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julianedenton
09 January 2010 @ 05:24 pm
LOL  
why is it that one can say in written word
the opposite of what my ears heard
lying through the technology of text
Empty promises of what happens next.
Why is it when someone says, "
I don't want to hurt you"
things become a mess
And that is exactly what they do.
Reality is an inconvenience for those
Who use their telephones to impose
On a life that was going fine
the black text reads"you shall be mine"
And maybe he meant it at the time
Which makes me wonder if something is wrong with this face
because all the words that got erased
they all seemed to be misplaced
when i stood naked before him
Was it all a whim?
Fingers bored and mind alert
that allowed him to insert
the truth into my wanting ear
messages never sounded quite so clear
"I am interested" may be true
Just not enough to pay his dues.
Not enough to sacrifice
the same as I did the other night.
I was already fooled once, shame on that man
but this time i encouraged untruths,
fingerbones and hand.
And maybe technology offers no inflection
That would give me reason to seek heart protection
And now i am caught up in his infection
Of not meeting needs
After planting so many seeds
that caused my brain stems to grow
That tilled the garden with water and hoe.
Masquerading in the quite absurd
The sending of lies that were only words.
And I hope the next thing technology provides me
Are all words of reality and honesty.
 
 
julianedenton
15 October 2009 @ 02:23 pm
You commit to shit, my destruction per your instruction.
What happened to halfway? Why did I travel so far
to gain the wound and now the scar
Brain in a vat and heart in a jar
I now know and feel who you really are.

Maybe that's selfish? Really? You think?
You lose love to lust and late nights and drink
And I am going to watch as you silently sink
Into a pit of your own making.

I am not partaking in some game you wish to play
Save me up for some rainy day
You will found that I have gone away.
And you will only hear echoes of the sorrys that you say.
 
 
julianedenton
15 August 2008 @ 01:04 am
I had a nightmare today. I am not certain how much nightmares play off the psychology of truth and creep into the sleeping mind. I hope that my dream contained only fallacy.

In it. He and I. We are fighting. A fight that never grew roots in real life, unless in some undivulged subconscious, over which i had no control. A tree now growing from my brain stems.

He is telling me that he does not love me.

Love is never a word that I have needed to hear, although I may have required its presence in the eyes I looked into. While I closed mine, orgasmically, in its face.

I miss him. My friends all raise their drinks to my return, but chastise me for now being "off the market," one warns me of long distance, as though that panic has gone unconsidered by myself.

Drunken fingers to phone, I ask him to marry me. Knowing that the only response should be, "you have had too much to drink, goodnight."

I consider a future with this one. This feels strange to me. I can imagine years slapped across both of our faces, and me still loving him. It still being easy.

I can imagine our children (an abomination for a (former) feminist(nazi), I am quite sure), sarcastic and witty and keeping us busy for the days to come. I imagine coming home to him and him making me laugh. In fact, each time that I laugh without his chuckle harmonizing with mine, I am reminded of his absence. Is this love? I don't know. but it is at least a realization of comfort. A knowledge of desire.
The prospect of what I deserve. The most I have ever felt.

He believes in soulmates, an oddity for an anti-fatalist, but he makes me want to believe. He makes me want to do things i have never done, and be with a man like I have never been with someone.

He makes me...me.

And if love is recognition of the best self, then I have found it, and I hope to keep it.
 
 
julianedenton
15 August 2008 @ 12:55 am
And so it ends -- a beginning wrapped in a three letter word -- law. Gasping and choking in the noose of economy. Here today, gone tomorrow, and with it morale. And so it goes.

Walking in to work the first morning, past the delis and coffee shops, in a soundtrack of my own making, past the stench of future clients, I walk in my clicking hills. click. click. click.

One crazy one stands out in the street yelling at the drivers of cars, bending metal in his mind, being mental in reality.

Crazy eyed Joe stands in what I later learn is his usual corner spot with his arm extended. I am uncertain if the twist of his elbow and gnarled u-turn of his wrists are a result of a lifetime of retardation or an adulthood of begging, or some combination of the two. (Here is some money for you).

The building stands before me, with Gold lettering, lines swaying within the marble. “The Grant Building.” The street is busy below it, but the building stands still, unmovable in what it seems it took centuries of fine architecture to produce. If I look more closely, I see a new brand of erosion. Corners of marble and gold stencil flaking off into the concrete of the street.

“The ninth floor. The ninth floor” I am repeating to myself as I walk down the hall toward the elevator.
“Hi. It is my first day,” I nod too much information to the doorman as he bows his head to me and wishes me luck.

On the ninth floor, I am greeted by a hallway of silence. I step to the right of the waiting room, a young girl lazily pulls aside a clear screen and asks me who I am there to see. I explain my name and purpose in short yips that do not even sound like my own tone of voice, I think that I may have even mispronounced my name. When she tells me to sit down, that someone will be right with me, I hear her giggle in harmony with another young sounding laugh.

I glow red.

A few minutes later, a tall thin black man comes to greet me on the couch. He is wide eyed and large smiled, he shakes my hand and asks me to follow him. I walk after him into his office and he toothily grins his name, “Orlando Daniels...investigator.”

I can tell that he is proud of this job title, and I can also tell that it is not one that he has held for long.

“The head of interns is not here today,” he explains to me. You are going to sit in my office with me while I do client intakes.

I see a girl with dark rimmed glasses pass by the office room. She walks by twice before finally stopping into the room where we are sitting. Hi...I am Amanda, I am the other intern. I think that I am supposed to be in here.”

Sit down. Sit down. He smiles to her. I extend my hand to her. “Juliane”

Immediately after our introduction, a voice comes over the loudspeaker, “Mr. Daniels, there is one interview in the lobby for you.”

Mr. Daniels gets up to escort the um… alleged escort in. The client has been accused of prostitution. She wears fierce make up and a shirt that does not cover up her stomach. She is 40-50 pounds overweight and looks like her prostituting ways likely ended their glory days over a decade ago.

Mr. Daniels introduces Amanda and I to the client, she smiles gold teeth at us, and sits down.

Daniels asks her to explain her version of her events. She tells about the day that she was arrested, explaining that when she got in the car with the man, she asked him,

“was he the police,” to which he said ‘no.’

“They supposed to tell you.” She nods to both Amanda and myself, like a law school instructor explaining the obvious. Daniels writes down this information as she provides for him the setting and circumstances leading to her arrest.

Before she gets up to leave, she leans over and coos to Daniels…
“Ya know, I got a twin sister named Carolyn. My name is Marilyn. Maybe it was my sister who was actually out there doing this.” This contrived hypothetical is nonsensical in nature. Daniels slyly winks to us, his two assistants, as he gives directions to Marilyn on how to get to the municipal court.

“And when you show up, ma’am,” he says as she slinks out the door, “You may want to wear something a little bit more, um, conservative…”

“Oh, you won’t even know it’s me darlin’,” she draws as she sashays out.

Daniels laughs to Amanda and myself. “So a twin sister named Carolyn…” He shakes his head slowly, “Do we think that she really has a twin sister?” He then unfolds the copy of her citation and shows it to us. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It was our friend MARILYN who signed this ticket that they gave her.”

Within this hour of work, I know that it is going to be an interesting summer with the city of atlanta office of the public defender.

* * * * *

“While you are here with the public defender’s office in Atlanta this summer, you

will be exposed to the most messed up public defender’s office that you are ever likely

to see.” This warning, provided to me by the head of the summer interns, Rosalie Joye,

proved to be truer than i ever thought to be possible. “Atlanta Public Defender’s Office

Unfairly Under Attack…” read the headlines. Inside the story, more grim reports in this

opinion page. The city of Atlanta is bankrupt. I am not certain how one allows a city to

become bankrupt. Whispers suggested that the Brian Nichols’ trial was the reason for

the city having no money. Others suggested it was just the current state of economy.

Regardless of reason, I spent my summer working with ghosts of public defenders.

They walked the halls of an almost abandoned building hoping that come five o’clock

they would still hold their jobs. Some refused to go back to the office and spent their

days instead at the courthouse, worried that to go back to the home base would result in

a finding that no office door longer bore their name and what once would have been

referred to as “their desk” would now be bare with the exception of a pink-slip. Some

public defenders were bent by the process while others were entirely broken by the

chaos. Or perhaps they were broken long before the talks of budget cuts. I am not

certain that a public defender position is one that man or woman need have for a period

past five years.

I work alongside these ghosts, me young and idealistic, with the belief that

certainly the city will recognize the importance of these attorneys. I stand shaking before

the city council, using the words “constitutional rights” in the same sentence as

“violated,” hoping that maybe this will stave off the office attacks. Hoping that maybe

people will keep their jobs. Hoping that maybe the city will provide the office some

money. The judgment passed down is yes, yes they will. The men and women

representing the city of Atlanta say yes, and they assign six million dollars, to be split

between the office of the solicitor and the office of the public defender. There is a huge

sigh of relief around the office and everyone resolves to stay around for one more year.

The lease is paid, and I am thanked for saying what the others told me they hadn’t dare.

I have never been fearful of truth.

The first few weeks of my days are spent with the most spent of the ghosts still

haunting the courthouse, a man who works in traffic court who says that he is working

his “retirement job.” He fills out guilty sheets for all individuals who come before him.

He tells them that the judge will offer a “rotten deal at best…just sign on the dotted line.”

Anger lurks barely beneath my skin and soon begins to reveal itself in my jerky motions

around the courtroom. I see no difference between the job description of the solicitor

and that of a public defender. Not in this methodology. The attorney is becoming used to

me, telling me that I am to spend my summer working with him. First chance I get, I

sneak to go speak to the DUI attorney about joining him in the courtroom for a while. He

tells me, yes, that I can spend the next few weeks in DUI court.

The solicitors have placed all of their interns in DUI court. I am sworn in, and

allowed to argue in the presence of a supervising attorney. Days come and go, and no

trials take place in the courtroom. I move around the pews at a frantic pace between the

hours of nine and eleven, counseling clients in the presence of a licensed attorney,

listening to stories, so many “wronged.” Reset requests ring off of every lawyers lips and

court is closed by noon.

Afternoons are spent watching DUI tapes. Usually our clients stumble out of cars,

insert too many of a letter into their recitation of the alphabet...A B C D E D E F G H…

Fall over themselves while trying to walk in straight lines. Often times they are making

the case against themselves for the other side.

One afternoon a videotape creeps through my sense of sight into some crevices

of my brain where it is stored well enough to haunt me in my sleep. One officer has

pulled over a carload of what are later learned to be illegal immigrants. On his ticket he

cites the reason for pulling them over...missing back taillight.

We have scanned the video. We have restarted, rewound, re-watched over and

over, searching for the taillight that is out. The only explanation we find is the taillight in

the center of the car. Some cars do not even have such a taillight. “Valid reason?” I look

to the lawyer quizzically.

“I don’t know. We need to do some research.” I pound on the computer keys for the next few days. searching through Westlaw, Georgia Code, probable cause, keyword brake-lights. I find a statute that says it is ok for an officer to pull someone over to give him or her a breathalyzer for a non-moving violation such as the missing of

brake-lights, but what does brake-light mean? The answer is, what a reasonable officer

interpret brake-light to mean. Certainly a reasonable officer knows that the only

brake-lights necessary are those that are required on all cars. “Arguable,” says the

attorney. The officer’s name continually comes up among our clients. None of them

speak English. All have been missing back center brake lights.

“That was the only video that he has turned in,” the attorney tells me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I always see this officer’s name. It is always for pulling over illegals. It always

involves non-moving violations. They always get DUIs.

The rest of the video is more haunting than the lack of probable cause for

administering a breathalyzer. The driver speaks no English, but he is pulled out of the

car with force. According to the ticket, there is a “gap in communication” between the

officer and the driver. I ask the attorney about legal implications of this, but he tells me

that case law states if the driver doesn’t understand the officer, implied consent is

assumed. This goes against my innate notions of fairness, but I accept it, as I must all

Supreme Court decisions. The atrocity does not attempt to end there, however. The

officer is then circling the car, his shadow moves in front of the headlights, apparently

both in working order. He moves around to the passenger’s side, and flings the door

open. A figure is pulled out by his shirt collar, trembling in the flashing of the blue lights.

His hands fly up; making a questioning W shape alongside his body. The officer begins

tugging at the passenger’s pants pocket, turning the white lining inside out. He then

pulls at the belt of the passenger, and says something that sounds like, “take off your

pants.”

Then he snaps at the belt of the bewildered passenger, and the man

understands. He unbuttons and unsnaps, until he is standing before the police officer in

a disco of flashing blue lights wearing his pants around his ankles, his underwear pulled

high. The officer tugs at the waistline, and peers down at the man’s privates, and walks

back toward the car. The attorney and I are shocked. We feel as though we have

witnessed something that we were not supposed to see: a youtube video of a moment

gone awry, when unknowing eyes believed that no one was watching, believing they

were performing under the safety net of the invisible. We decide that we are going to

take the video to trial, to a bench trial. Certainly any spectator of such an events would

feel the same, even if it is the “objective” mind of a judge. I help the case move forward

toward trial, knowing that by the time justice plays out, I will be back in school, learning

about proper search and seizure. I swallow the irony, put my head down, and research

the different violations that have occurred in front of our eyes.

* * * * * *
Ten days have passed since the council assured the pd office that jobs were still

to be had. The mayor was supposed to rubber stamp the proposition. We were all

waiting with bated breath for the approval. Certainly it would be approved.

Certainly it was not. On the last possible day it was decided that money was not to be

given to the public defender’s office and that cuts had to be made. Now it is dead men

walking, again, floating through the office. No one knows who will be the next to go, but

everyone seems to somehow know that someone is going. Rumors surround old Ray

Gordon, he who had been around forever and seemed to be far past the suggested self-

imposed five year limit of public defending. He is grandfathered in to a pretty pension,

so this news is met with shrugs.

After the smoke clears, not all remain standing. Mr. Gordon’s time is finished. The

HR person was fired, as was one investigator. 3 down. Not many left to go. Questions

come with the firing of the investigator, he is the only one that is bilingual. Many clients

do not speak English. Guess they had better start. After learning the news, I am leaning

into the wall, and thinking about a lot of nothing, when the just fired investigator appears

from the elevator. “Did ya hear?”


I nod uncomfortably. I am not sure what to say. Thankfully, he realizes this, and walks

past me and into one of the courtrooms. “I am sorry,” I whisper at him, and I see the

back of his head cock to the left in unspoken acknowledgment.

Some loose offer that had been on the table, said casually to me by the head of

the interns on more than one occasion, “we would like to find a place for you when you

graduate,” has been buried. I continue to work, and to work hard. Not for the hope of

employment, but for the purpose of my clients. Everything is falling down around me.

The lease on the grande, marble building is disapproved, refused, and now boxes are

piling up to be sent to the new home of the public defender. The “Basement” of the

municipal court. The solicitors office gets it next. The city slashes the staff of the office.

People who had been there for decades now ride the elevator awkwardly down with me,

pulling behind them a cart with all of their belongings. I try to turn my eye away from the

pictures of the smiling children traveling alongside me.

On my last day, I hug my goodbyes. I tear up. I wave with limp fingers. I am

somewhat defeated by the system. I am somehow needed in the system. I feel a call,

and a shiver of sadness at the thought that it is not my time to answer.

I hope someone answers.
 
 
julianedenton
03 August 2008 @ 01:40 pm
i love you
which was answered
returned the next day in the package of silence
address no longer viable.
is this even tryable?
some drink brings men to love, some to violence
and how great is the idea of soulmate
when you work together and not against.
time well spent
not crooked, only bent
some bring men to love, some to hate

Why should i not adore
what seems i spent a lifetime searching for
the past has evened up its score
do i have anything to give anymore?
And only in retrospect
am i able to properly reflect
on my actual affect
on the men who chose me to love.

pushes come to shove
some ideal held up above
the reality that whispers in my ear
that states with love so comes fear.

yes my dear. yes. yes. my. dear.
 
 
 
julianedenton
07 April 2008 @ 09:53 pm
Power. An idea that requires one to recognize their position among man. among woman. among all that is living. Spiraling within some objective universe, that exists only in the mind of the beholder -- a paradox for certain.
Jealousy. An evolved trait that came into existence soon after the concept of self. We want to rank this me. among others - the yous of the universe. The problem comes when we rely upon some subjectivity to offer us our status.
Beauty is in the eye of?

Leadership. Someone for man to turn to and say, "ah, yes, this was a man." A marble statue for future generations to marvel over - the features belong to a mythological being, the stories told by silver tongues. Enhancing the triumph. Diminishing the humanity.
And so was Ceasear. Until Shakespeare speculated from behind the scenes.
Y tu' Bruti?
What did this mean?
The greater good has justified so many bodies that have died.
But Cesear, poor Ceasear, believed he could have power and friends.
And we see now how that naivety ends.
So, the great question becomes, why did Brutus make such a choice?
Was it the aid of Cassius's voice?
Or was this manipulation just part of a chorus
That prompted the end of this tragedy for us?

He was jealous.
He was also aware of the demons that created such emotion.
He was overzealous
He needed other reasons to put this plan into motion.

The greater good, he cried he cried,
The greater good, he lied he lied
The greater good, he defied he defied

And for the greater good, he died. he died.

The greater good could not
 
 
julianedenton
07 April 2008 @ 07:27 pm
Give us a name, for us to place the blame,
This one or that one, its all the same.
The evidence doesn't have to make sense.
The law was bent and someone has to repent
This one appears a little crazy.
Full of fear, mentally lazy.
His memory is a little hazy.
Lets just make sure he stays be
hind
bars.
away from people
away from cars.
away from love.
away from stars.
away from life as we know it.
he was given chance, and he blows it.

He's paranoid and known to drink
Of the people, let us think.
If the punishment doesn't fit his crime
Society benefits from his time
What does he have to give
Except a fantasy in which he will live
Of a time when he had it all
America's sport, he played baseball

But his body couldn't be well utilized
To play in the pros for spectator's eyes
And despite his desperate tries
His failures were emphasized.
And broken were his dream and ties.
The sports star role no longer applies.

And he died a little bit along the way.
So what is the hurt in putting him away?
He could have done it, so some people say.
Not black and white, but a nice shade of gray.

And the future, to predict
Will show him to be quite the misfit.
Where he will scream for hours on end
That we have imprisoned the wrong man.

He will act out and toss about
refuse to eat, speak only in shout.
Not accept the punishment that he was given.
Be certain that this is the wrong life he's livin.

And the reality shall be hidden.
Just like he will be, away from the truth.
Until in years the seekers of proof
Will finally do what we now refuse

And the answer will be made clear
That the wrong man was caged for years
And the verdict will fall with tears.
Money will flow to subdue fears.

But as for now, this court finds.
No error, putting this issue behind.
And at some point maybe we will lament.
How much better his life could have been spent.

But for now, bailiff, take him away.
As I bang the gavel to end justice's play.

Dismissed.
(thud)
 
 
julianedenton
17 March 2008 @ 07:25 pm
Waiting for the dental assistant to call me in, to spit on my and shine me up and make a six month appointment before the nodding doctor pats a sticker to me that says I am a star patient.
Losing my patience.

An old woman and an older woman come in, the second behind a walker, bent over, with a large bottom and thin shaking shoulders. She sits in the nearest chair, and the younger woman pulls bags out of a case in the middle of her walking aid. This is a pain pill, ma. It will make you feel better.
"I feel like a cow going to get slaughtered." The woman's voice is stronger than her appearance.
The daughter laughs and looks to me, "one day it will hurt to come to the dentist."
(one day everything will hurt).

Ma, take your coat off.
"no" is the reply, words of defiance not matching her actions as she tugs at the sleeves. She gets them off the shoulder, and shrugs as though this was her ultimate mission, her blades now breathe free. Her daughter starts to help with the coat, but the old woman bats the younger hand away. The mother addresses me now,
"ah, mother and daughter."
I smile at her.

The daughter goes to find a dental assistant, to explain in detail the problems of mothers tooth. The old woman tries to get up and falls backward into the chair. She begins to laugh. A throaty laugh that suggests maybe she was a smoker in her youth.
"You just gotta laugh. Nothing else you can do but see the humor in getting old."

My name means youth.
 
 
julianedenton
05 March 2008 @ 06:26 pm
To the man I never knew,
I don't know much about you. Only that you are capable of horrific, terrible sadistic things. I know that you can bend your voice and cater your word choice to fill the ear that is standing near convincing canals that the promises are sincere. You live in lies and you live in fear of being found out. or talked about. of having to shout instead of whisper your deceptions.
Talking about misperceptions. Weighing your indecency against my right to have the truth made clear to me. Am I just crazy? Really?
Do you feel me now? Am I coming through?
Can you tell me how you do what you do?
Sad for you.
Mad at you.
So, how was fucking my friend? a message you couldn't send. A back you could bend before thinking it through.
Raise my drink to you.
I went to the brink for you.
You watched me sink for you.
I could only think of you.
And now, these months still stink of you.
And time must guide me through.
I am scared, and unprepared.
I fell so hard and often for your lies.
I now despise
The person that I wanted to become
your lover, blind, deaf, and dumb.
So willing to succumb
to the thought that you were the one.
Signs that you say you see,
party of the deviousity.
I was there for you,
You were amused by me
Stupid hooker that charged no fees.
Please.
Look inside your heart and start to be human
I doubt you even can.
It requires some realization that there is a world outside your own.
women are more than just bodies that you bone.
who you are is not just you alone
but what you do, who enters your home
Its in the text sent from your phone
The person into which a child has grown.
blown.
my mind.
to meet your kind.
How many monsters can one little girl find
I want to rewind
and anticipate the plot twists.
I insist
That first kiss
would never persist
If i could do it again
I would send you away with a click of my pen.
None of this would ever happen.

None of this did happen.
It was a story.
A tragedy that began in glory
A battle scene, soldiers bleeding, gory
A lesson sent, from you, for me.

Do you feel power?
Talking to the girl of the hour?
Are you that sour?
With the vagina flower?

Are you that horny? that your words depend
on whom you want to stick it in.
You really make me sick again.
You use everyone up and then

Break them down with hardened heart
Pin them down, pick them apart.
collecting them, now you start
To separate them from their guard.

Do you like them all to be blond?
that belong to your harem?
To be skinny and insecure where
being without you scaresem?

But ya don't want to share em?
No, they are all for you.
To prove that you're worth it,
just watch what they'll do.

I see through. I see through. I see through.
i see past your interesting face,
to a disgusting shadow, the only trace
Of where a soul once had a place.
Now Empty space. Just empty space.

And your humor hides the rumors
From the ears of your suitors
Where the lies grow like tumors
And I despise the groomer
preparing his army of misinformed
against the truth, they shall be warned
And the casualties, the others and me
Will lose in battle against our beliefs.
we will blame ourselves for any grief
Following your lead, commander-in-chief.

how dare you harm many innocent women
Lying to them so you can get in em.
Stunning them with your witty venom.
And how many bathroom doors did you lock?

How many trusting hearts did you shock?
One day you will run out of stock...
And be left alone with your ticking clock.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
 
 
julianedenton
04 March 2008 @ 08:52 pm
My contribution is retribution,
The distribution of truth.
For which I fought and sought
with fingernail and eyetooth,
It would behoove you to know.
That my feelings haven't begun to slow
The fireworks begin the show
Contempt and resentment,
Now they grow.
Hell hath no fury.
Like that inside my chest.
And you, this cosmic flurry
Exploded like the rest.
Confess.
Confess.
Unless.
You care to test.
me.