FUCK YOU LOVE & DEATH

I know. I get it. It's November 5 and I have yet to post a blog yet. It's just...there seems nothing for me to say, nothing rather intelligent anyways.

I did get my English internship. Yippee!

My Halloween? It consisted of getting lost in a corn maze with my cousins, getting red all over the boys--red hair spray--I danced with (Joker was a definitely stoned hottie), and finding out if I could I'd have my own intervention and bluntly state why everyone is a fuck up, including myself.

When I was reading The Lovely Bones, I was wondering if it was anything close to what my mom sees. I get this feeling that she's really disappointed, perhaps not in me, but in our family. You'd think time--not just years but centuries--would erase the pain of suppression, of tradition, and of goddamn stupidity. But no, we have a long way to go.

Clingstone Peaches
by Chris Haven

I am eleven in early December
on the twisty road to Crescent OK
past the gated Kerr-McGee plant that killed
Karen Silkwood I wondered if our car
ever passed hers on the way to grandma's.

My father and his eight sisters divide
the estate he has strange authority
the youngest, the only male, and the eye
of a grocer he unstocks the freezer
at dusk he spots the unpicked peach tree.

He tells me to come on and I feel strong
hands me a basket asks catch or climb
catch I say as my father in black tie
black wingtips disappears into the arms
of the tree a peach falls to my hands.

I place them in the basket the skin stings
my palms when I catch it leaves no bruise but
the ones that hit my face do I can't tell
my father it's enough I can't see his face
I can't know this is a kind of crying.

That night in the hard light of the bathroom
I still feel the peaches on my skin my
mother takes a tweezers plucks the needles
from my cheeks like splinters hundreds of cling-
stone peaches like in baskets they will rot.