Its rare that I stumble across a photo from the teen years – so few actually existed to begin with. Happened to find this one online while trying to get an old email address up…so much younger – had just moved to MA running from drugs.
And to cap it off…..pig in a sweater!
(background info)
Katrina is the daughter of a young lady who was essentially my counterpart – plus breasts. Owing to some poorly relayed information and a protective need following the 6-year old girl’s admittance to counseling because she thought “that good guy (me) was going to die…” – left the mom backed into a corner. I was told never to call or contact her again, though I didn’t find this out until after writing and sending this as a letter.
Kat is the girl who moves with feline grace,
A Cheshire flashing grins all over the place.
Rina is the girl who thinks like a firecracker,
Sharp as a tack, brain to match, thought cracking master.
So when Kat disappears, lithe as a rope.
Her partner has time for mischief while both elope.
They’ll lay out their traps for mommy to find,
Materializing from thin air defying space and time.
And, occasionally mommy may crack a tooth,
To which she bellows, “Watch out, they’re on the loose!”
When their forces combine, surely a hurricane whistles,
Smashing and crashing like a runaway missile.
Theirs isn’t a rhythm, though they have a reason.
For they are a weather event with no established season.
Rain gummy bear gifts will the storm throughout Spring,
Summer has July 4th, so we know what that means.
Leaves Fall heavily into sacks until carefully deconstructed,
Then snow tries to trap them inside with all the strength it can muster.
Though their actions are sometimes bizarre,
Kat and Rina will surely go far.
For they are glowing beauties with insides to match,
The troubles they get in are because sometimes we all crash.
Mistakes can be made, and will eventually fade.
Everyone works to be better,
Life in reverse is all based on what you gave.
Still thinking of you kiddo…
*nearly a year later and still no contact.
There’s an intensity that leaves nothing but a vacuum behind it,
A bullet hole wasted emptiness drags into a crater shocked from hit after hit.
Temporal fracture points and blanketed waste lines,
Maddening shallowness where no sparks can be refined.
They’re just words put to words put to words,
Shredding thoughts until there’s no meaning left and the musicians are missing the chords.
Scream, whistle, shriek, whisper, mutter, babble,
Consume, read, absorb, listen, digest, dibble and dabble.
The air crackles with the clutter of a thousand ideas,
My brain is burning from a million needs demanding release.
Every nerve is a blasted land of agonizing pleasure I grovel and ask to relive,
I’m in love with the rage, the energy, the uncontrollable beauty of power it gives.
All the information is useless in the end.
What point when there isn’t a person to converse with I’d call friend.
You fucking people drive me crazy.
I make myself manic to the point I can’t move, comatose and lazy.
When thought is so painfully fiery that no more can be endured,
I lay back and pray that the end will crack the chains to which I’m moored.
Let my mind wander to the lights above and send my soul spinning,
Beyond the grasp of this inane insanity,
To something meaningful that will make my heart beat for something more.
Hypothetical antithesis lulls the horrid monsters of time to pieces,
For lo, though we design the bitter steps of steel with grave intent to last,
The winds of history beget naught but mystery, shall spread their remains across the past.
So run your numbers now sweet child, and create the fabric clocks,
The ticking and the tocking mark a ship slowly rocking as it lands at destiny while docking,
For an apex it has achieved, a rising top it hits before the next embarking.
Across the wicked ocean of reality, into storms of worms that bend the mind,
The crafty little wave runner has hit warped road that leaves their direction blind.
But now crew member drops their head in sorrow – this was their destination,
For all roads, and waves, and currents, and flows, lead to where they may have experienced fabrication.
That central depot – the manufacturing shop located just north of Betelgeuse and a few parsecs from Procyon – the final destination.
Note: Semi-stream of consciousness edited for grammar so it’s a bit more coherent. Meaning? I’m skeptical…but read out loud it has an interesting rhythm.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 