My favorite phrase right now, is "stupidfuckingdillhole". What's yours? ~peach
p.s. I can't spell or type worth a shit, so if you'd like to comment on that...oh, wait, no, that's right, you can FUCK OFF!
tootles, peach!
To: HRH_peach@yahoo.com
Subject: nice page
Date: Sun, 20 Jul 2003 09:50:41 -0500
You like to use the word fuck…..hehehehehe
[LOUS] :Sch: Kernlicious [L]
"Quod sum eris"
WELL! dear kernilicious, thanks for your feedback. I can't wait to get a comments seection so that we can discuss things more easily. Yeah, I like to use the word FUCK a lot. First, it's one of my few addictionsand favorite passtimes...that, books, steak, coffee and avocados, sustain me through this hellish life. Further more, I like to drive fast, play my music loud AND cuss, often, and usually at the same time. Makes me feel good. My favorite phrase right now, is "stupidfuckingdillhole". What's yours? ~peach
p.s. I can't spell or type worth a shit, so if you'd like to comment on that...oh, wait, no, that's right, you can FUCK OFF!
tootles, peach!
Everywhere I go I see your face. I look for you in the crowd. I thought I saw you online once in someone’s part pics, wide-eyed and frightened. It of course wasn’t you. We buried you in the rain. Sweet smells of damp, fresh turned soil. We stood beneath the new cement and tin-roofed pavilion in March. The iris on your coffin were beautiful and deep, just enough for your boys to take one each. And Daddy came home twice that year, each time lost. No father should have to bury his son. No sister should have to watch her brother die in pain. But we did, and we live on. I gave the boys your things and left the rest. I have your high school ring and wear it sometimes, the emerald starburst shining and deep, mesmeric. We had our trials and tribulations. Once you came clean, we even had our talks, and learned not to judge. ~I love you, bubba, peach.