it's 11:04. i wish it were raining so i could pretend god was
caring and crying for all of us (but i can't lie to myself like
that anymore). it's 11:05. i wish i could cry so i'd have a
reason to brag: my life really is horrible! i am going through
teenage drama! my life is so stupid! like omg totally! no.
it's 11:06. there's a song playing on the radio that would
have made me cry, but it was a cover by some new TWEENZ
group who are all secretly 25. plus, i never knew they adver-
tized for viagra on the radio. it's 11:08. the thoughts are melting
and being smothered in on corn to add calorietaste as my
throat closes up and anandine (ananadide?) leaves my blood-
brain barrier to visit andrea, the keeper of the soul textbook
my throat rises and swells; the worlds choke within me. my
room is covered in memories that made this memory, in hooks
and beeps. prose-like soliloquy and departures on friday for
colleges no one will ever go to but long to eat at. it's 11:11.
make a wish. i wished fo--well, if i tell you, then it won't
come true, will it? don't tell me youra. it's still 11:11. keep--
it's gone. the small minute of life is gone. god...do you
ever wonder fi god has a sandbox up in heaven? with
plastic shovels and double-edged swords? does he ever long
for justice, freedom and the american snow day?
it's 11:13. i don't think 13 is an unlucky number. some freaks
(sorry freaks) think it's a good luck number. it's...just a
number? who cares? (it's not like numbers solve world humger
or rubix cubes or create matter into being) six chickens,
eight hens and fourteen women walk into a bar. one says--
it's 11:15. am or pm, makes no difference. five minutes
until this is over...death is important. without death...
people would live forever. they'd have their whole lives to be
selfish bastards. and what about all the st. francis of assis's?
well, you can't stay celibate for over 500 years, you'd...
malfunction. or chariot-ride. it's 11:17. the dawn of the
ages and fred's death are fast approaching us, prepare ye for
the way of god. sometimes it's like he doesn't even acknolwedge
my existence; he's a twitchy one. it's 11:19. sleep murmurs
like hearts within lungs, exciting the organs and
shutting down the armageddon. car-ci-no-ge--
it's still--it's 11:20. i have to bid adeu to god, who
never really listens to radio broadcast prayer, anyways.
he'd much rather play scrabble and eat
doritos, liking his fingers one by one,
sending small rains of nacho cheese
to people in sudan and finland and djibouti.
marx and lenin, two russian escapists,
lap up praise and pogroms like charlie
and his many angel friends. skulls and
hearts and pink throats singing like
a racist superman...it's 11:23.
i would say bye, but there are things a soul never
says.
one, two and goodbye. goodbye is never the end. goodbye is...
hello until we meet again.
Author notes
I'm tired. but also, I am relieved.
and I have to do the dishes...
A contest entry
- A Post-Holiday Contest by -BlackKnight-.
375 points, ended January 19, 2007, 2 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
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Curious
I have you on my favorites list but I don't remember why, a story perhaps? I don't recall and I don't recall seeing any comments on my meager offerings, but perhaps they are there and I forget.
I visited your profile page, certain you were a guy from the style of writing and found the name, Elana, and that sounds feminine to me so I must be wrong about something.
I offer no specific comment about the content of this write but a general and probably useless generalization.
I recall, vaguely, the early days of college and real adulthood where differing views from instructors and peers all met inside my head and conflicted in every possible way.
I sense that in your writings but only you can know, but the max inflow of input and some or perhaps most, has no convenient cubbyhole to find repose. Not that simple of course as the mind works only one way, once cannot input conflicting concepts and remain rational or sane.
One can be a compository of information, facts, rumor, innuendo, gossip, hearsay and lacking a structure find only confusion in the non congruent and conflicting concepts.
There does exist a means by which one can sort and categorize the real from the unreal, the fantasy from the fact, the right and wrong the good and bad, that which existentially, really exists and that which does not.
I would not suggest such a means of categorization but I would present a conclusion that such a method does exist and may, eventually, be of some use to you.
amicus...
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I'm kind of...confused. I don't really understand what you mean to say.
By the way, it's Elena. But Elana is pretty close.
I kind of understand. That all of the things inside me come out in my poetry? Or that I am simply a life-sucker, and absorb everything and if I keep doing that I'll go crazy? Or that I need to find a rational way to deal with...something?
I'm confused.
Thanks for the comment, though.
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hello
sorry it took so long to get back to you...I am remiss and will try to amend that if you will permit....amicus...
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Fucking hell, why can't I write like this?!?!? I'm so jealous now!
Anyway, I can't help but notice how the setup of this is a bit different than what you normally write, and I must say, I like it. It's long and it drags out to match the oh-so-slow march of time when we're actually paying attention to it, but the subject matter doesn't drag at all--it moves like lightning, flitting from one subject to the next to match your thought processes as you sit there staring at the clock, or at least constantly looking back to it. It's brilliant!
All-in-all, it's a wonderful poem; I really need to get around to reading more of yours.
Oh yeah, I forgot to mention--I got the Fullmetal Alchemist movie for Christmas!!!!11! Hurrah -
Your free association is always fun to read and most of them make me smile at the odd coupling of seeming opposites.
But, that drone...the keeping track of the clock...I like that...like what it may suggest...boredom maybe? But as you hinted, maybe relief. Maybe the countdown was for something, away from something...a wait that had to be reached.
Your tone, the one I'm used to is there, of hurt, irreverence, disillusion, disenchantment, etc.
People may not look at it as satire but I think that is what it is, and your object is everything and everyone...i.e. life itself.
Or I could be just crazy.
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