My Diaree - by Pixie kat

Pixie’s diaree.

day: won

Tuday not veree eventful cuz mi brothur kep runing bak frum the big wite poole that flushus an liking mi fase. I didunt lyke it to mutch cuz hes alwayz duin that kinda stuf an its gros. Momz said I hav a gyant anus, I think thas gud cuz they smyle wen thay say it. The udder cat at the dore is meen. Hees a boy an that meens he neads too nowe hiz plase. Thatz knot heere!! Momz lyke mee bestist.

Day: too

Eye gott serial withh xtraw milkk todaye. Momz skratched mi but fore awile wile I atte. Meen kat on the portch gott in an momz wur maad! Yu shud uf herd the shorte won yel at him. My furr is nicur then his. Sides I git to cum in and hes stoopid so he dusnt. Ha ha.

Day: Thre

Sur wish day wud playy cow wit me. itz una string..I havn gut cow in along tyme. I duno wye. Thay usta pley wit mee moor an nowe its gaga over tha dum kat on da porch. Eyem guna git him wen hes aslep and remine him hoos the bos!

Day: fore

I klawd him gud! Dum kat on da porch didun cee me cumin an I gott em gud! Teech him too sitt on mi porch alll daye lyke a no gud lazey kat! Eyem laffin all da waye to da banck! Ha ha lazey kat! I’m guna plan sumpthin els ta git him gud. Dumbel.

Day: fiv

I gut cow! I gut cow! Momz plaid kow wit mee fur alon tyme! An dumbel outsyde didunt git cow!

Day: sicks

Momz gave mee a lap an I did foot lots cuz it felt gud. I pured and pured. Eye cot thre bugz outsyde an dat stopid dumbel juz sat ther jelus cuz he waznt fast enuf. Lazee boy. Eye wasint bout to shair. Eye did all the work! Sides he smelt lots like poo. He needs to lik himself more but eye aint guna help him with that ether. Stinkee Dumbel is on his own.

Day: sevean

I slep lotz today. Hole weeks made me tyred. Its been lots o fun writn in hear. Dumbell cud never figire out how to do that. I suspekt I’m prety smart. For instence momz onlee hav to kall me wonce to kome in!! just wonce! My whiny brudder needs atlest too times, mabe morr!! An dumbel well you alredy no he cant kome in ever! Ha ha dumbel. He sleeps in the raine were he belongs! Hes stopid. Momz tell me to be nise so ok I will tri : its not his falt hes a dum boy. There.

Da end.

Pixie

Messy Thoughts

I just mumbled a rhyme!

Almost forgotten in time...

I can not place a pen,

With blood in vein,

I eagerly drain,

Upon my page to den,

And if I drip upon the rug

I’ll clean up when I’m done...

The words can’t wait,

For the unfound bait,

Of a pen in hand to be won-

The F word

It would be easy to hate me. I'm the thing you cling to before you preen with false bravado. I am the sweat on your skin before a big exam and the rustle in your feathers before any extra ordinary decision. I will sit invisible on your pillow at night holding your eyelids up until i can't anymore -

I have the power to multiply in you like a breeding miracle and overcome your being - I have occupied your past, consumed your present and cling fervently to your future. Never underestimate my power for in that decision, you will unknowingly write your own tomorrow (or lack there of)

I am not all bad however - it's all about perspective. I can also make you a better person and test your duration and strength. I can make you achieve things you wouldn't have otherwise. I am a necessary part of your design and as essential to your genetic disposition as the color of your eyes. you need me to thrive. You need me.

It is I who bows at the crippling cry of a child lost in a dark room, at the loss of a job, a house, a hope...but i am equally present before an important speech, reunion or birth. It is I who tiptoes between the first spoken 'I love you's' ....

I encompass you inside and out. But never forget this dear friend: (because yes, i can be) I am only as powerful a part in your life as you allow me to be.

Roots

I hate getting my hair cut. I don’t know why. It seems like one of those really personal things like going to the dentist or the doctor. A stranger you’ve known for all of 5 minutes is touching you , making critique silently or not. Plus, as weird as it sounds, all three of those professions involve holding sharp objects to your person. A doctor has an array of medical equipment to poke and prod one with, a dentist has drills and picks and a Beautician has scissors aimed at your scalp. I probably need not relate that I don’t just put off getting a hair cut.

So, because I am not only a procrastinator but also a cheap procrastinator, I decided on a whim to go to one of those quick salon’s where there is only two kinds of Beauticians; Young, bubble gum chewing women with too much product in their hair, or mature women with Old lady Perms who frequently sing along to the country music playing in the background. Soon, my name was called by a woman of about 55 with a large blonde Bouffant hairdo, breasts that beat her to any destination and a makeup job that rivaled all previous or current cast members of the Broadway musical ‘CATS’. She attempted to make chit-chat while I steadied myself in the swivel chair awaiting sharp objects. I explained briefly what I wanted as a spray bottle came out discharging a shower of tiny drops all around me. Ms. Bouffant then plunged her fingers into my hair like pudding, squeezing and wiggling her hand around as if to loosen my uptight mane from its lazy slumber. I was told I had ‘lovely body’ to my hair – to which I awkwardly smiled and thanked her for. I commented then how my thick hair often got unruly which often led me to using gobs of gel. I was advised that I might think about ‘curling and blow-drying the ends up to add a flip’. I smiled in reply which was a kinder retort than ‘good god no. I hate that girly shit.’ But it wasn’t Ms. Bouffant’s fault, she didn’t know me. Suddenly I got an image of her at my age – in her thirties with a bit more hair, painstakingly curled and sprayed, teased and fretted over. I tried to clear the image of my head and commented on my early graying which had been present in my hair for at least the last 8 years. She said, “Oh well did members of your family grey early?” and I hesitated before answering “yes”. My thoughts jumbled but rested on Mom who didn’t gray early, and Dad who also didn’t. But, my birth Mother did so I always pause on those kinds of questions. Later, while trimming my hair, Ms. Bouffant asked, “Did your mom and Dad both have thick curly hair?” and I paused again uncomfortably before saying ‘yes’ quietly. My Mom and Dad had thin straight hair. I felt like a liar. But, how can one answer these kinds of questions in a brief encounter at a hair salon and not sound crazy? I wasn’t about to tell her that the woman I called my ‘B.M’ did indeed have hair exactly like mine- thick, streaked with gray, wavy and identical. I wasn’t going to say how Pa might or might not have my hair, that I didn’t know because technically I was just another ‘bastard’ that didn’t know who her father was. I was told he could be one of several men. But my ‘B.M’ was a fraud on many levels and wasn’t a parent at all. She gave me my hair and I owned up to that sitting in this swivel chair with no escape. I wanted to take my answers back but I couldn’t. I had said them and they stuck in the air like stale grease. Yes, I was her biological daughter and my hair would always give me away.

I suddenly wanted to tear my hair out at the roots. Start over. I wanted to tell Ms. Bouffant she could have all my ‘lovely body’ if she could help me grow in straight thin hair like Mom’s. I swallowed all of this instead but still wished I had answered differently. If she could make my hair like my mother’s – like the woman who raised, loved me and then died too soon, maybe my answers wouldn’t come with a pause.

He Promised

He promised he’d stretch out his hand and meet me in the middle of nowhere….and I took four trains and a taxi to get there. Another no-show. I brought my purple party hats, my loaded gun of glee. I only found the space that waited with a disappointed me.

I crawled across four continents of Kleenex to get there. I summoned my Towanda and the fairies from the backyard to accompany me. I wasn’t alone. Not really. My hands were cracked from the wind and stung like the sun trying to get in without my consent. I left the station.

I requested my scars wait by the phone for a call. The silence broke the room in half.

I pawed the Kodak in hand reflecting me and tell her not to release the floods, not now. Don’t crack like your dry hands. Save it for a he that shows up.

Towanda said I’m better off. I wish I had her courage. I’m going to write her name fifty times in the sand until I believe her. (The fairies hinted that purple crayon works best).

I tried to water my smiles so they’d grow, but the dirt knew the difference - and the smiles wouldn’t take. Mother earth is no fool.

I will plant a flower in his memory. Something to stick in the ground and stay. I will purposefully not water it. I will watch it die and let myself release the floods. Only then will I mourn.

Something will pop up in its place. A gangly weed - with thorns, obtrusive and ugly as reminder. It always does.

This weed comes back kicking every year. Prickly and sharp to the touch, drawing blood as usual, leaving a mark, a pain, a stain - as weeds do.

The weed beckons with its need, But my hand is not outstretched to meet it. The purple party hats were long thrown away- perhaps my scars were bored with being scars. I find few tears in its place. A simple melancholy has resided….calm in its slumber.

Towanda has discouraged the rebellious hatred that once felt so fitting to wear. She says I look better with steel-toed boots and glitter in my hair.

I will rise to the occasion yet again in the future of finding his thorns present. I will attempt to take the pain at face value and let the blood run its course and leave. I will not crawl across continents of Kleenex or wade through rivers of shit to find only my desolate expectations and a transparent grin. I will make strength stay. I will woo her into my garden and cut a deal. She can borrow my boots in exchange for her brawn. Then watch out weeds – you’ll be picked raw from the soil until my fingers bleed. Mother Earth won’t want you back. The dirt will be cleansed. My fresh plate/slate will leave no trace of an empty station, a quiet phone or a sizeable void.

I will take out my biggest cardboard box and package up every cruelty, every disappointment, every Kleenex stained with his failing and send them back to their rightful owner marked ‘Return to Sender’. I will wrap it tight with a purple ribbon.

Today I will weed the yard in strength and glitter. I will summon the fairies to help me and we shall plant our smile bulbs and drink tea until dawn. His promises don't make me sad because I've learned now how to see everything else left in the void he made. Clover patches are growing in where the weeds once were and even a stray daisy which makes me smile. The dirt has done right by me and i will in turn choose life, fairies, glitter and daisies.

An Epitaph For Clete

My favorite story had no covers at all
He was skinny and curious
His bunny feet small..
His chapters were gifts
Every word a surprise
Every written adventure
Found in his eyes-
My Bestseller boy
Your stories in me
An out of print First Edition
You'll always be -

Funeral

I Drowned inside the last lone word
The last lone word had I

Curled into the fetal pose
Left inconsolably dry

Hollowed head i rectify you!
Demand you to return

Why do you cash me in of late?
A futile crash and burn -

I denounce this slate that draws a blank
And verbiage that fatally walks the plank

Conclusion draws a fiery fear
That heeds no curve or bend

The dastardly finality
Of a story's End.