at breakfast

They say to see a dead body can be traumatizing. Some tell me they fear ghosts. I wonder sometimes, if Id rather see one dead body a day, than be haunted by the living bodies all around me; than to feel their not quite death, in the chains the dead ignore.
Living bodies are the ghosts-- breathing, haunting, mourning, grieving, battered, beaten, starving, throbbing.
they tell me it can be scary, to see death everyday, but dead bodies don't wear shackles.
Perhaps it's their living cries that will destroy you,
everywhere you walk, turn, rest, and think. Ghosts at breakfast. in a gym. taking a shit, in the stall beside you.

his germany

i hope ill be that old woman someday. i hope ill be the old woman , crowned with a nest of frazzled white hair, donned with an endearing bag-lady chic, with a little too much plum colored lipstick smudged outside the contours of my upper lip, and a bit too much rosie blush settled into the creases of my wrinkly cheeks. I hope ill be that old lady, who wobbles cheerfully down the street with a knowing and soulful smile, with eyes that sparkle with brokenness and redemption. I hope i own a crazy purple flowie skirt (that fluffs up when i twirl), and a faithful brown cane, who i will undoubtedly name after a favorite poet, philosopher or feminist. i hope i spend my days tying together the stems of old flowers and humming old lonely songs, while I sit on rusty benches, on the sidelines of busy streets, eager and ready to tell my stories to anyone who passes by--- seagulls, litter, or possibly even a human or two. i hope i smell like old books and lemon tarts. an odd mixture of beauty and i hope i still dance. in the rain. in the parking lot. in the sunshine. and in his arms.
i hope when I'm an old lady, i remember what i once dreamed, who i once was.and what i once loved.

Sometimes, I creepily watch old ladies, and make "awwww" noises under my breath as they walk by.
80 + year olds make my heart feel like its drinking Welche's Grape juice. Sometimes I want to scoop elderly people into my pocket, and kiss their wrinkly little old faces throughout the day. I really dig them. Springtime always reminds me of this.

Apart from thinking about being an old woman today, I experienced a heartsigh while hanging out with a fat little baby, who drools on my thigh on a weekly basis.
He and I used to be the Axis vs. Allies. I was his Germany. He wanted me gone. His tears, and shrieks were bombs, that metaphorically disarmed my spirit. Though i hid in trenches, his ferocity followed me. His fits of anger were the bullets that left me wounded and afraid. War sucks. Especially when a one-and-a-half-year old wages it. Recently peace has fallen beautifuly on our lands. I have surrendered. His love has defeated me. Now we are allies. Now I am the loyal country that will defend him at all costs. I am his Britain, he is my France. Now when he cries, it's no longer used for destruction but now his tears bond us, as they are absorbed by the fabric of my shirt. the fabric where his tiny head rests, as i hug his sadness away. He comes to me. He smiles. Today I fell in love, with a half naked, pudgy, bald infant-man. Today he held my face in his fat little hands, as he brought his face, crusty with boogers and sticky from apple juice,close to mine and kissed me for the first time. A droolie, zoodle-sauce stained kiss. and it was a beautiful beautiful moment.

Those are my heart-sighs for today.
Tonight, Im going to help Todd plant lettuce in old telivison sets, in our back yard.

I suspect that too, will make me sigh. happily.

love,shannon

pogo

The other night I dreamt about him.
john wayne gacy, jr

convicted of torturing, raping and murdering 33 boys, in the seventies

Sometimes he'd dress up as a clown for them.

bodies were unearthed in the crawl space under his middle class home in the Chicago suburbs

* * *

I was a bounty hunter. ( i secretly think bounty hunters are neat). In this dream, I had to find john wayne gacy. the entire time i searched for him i could hear the cries of the families who grieved the violent loss of their young sons. I could hear the horrified and devastated cries of his unsuspecting wife. I could hear her breaking. I could hear them... the young voices from the floorboards, begging for rescue. begging for life.

I searched for him.....

and i found him, rather quickly and when i did the cries disappeared. Now, it was my own tears I could hear, as they met with his. For some reason, I had expected our first encounter to be quite different. I anticipated I would tackle him down victoriously; possibly break out some swaggering cool fight moves, that im only allowed doing in dreams. but instead, i collapsed on the ground beside him. I kissed his forehead. I held him. and i didn't want to let go. I held him, and together we cried.

* * *

Look beneath the floorboards for the secrets i have hid

cherry

Last year at this time I bought myself a large box of cheap crayons, to "celebrate" the last day of school. I spent the first few days of spring/summer vacation sporadically organizing them into categories of least to most favorite colour. I'd leave them on the dining room table, so I could sigh happily when I went through the room. When that got old, i categorized them according the "coolness" quality of their named descriptions. This made me happy, and temporarily distracted me from secretly missing school. Although i do like summer -- a pantless bliss of outdoor pleasure reading and destination-less flip flop walks -- i always go through a silly "no more classes/ time consuming essays" mourning period. After drawing with my crayons, a few mind-blowing portraits of Andrew eating various house hold items, my creative virility dried up a bit. and my commemorative crayons were placed in an empty yogurt container, and now sit on the floor, to the left of my bed.

I figured this year, instead of getting more crayons to commemorate/grieve the last moments of school, I'd get a blog instead. haha, Perhaps a blog will deter me from gazing longingly at old sexuality textbooks, and quietly reciting passages from my favorite feminists, in the shower. (although i will most likely continue the shower recitals)

Love, shannon.

Sometimes, when deep in thought, i find myself stroking my beard. Only to realize, i am in fact beardless.