a household obscured

languid evening
smoke curling around
the air, hugging
the walls & ceiling
smoke drowning it all -
the noise of tv, the dishwasher's
dull hum
is lost in haze
[a household obscured]

storm

i wish it would rain
hard,
wash away
all my anger -
the resentment i hold close,
the lack of brightness
to my days.
if i am dark, the sky, also
should join the night.
the wet grass, water streaming
from my car as i accelerate, &
stop.
the people slouch along, as if
the clouds press them more firmly
to the earth.
i straighten my shoulders, take my place
in my environment.
let the rain fall,
let this all wash away.

cloud blood

someone (who?)
i don't remember
called it cloud blood and it's true
today, after last night's hail
tapping me to sleep, brittle
against the windows.
they predicted tornadoes
running through the channel
of the city. none came -
my disappointment, instead.
i settle in
for another week in
corporate hell, use
my illicit nail polish
to stain my fingers an
unobtrusive shade, armor
against the constant application
of soap and bleach water.
the chemicals leach into my skin.

the shame

i do not
miss you
although
i wanted to

clock

fits & starts
the ricochet forward, and
fall
backwards, languidly
time lacking
a center to cement to.
the flying - faster,
breathless
rushing ache of it -
and the dull backwash
of hours moving sludgelike
in the center.
the years so fast,
this month will never end.
this week can't go by soon enough.
only four hours
before i can go. oh god. four
hours - an eternity -

[even if i hardly use them]

i've been stockpiling
razors again
it always helps to calm
my mind

distinct

the scars keep coming
& the only thing that worries me
is that others might
see these marks i paint
into my flesh
and believe
i'm too crazy to be competent -
i've never worried
about opinions,
but it has occurred to me
that my arms might
paint a picture of a person
far more unstable than
i am today - i don't want
people to see a mental case
i want my arms to testify
to my great will
to survive

full time

the concrete floor
presses ache into my spine
pacing the same spot
for hours, giving others
my time
downing the free coffee
to stay awake.
snatched hours of sleep -
never enough to wake in anything
but a panic - the
rushing, rising sun sharp
against my windshield.
they say to take my
piercings out -
of course
i don't comply.
i do not blend here,
the tired girl
rubbing her eyes,
wiping the lack
of sleep on her pants.
order:
latte, mocha,
CD/S/L - NF
americano, half-caf -
rinse & repeat -
the code of coffee.

marked

i think there will be
no part of this life
that will not stain me,
leave me scarred.
my wrists ache in the
morning, now -
another reminder that the
invincibility of youth
inevitably wanes.
i live in the in-between,
the light and dark,
the gloaming
which makes me blurry, indistinct.

to pretend

i met a fellow poet
plying his trade, paid
by the flowing wealth of Big Football,
as we all were,
playing the fantasy of New orleans
for people who have their names
on buildings, faces
on alumni magazines -
the types who never
ended up with their feet
in the gutters, to see
the poets who
perform on the streets.

louisiana

the coolness of air
poised over a swamp
murky and green
with gators basking
in the remainder of the
heat of the sun.
now the air bites
through my sweater
and i wish for warmer clothing
a jacket, pants.
i'd kill for coffee but settle
for lukewarm water.
i smile when necessary.
sneak away when i can
find the time - i often wonder
how i got here - this place,
town, job - and
i remember there is
no reason, only randomness.
only senselessness.

heroin[e]

the slick needle
slid out of its packaging
i watched her ritual
powder, cotton, water,
syringe.  she did it
again.
i wouldn't let her pierce
my skin.  took the rubber
band, wound it tight
tapped air to the surface
a little squirt, a dribble
of clear.
my veins have always
stood at attention
for me
but especially
this night
waiting for the sting
a raw rush, i
new to this world.
i watched her eyes dilate, beautifully
felt my own respond
in kind
as she kissed the perfect dot of red
left behind.
first try bullseye
and i finally understood
these hows & whys

the second time, i
let her,
fascinated by the intake
of my blood into the
chamber, right before
the plunge.
she held her arm out for me -
and i recall knowing
that she was gentler with me
than my hands could ever be

new city

night -
our walls are strange,
and i am listening
to the trains
as they sing
in harmonies.
we are close
enough that i can hear
the clicking tracks.
day -
i stare at our
inherited patch of grass,
wondering where to plant my trees
that they might root,
something
i never seem
to know how to do.

you

make sure to lie,
past your lips
and straight through
your teeth.

gay as i want to be

my father paved the way:
divorced my mother
and learned
at 54
how to become
what he had always been.
i admired him, mired
as i was
in the dying embers of self-denial
the three years
of running away from pain
encapsulated in the memories
of betrayal.

in that fear
i betrayed myself.

now, my father recommends places
so wonderfully gay
i marvel at the fact that he
ever became this comfortable with himself
at all.

i stepped into this world
wanting so badly
to become a part of something
bigger than myself.
my dad
the unlikely pioneer
in this journey.
i am proud
of us.

the last

i hold a bandage
over my wrist, obscuring
my tattoo:
same old pattern, new refrain.

the worst part is
the asking -
everyone wants to know
& those who deserve it
are the hardest
of all
to tell.

my tired resignation,
it's really nothing, no
big deal, look drop it
already
it is unexplainable.
i can't patch this up,
for you, with logic.

meanwhile you shake
your head, look
so dejected
i always wonder why -
it always removes from me
any emotion at all.

tip me, bitches

how ironic, that the man
who would not give me tips,
bought me the button
demanding them

how vividly

i remember
killing the bird.
it lay on the sidewalk,
lungs fluttering, too
young, quite,
to fly.
thought it was dead
until i stooped to look closer,
lifted it
into my hands

tiny thing, yet it had
the obvious weight
of the living
that indefinable force, a presence
no one can explain.
i held it, broken thing
too fractured to live, but
not soon enough for dying

i carried the sparrow
beneath its oak,
laid it gently on the ground
but couldn’t leave it
to its suffering.

i said, i’m sorry
put the tip of my boot
on its tiny head, and
pressed,
feeling the inaudible
pop
released my foot

it lay still. i
hefted it once more in my palm
feeling the lightness
utter stillness
and placed it on its bed
of autumn leaves.

this is
death, i thought, the
moment between
animation
and stillness.

i buried its body under the tree.
i walked on.

ghosts

i did not dream her
completely. she
was real, or
i guess is
although i haven’t seen
her face in years
almost seven, though it
barely seems so long ago.
i guess this is the beginning
of getting older
letting old loves fade,
save in dreams.
i met a girl, yesterday
who reminded me of
the girl in my dream
sweet, a bit reticent,
with shining eyes.
i wonder, sometimes
if i’m trying to
remake my past,
right
what withered
on the vine.

morphing

i crawl into the familiar
accoutrements, high
high heels strapped
to my feet.
on the stage it’s the customers’
fierce stares that strip me,
not of clothing, but
respect. they
show contempt on their faces,
take in the sights but
leave my stage bare, so
i don’t get undressed.
i am already naked –
sure they can feel my
utter loathing
just as surely as i can feel
their condescension
that sense of entitlement
where they believe
my time is not
worthy, as if it is free.
i pay myself in small
revenges, “accidentally”
kick their legs,
when they sit beside me,
trying to
take me in.
at night, i go home
wash the rude eyes
off of me, and remember
the good ones – the
boy who touched me as if
something sacred
and i start to relearn
the goodness of people.
i do.
in the morning, dragging
myself to the shower,
i hold this in my mind.
i go back to the club.
i go inside.

that comes when you think you might

perversely pondering the implications of death,
i scuffed through fallen blossoms
staring through you like a broken window,
too ashamed to admit
that we were disjointed

i wanted to hit you, but made do
with thrashing to glittering dust the pieces
of your heart that would be the hardest
to reclaim
with breaking our flesh, creating scars
which bite and sting us,
still

i watched flower petals swirl down
noting the incredible ill-timing
of this unexpected fracture

but all my rage
does not alter the fact that
i drank until i forgot reticence
finally unlocked the door
let you in

you were shocked, i could tell
but you wanted to fuck so badly
ravenous with desire
heavy under my fingers
and i shrank within myself
scarlet in my anger, screaming
i am impervious

we ground our fragments into something solid,
barely restrained
but
i understood, then, the complications
of what would supersede us

cento

a hundred times consider what you've said,
sleepily indifferent –
the chill of closed eyelids

the trick is to make it personal.
i'm drunk – i stand on the porch in my bathrobe
let silence drill its hole
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
what he needed from me i have no idea.
oh plunge me deep in love—
in the glaring gap


*this piece created for a contest. my entry is here.

colors of the mind

i would walk through
our shotgun house for soda
the most ridiculous shade
of purple,
but there’s a redhead in
our bed, fucking himself
not to be crass, but it’s true
and i don’t feel like interrupting

this is a weird domesticity, the type
where you know these things,
and it’s not remotely awkward
although i’ve been with lovers
who’d go to any lengths to hide it,
even if i knew anyway

this day is tending towards blue, although
the clouds are persistently grey
as is the cat twining between
my legs, pestering for attention

it’s funny how red hair looks
brown, when wet
the slow change from dull
to iridescent, as it dries
on my shoulders
me in my brightpink
plaid pajamas which
i never changed from
when i migrated to the couch,
to join its slow meditations

amazing how the green light
from the porch full of plants
reflects
inside our living room,
turns the slowly fading light
alive

Matthew

i always wondered why
you left the burned hole in the floor
once you found it,
didn’t try to hide the evidence
under layers of putty, as
would i

your name always evoked for me
theology class, Mark, Luke, John,
the books i read unwillingly,
having had enough information already
for a religion i knew
i would never belong to

you
comment on the length of my hair
as you are enveloped in the
smoke, the haze of your hookah
how much it’s grown -
how much i’ve changed,
you mean,
although you wouldn’t say it

we own cats, now
slinking from room to
room, as if they
own the place

and you have not changed,
despite my bend
and warp
constant, and sure of yourself
in ways i will never be,
despite all my confidence, and
appearance to the contrary

temple

last night, adorned
with flowers on
a garland,
the monk handed me
literature, asked
if i wanted
the Bhagavad-Gita,
offered me clothing
for the times when
we gather to dance
and learn
what it means to accept
another’s culture

i try to imagine me -
wrapped in sari,
my pale face as obvious
as a beacon

we chant, Hare Krishna, Hare
Hare, Krishna, Krishna
my second time
uttering these words,
seeing
that all beliefs are really
one, if you boil them
neatly
down

my friend persuaded me here
free vegetarian dinner, and
i came for the Indian spices
i missed, from when my roommate
used to fill our house with the scent
of curry

left, wondering how
these people are so willing
to enfold me entirely, say:
“you don’t have to change
your religion to grow
as a person”
so i come, on sundays, to temple.
i grow.

empty box, pizza crusts

yesterday: chapbook from my teacher
in undergrad
arrives. i tell her
i’ve got it, can’t wait
to read it. still
haven’t cracked the cover,
not that
i’m not interested, just
distracted
by the junk in my living room, the
empty box, pizza crusts
abandoned on a plate

no matter who i live with, it
always seems as if i live alone

despite our daily dialogue,
the decisions we make together.
stacks of unopened mail,
bills that will not get
paid, junk mail from
my bank.
i won’t wonder, later
when they cut off my
cards, when my credit
plummets.
i keep examining things –
my erroneous belief that
adulthood was supposed to
be different from my days
of university, the frustration
of “failing”
the refrain is always the same
“get a real job”
as if i wasn’t trying
and failing, as usual

publishing

he said i couldn’t do it, but
i did
tore every fingernail on
the heavy keys
leaning over the typewriter,
sparks flying
bleeding my helpless
frustration
into the paper.
with every mistake,
every missed strike of
each key,
i began to understand
exactly what it takes
to love words enough
to stick out
the mistakes,
and create an entire book
with your fingertips.

the opposite of progress

placing a sign, saying
“if you lean on it,
it will tip over,”
i wondered:
it’s usually the
children of the group
that have no brains, not
the adults.

forty ways to say i’m sorry

you are hurting,
you will cry constantly over the person
who hurts you most, who
still owns that piece
of your heart that is the hardest
to reclaim
and i would fly
to your side,
hold your hand away
from the phone
that poisons you
with his words
which bite and sting,
but keep you running, still –
to the place where
he holds
his hands to your hurting
holey heart,
which
burn into
your flesh, creating scars
that will never fully heal, and
i understand
what saying goodbye means – the
willingness to end
what hurts you most
is infinitely hard to scrape up
but grows
when you finally say
no more, no more
crying at night,
wasting you in your bed, which
seems the loneliest place in your world
but i would hold you, given
half the chance,
i would feed you
the kind of love that
doesn’t hurt, kill
your chance to leave –
woman, i would hold your heart, and never let go.

back when i loved you

you
were so shy, although
you pretended not to need
anyone, least of all
me

and i wrapped you in my arms,
and held your insecurities
and told your
it was okay, your neuroses
and failings and
the scars on your arms
did not define you,
just like
the scars on my arms
did not define me, did not explain
anything at all, other
than the fact that we were in pain

and you moved on,
those words, "i
love you,"
terrifying you to the point where
you would not speak to me
at all
coming between our
sanctuary of hope

i hope you are loved, now
in the arms of your husband
hope you learned
about trust,
the desire to hold someone
because they need it

i missed you
for years, although i
poured no hope into
reconciliation

i speak to your sister often
she finally understood
what i mean when i said
i loved you

why i hit you

your carelessness
it’s infuriating
the hours of work i spent
building my presence, trying
to make you understand
that impact is the only reason i
try at all

you piece of shit
ill-understanding bastard
why
is it that every time i try to build
something i care about
you carelessly shatter
each and every piece

the singing oak

wonderful wind chimes
blowing breeze makes them sing out
my first peace in days

spontaneity

people list it
as
an activity, say
they love it
strive
to achieve it

no response

when i send a message:

quick, what
are you doing?

bikes, you and me, in the park –
what do
you think?

what to do on a

s day

UN
boun
d
M
y o
cking
Si L
ent iving
ro
om

(modeled after E. E. Cummings' Achieving the TogetherColoured Instant 5)

oh

if there are hells, i know who will be there (all by themselves)
in whirlwinds of regrets or
still reveling in their harsh
behavior, hells of darkdeep

blooming desire
standing bent and writhing

prostrate, lying motionless

watching scenes unfold
past
closed eyes, which don’t protect from the fires
which don’t touch their faces, but
should, and bloom and
touch
everything as a shout
they are my nemeses,

(the types of people to darken
the entire room, performing

while no one makes a sound.



(modeled after E. E. Cummings’ Portraits 1)

whereupon i am too drunk to write a poem

this is opening the bottle of wine
i filched from the wedding
on my coffee table, no need
for glass, no taste
for food,
better than the rum or
gin hiding on my fridge
although
i’ll probably hit them all
before the night
is over

feeling substantial

typewriter keys so
heavy under my fingers
creating magic

late

i sat waiting for things to cool,
staring at the clock – not yet,
not yet
felt as though things would never solidify
into a situation i could accept,
my sweating in this heat,
you locking yourself away
refusing to come to me
until i can’t even tell anymore if
you existed
at all

backwards

whatever i was to you, you rejected.
while you ran from everything about me,
i carved marks into my skin
tried to get you to see me, really see
an exercise in futility
while you convinced yourself i was defective
you picked pieces of me, and burned the rest
and i waited for you to feed my hunger
although i sent you letters, emails i’ll never send
you won’t call, or write.

outdated

your niece called your current girlfriend
cardboard, stiff
and flat
asked me why you didn’t
bring me around anymore

as we stood in your yard after
your graduation ceremony,
the Masters i supported each
step along the way, before
you replaced me
like worn technology, no
regrets, no looking back

i told her, lovely young woman
becoming so perceptive
that i would give anything
to be with you,
but it wasn’t my choice

hugged her tightly, she said
“we miss you,” and i
think she meant her entire
branch of the family
who made efforts to keep
in touch

despite my being replaced,
despite your unspoken desire
for me to disappear
from your life

horseshit half the time

a
delicious tragedy
the way we eat words,
crumble them in our fingertips and
spread them thin
our
impoverished generosity
blending so many things
into one thick, dark
smear

blows

we drove, tonight
over torn metal, over
signs blown from
their moorings
pieces of billboards
strewn upon the road

we drank until i forgot reticence,
not
that i have much of it
in the first place

after we left, and
the winds died down, we returned
home and freed the cats from
the kitchen

watched them roam the wet streets,
give up and come back licking
wet paws and complaining

i am grateful
not
for pets or the peace
after the rain or
the puddles’ eventual
acceptance
of the grass

but for people to whom
i can tell my stories, and
when i am finished, they

don’t gape at me, they
get it

three

hours i spent on the phone with you, tonight
driving towards a city that is no home
and you, number two,
i am so many numbers removed
from you now.
so many people i’ve tried to forget, or
done so successfully

i never knew why
i was done with you

europe or bust

i cried my eyes out, sitting
on my mother’s couch, listening to you
speak about foreign places
we three girls with hungry eyes eager
to trade spaces with you,
the world
weary traveler girl, at one with
the same girl we knew:
in middle school,
slumber parties,
high school sneaking from
the house,
when i first got you hammered, underage,
in a bar.
we all certainly drink legally now. we share fifteen
years of history,
chronicling the events
of our combined pasts – two
weddings, one funeral, one incipient divorce,
and the solitary
two of us
who have never made it quite that far.
i cry on the phone to my lover,
“i need a change, i want to go to Europe, i am the worst girlfriend
in the world”
he says i’m not, which makes him
nicer
than i will ever be

greenery

we sit
shouldertoshoulder in the cool
air, watching out
for your parents like children do
afraid of being caught
as the wrong person.
we inhale calm smoke to filter
our world, smooth out the harsh
lines

there is no transcendence in this moment.
we are not dreaming children, we
are adults who wish
we were dreaming, lighters
tucked into our pockets, buds
in the palms of our hands. we pass
moments back
&forth

when was the last time

what i'll miss when i leave here:
people speak
on the street, they nod,
smile say hello - how you doin'
what's up?
here, my neighbors ask what
i'm up to and actually
give a shit
about the answer.

eye contact.
it's what i lacked
in the city i love, so many
thousands of miles from here.
there, i knew none
of my neighbors, saw them
only incidentally -
family with three
young kids, the
"punks next door who
burned a sofa in the back yard
once," and never lived
it down
two ladies who grew roses,
the most beautiful
yelloworangepink,
and never minded
when a picked a ton of them.
that's all i knew -
even with walking the entire
neighborhood, finding
my place.

there, people stare
straight ahead,
avert their eyes
to the sidewalk,
which is wet
with the incessant rain.

i will be back there,
in the years to come -
and i wil bring
a smile, a hello
for everyone -
see if i can't startle
them into sudden life,
the corners of their eyes
crinkling

walking away

& if at this point, i don't
even remember what it is
i'm running from, but
i'm running anyway
& if dragging my shit through
the miles of this country
has changed nothing -
then maybe there is a
deeper issue here
than the inability to
find a place where i can
even believe in the
concept of "home"

there are no psychics this time

it was cheaply made, purplish-green

ring with adjustable wire
kindergarten love
a present from his bashful smile.
i kept it
but i couldn't see any sort of future

simple stuffed animal
green with brown spots, a gator
i graced it with his name
it was seventh grade;
i knew nothing of love.
i still have it
but i couldn't mold our future.

it was platinum, a full carat
meant to last forever -
three years, and a bitter memory.
i wanted it to last so desperately,
but i gave it back.
i couldn't hide the fact that
we had no future

practical, black with straps
perfect to nestle my camera in -
he gave this, and a smile
brown eyes and gentle hands
it was just a beginning.
i knew too much of love, but
couldn't begin to know the acrid future.

i drove a green camaro,
he a mustang, black,
filled with dark music and
anger and manipulation.
i still stayed for over a year
and when i broke us, i broke
my sense of self, for years -
but somehow i had a brighter future

they came as a pair
and a dirty mattress
a relief in air-conditioning
in the stifling air after katrina
a hot mess of trio
she, angry
and he and i terribly,
horribly in love -
and i, knowing the end
before it began,
i moved 3,000 miles away.
i killed our future.

we had a home
25 foot ceilings, a loft
where we shared a bed
his limbs all over mine,
closer than anyone else
would ever get.
he tore me out
from the roots
slowly, piece by piece
for over a year.
he obliterated our future

he gave me a rocking bench
trees,
a rose bush -
dragged me out of the hole
the previous man
had dug.
he is solid, kind
and i have no idea what
to do with that,
so i have no idea
what the fuck
the future will be this time.

i will not usually do this.

i do not mean to have this as a means to quote other people.
it's meant to be a poetry archive.
but i came across this quote again tonight. twice now, it has had a great significance in my life.

twice now i have moved all the way across the entire country, trying to escape my problems, my life. i'll give you guys a hint: it doesn't fucking work.

"...after all, I was moving
three thousand miles
not to 'escape' my problems
but to put a nice distance
between them and me:
a problem has to be fierce,
to travel that far."
- John Brehm



they were fierce problems, to be sure. still are.

all i know is that running doesn't work. because if it did, i would never stop.

knees, scraped & scabby

and i do not know how to survive this despair.
how to dig out of this hole i sink in -
instead, the bottom is soft mud.
it sucks at your legs, pulls you
steadily under the water
until you drink it
brackish, coughing,
choking
on the salt.
what comes after this
is only going to be
deeper - higher waves,
the shadows deepening
until all you see
is the utter velvet night,
the tide creeping steadily upwards,
until you choke,
and you drown.

flinching solstice

it is only now, as the sun
slowly rises into clouds
that sleep pulls at me,
tugging inevitably into
incoherence.
10 am appointment
hit the energy wall at nine:

sleep becomes suddenly
impossible, it becomes
an enemy. instead, make coffee.
walk by your sleeping
lover and wonder how
they do it
how do they do it?

i can never seem
to relax enough
to let the dark pull me under

unfaithful

as soon as i crawled
into my bed naked, hyper-aware
you were there, your shade
sliding in between our bodies
and into my head.

i closed my eyes,
kissed him, and thought
of you.
this kind
of longing - unwanted,
unforeseen - is the
worst kind,
interrupting the last year and a half
of my life with him
that you left me behind in

still, i conjure you in my mind -
our easy intimacy, the
mind-meld of our sex - the
blatant differences in our fluidity,
and his and my uneasy
awkwardness

i stepped to the bathroom,
after,
and cried for a moment
my stomach rolling with
unsatisfied ache
hating that your memory
so often ruins what i have
painstakingly built with
the remnants of my psyche,
the small bits that escaped
the damage of your indifference.

and i hate this, i hate it
the kind of unfaithfulness
that i cannot avoid,
the attempt to not still want you,
and the weariness of wanting anyway

he deserves better of me.
i deserve better
of myself.

but tonight,
when he is sleeping
i'll touch the places on my body
that you worshiped
with your mouth

and when i release
i'll be holding you,
in my mind.
even after all this time.

have it all

what i lack
is intangible
it's not something you buy
in a store, it's a certain
assurance
that the rent will be paid,
things will turn out

i am losing faith in everything - everyone
who told me the key
to a "good" job was college -
the previous generations
for expecting our lives to be
so much better, but
making our futures drastically worse -
the inability to believe
anything will be fine
if i vote for the right politician - it's
not losing childhood hopes
that bothers me,
it's losing all hope
for anything
to get better, or change

missing

breath
the easy rise and fall,
absence of that eerie whistle
which, when it comes
tells you, hush,
wait
be still
the storm is coming
coming to ravage what you take
as a given,
the ease of inhale
exhale

grasp that plastic-encased steroid
tighter.
wait
until the catch
eases.
gulp air, head swimming,
palm pressed to face.
do not black out.
it only gets worse from there.

a letter i never delivered

i am already composing my letter to you,
stating my goodbye
it could be years from now, or months
but time will not change its contents
detailing all i'd long to tell you,
but never in my own words, though
there are so many of them
i'm singing them in song,
using words that others wrote,
because with you i hold my own
too closely to my chest
to let you know everything
i'll tell you to the tune of music,
and a passion
that is not wholly my own,
love,
though i do hold it dear

i could, i would write you a million words, but i know that even if you read them, the meaning would escape you - i know you're not big on words. so i'll write to you in music, which i know is a language we share, and i'll let the others do the talking for me, for it's just as true this way - even if i am not the first (or last) to say it.
give it a listen through, and then do whatever you like with it. put it on repeat (as i might do with a favorite song), ignore it, forget it, shatter the cd against a wall. in the end, it's only worlds, love. and that's slightly blasphemous for me to say, seeing as words create (and possibly even destroy) my entire life, but it's true. words are only words, and only actions tell us the truth. but we have to try to communicate somehow, and my best method is through language. listen to the words, then forget them, if you will. in the end, there is only you. and i.

fast, heavy Chevy

as a child, i'd ride
in my mother's car
past an old filling station
which sold classic cars
one Corvette, hunter green,
$18,990. i told myself
i'd buy that car, one
day. some day.
almost sixteen, birthday-bound,
my father asked me
what did i want?
i said Corvette, a Stingray
i want a fast, heavy chevy
(or maybe, a motorcycle?)
i unwrapped
not keys, naturally,
but a 1972 Stingray
model, bright orange.
my father has a wry sense of humor.

my first car - a Buick of
indeterminate color -
was crashed into an SUV, then driven
into the ground, but
my college acceptance ensured
my parents' goodwill,
and i finally got what i wanted -
hunter green, spoiler,
T-tops, Bose stereo -
Camaro
the poor girl's Corvette, but
i wasn't complaining,
i ran the hell out of it -
brought it through Katrina unscathed,
drove 3,000 miles across the country,
only to sacrifice it
to an icy mountain,
along with three of my ribs.

years later, and
3,000 more miles back
to the southeast, my wheels
are my bike,
my legs, my boyfriend's goodwill -
relearning how to live in the south
without losing my mind,
and reconciling eating organically
with going to taco bell in a Suburban.
reconciling how to want
a fast, heavy Chevy,
versus trying to get off oil,
how to change the desires
of the mind?
can we alter them in time?

what we call a wage slave

the coffee shop
is a Mac lab today -
slow, silent and dull
and the musician who plays
in the corner, for tips
and free tea
sounds like a terrible
Cash knock-off, and i wish
h wouldn't play at all.
i am enjoying the quiet,
slow nature of a rainy evening
building creaking in the humidity
settling damp timbers into
the foundation, as the hum
of the a/c dries out
damp clothing,
makes me shiver.
i should be able to hear
all of this -
people restless in their chairs,
muffled feet on the floor -
instead, i am trying to discern
the difference in each
song played - so far, all
in 4/4. so far, the same key
applies.
i'm no guitarist,
but even i know the difference
between talent
and mediocrity.

...hopefully

working at weddings
is quite lucrative, but
the more i attend them,
the more i'm certain
if i ever get hitched
the only white at the whole affair
will be my skin -
i'll paint enough color to portray
a whole life lived before
this moment, and after
a party shouldn't be pristine,
but messy and drunken
and wrapped up in everyone's lives,
the way we live them,
instead of imagination -
the supposed purity of what you're doing -
standing in a room full of people,
proclaiming -
i'm going to fuck this person
for a long, long time.

barista deja vu

my touch rattles the cup
in its saucer, spills
coffee & tea
caffeine's restless habits,
a mug resting against my teeth
preventing the warmth
a way to still my hands,
slow everything down.
today is a day built
for bad news, the skies
cloud-hung and sullen
the color of coffee-stained
dishwater, and your eyes,
murky and solemn.
i don't even know what you're asking,
but want no part of it.
i have enough,
in my life, building
to a head.
i strain the tea and sip.
steam obscures my glasses
and i have to ask:
how many times will i stand here,
hands shaking,
waiting for you?

far away

he says,
sometimes i get so jealous of
that pillow you hold so tightly
while you're sleeping -
the way you grip it, and i
have no way of knowing what
you think -
when i'm thinking too heavily,
too late into the night,
and i clutch my pillow so as
not to wake you with my
tossing in bed, or when i finally
lay down, and you're curled too awkwardly
to get an arm around - the times
when i wonder what you dream about,
when you hold your pillow tightly
to your chest and sigh

tourniquet, the painting

find text version here:

transfigurations

i've crossed this country enough times
to forget what it's like
to have a home
to return to.
people ask where
i'm from, and i say
everywhere
which is just as good as "Kentucky," and
more truthful.
i crossed the continent, this time
into a 63% unemployment rate [in my age bracket]
holding onto the sad-sack job
that is my only opportunity,
while they tell me: wear
shorts shorter, shirts tighter,
more makeup, bigger hair, more.
more, more.

or, maybe less -
less like myself, less
like a female who knows enough
to say,
this is wrong
when i'm only hired for my tits
or maybe ass, take your pick.
my early morning stalling car,
stopping in the midst
of three lanes of traffic,
means, among other things,
that i will walk an hour tonight
to dance through
my six hour shift, and sweat
until i don't remember what it means
to be dry
this
these small things are
the meaning of privilege, which
is what separates us
from poor to rich, from struggling
to asphyxiation.
we snatch at jobs
we're obscenely over-qualified for -
please, let me work - please, let me
not drown in the bile
in the back of my throat.

i learned yesterday
that Aaron died.
he drank himself to death,
adding to the top
the heroin overdose
to ensure he'd never be held responsible
for all his debt -
and sometimes, in
the darker moments
that seems like the only way
to ever be free - wasting your life
instead of pointless guilt over losing
a job, and the inability
to pay lawyers' fees.
i ran, from Oregon,
from my struggling friends for this -
63%.
my head swims -
it's heat exhaustion.

she tells me not to, the painting

you can read the text version here

resist

you can find the text version, here.

S [elf] I [sh] the painting

you can find the text version, here.

starting to paint

so, i told you that i had been doing some poetry with art...
like the poem S [elf] I [sh]
it has a painting to go along with it, also.

so, i will post them all, i think... since i finally took some pictures.
even if they aren't good pictures.
i have a shitty digital camera, and for that i apologize. both my poetry and my photography deserve better. but it will have to wait until someday, when i have money to get a decent DSLR digital camera.

i think i will also find the entries with the poems, and place the pictures alongside the poems, as well...

and hopefully someday soon, i will be inspired to write more poems. and you will hopefully read them.

bleeding

so distinctive
taste, texture, look or smell
and so different in its stages
red to brown, the brightness fades
reverses, from a thick
smell of copper, to salt, and decay -
even a decade later, on the paper,
the smell remains
preserved, a way
to completely transcend time.
i'm back again: young
scared, a whole lot crazy,
equipped with razors
and an inability to cope -
it all projects sadness,
i should feel that -
but instead:
half of me
turns out the remaining lights,
slips her hand
into her wallet
pulls out a razor,
rests it against wrist,
says
do it.
do it again.
more blood.
more.
more.

make it neat

anxiety is eating a hole out from
under my ribs.
i take my pulse,
lose count. take pulse; fuckit
it's racing, i don't care.
or do.
i'm not walking straight, i veer
off the walls, towards
the kitchen
fetching tea to wash down xanax
and sit on the couch,
twitching.
i swallow my panic,
beat it back
open the door and shoo at it
like a recalcitrant pet,
shrieking.
panic will not leave, but
remains
curled on my kitchen floor, smirking,
waiting for me to let it through
the cracks between
madness and medication,
the drinks i'll suck down
to dull it all,
the scotch in my glass
settling
into my stomach.

jazz fest

music
rolling through my city -
lone trumpet,
4 am,
no ordinary street musician,
this
but something effortless
the kinds of notes
that rain forth like musical bliss
mingling with
the muted shouting of the neighbors
and people walking home
from bars -
the night is never quiet, here,
the cars fly by
incessantly, highway
always humming

repeat...

i do this sometimes, repeat a poem...
forgive me if i don't catch all of them.

it's not purposeful...what happens is that i'm pulling from at least three separate sources, and i occasionally forget if i've done a particular poem.

considering how many i've written over the years, it's a bit hard to keep track of which i have and haven't archived online.

spill

in the gulf
right now, the
ocean is burning
engineers staving off
the inevitable ending
of oil against delta,
oil in our mud and our fish
and all of the marshland
they set the water on fire,
hoping it'll burn quick -
before the rain i can feel
hanging in the air, before
it spreads steadily,
to land.
we are quiet.
we wait.

twitch

jumping at house shadows
in this familiar space,
i'm internalizing all the voices
that have told me i should fear:
fear the walks i take
in the early hours,
the darkness, the men
who lurk in it, the crime,
the highway traffic, myself
my feminine fact
and i always laugh, say
"whomsoever fucketh
with me
shall receive
his everlasting life
a little early,
assuming
he's earned it"

and i mean every word of it
i ignore what
should spook me,
yell rudely
back
at anyone who assails
me with obscenity,
i am not afraid at all
until later,
when i am alone
solid in my certainty that
i am solitary in this space
which is the most eerie
thing in my life -
rooms
full of silence, a long house
stretching its limbs -
that groan and creak

brief explanation...

all of this poetry originally started out on another blog, one i've had for ten years. (yes, i am back-dating my entries, so as to avoid confusion.)

i am liberating myself from this other blog, as it is highly personal, and i wanted a place to put my work (poetry), and only that, instead of the last ten years of the history of my life.

i should also say at this point, that about half of my poetry's formatting is getting lost in this transition between copy&paste, and the way i actually lay it out on a page.

it's highly annoying. however, i don't know enough about computers/text editors/html to really do anything about it, ergo, oh well.

dissonance

like a boss saying
"hiatus",
meaning not working
and i say,
"i need rent"
but what that really means is
no fucking way i'll
manage that, but
i have to eat, goddamnit

i don't think people like that
understand poor
like this, and
i'm not even really poor -
desperate enough
to strip my body for money,
but i've never sold plasma, though
i wanted to -
when i know people who don't
pay any rent, and live
where they find shelter
and don't think much further,
because you can't plan for that -

i, with my college degree
have hurt a bit, but
i've never starved unless
i wanted to

our differences are bills
collected in my name,
a years' salary
in loans alone
begging repayment, leases,
until
i'm so sick over
stressing on
how to pay it
i want to run
and forfeit all of it,
not as if
it would do much good,
a fucking headache i swear
i'd trade
to be a punk in the gutter,
choosing my way

railcars follow the water

there's something hidden in the silence
what we say when we're not speaking
the train whistles echo
off the curves of the river
and i huddle under the covers
beside your still form.
the nights are never quiet here,
filled with freeway noise
and occasional weekend gunshots
the cats running padfoot
from the porch to scatter
to wherever they sleep
and you also, are silent now:
i mouth unintelligible syllables
into the looking glass
there is more to this.
or maybe nothing at all.
this house itself
is permeable, malleable, waiting
for someone to exploit its cracks.
and as much as possible,
i run out for the night,
but when dawn threatens,
i call you.
always you.

all weekend long

i'm collecting pieces of slate
from all over this city,
like unwanted
refugees. like all of the people
who come to new orleans to live
on her sidewalks and be
marginalized.
i'm waiting for
some kind of sign
that any of us belong here,
swamp-cum-city,
city-cum-sewer, -cum-wreckage as
the neighbors tear walls out
five years after the storm.
here, we all know what
"after the storm"
is referring to.
referring to a city still
in bloom,
its business bustle,
not neglect, five years out,
or houses that sort-of
stand, but are mostly
see-through.
what's it like?
ask my far away friends, and
i have no words for them,
only pictures

skew

she is beautiful, and
ignoring me
speaking of men she's dating
until i want to scream
i'm right in front of you,
look at me,
fucking look at me.
running around this concrete city
and all i want is
everything
from you,
i am tired of play
i want something real, this time.
something mine.
she wants a pretty gypsy boy,
and my new dyke friend says
she doesn't know anyone
who'd date someone like me

poisonously insinuating my flaws
into unlovable, unwantable
woman,
no woman will want you

and thing is, they rarely do
i remain here,
beckoning.
not queer enough, not
single enough, not
butch or femme enough,
not normative enough
to be labeled into a box
you can check.
i am an outlier.
i skew
your data.

follow your own instincts

i dream of letting
so many things
just go
of waking up in places
i've never seen before in daylight
and all this stuff i drag
with me hangs
on my ankles like manacles.
i'll never be able
to get lost, to find myself
in foreign places,
with all i cling to,
and i resent it, yes
hate being so attached
to the physical
because my memories live there,
instead of my head,
hate that i have to feel
to remember, to look and smell
and hold in my hands.
writing
is a cerebral act, yes
but only born
from what we know, life
rattling around our heads
into a pattern, of sorts
until we can
distill it into words.
one day, i would
leave my ties
tie up the straps
and go for a while,
run until i'm left
with nothing else to see,
no more road
to follow.
i want to roam
until i find my home, and then
leave it behind.

pages i'll abuse

you will settle into me slowly,
though my rough leather edges
will be stiff and creaky
at first
i will slowly warm, and wear
until i am soft enough
to take the brunt of you
the silences you wear
like a bruise
and the marks i get from you
will fade away
there will be nothing left when you go
but the worn volume of me,
its tale battered
from an invisible hand

i'll covet your sleep

i feel so badly in my sleepless
twitch and jerk,
not for me but
for you, since you finally got to bed
and it's not your fault you love
an insomniac.
i squirm and you shift,
pulling the covers closer to your side.
you say i hog the sheets,
but darling
i can't steal them
when i'm still wide awake,
watching you.

music meant for war

even now i have this longing for you
trumping all common sense and
the fact that i know better
more bitter than sweet,
not unlike the sour candy i
consumed in spades
and even though
you said it hurt your mouth,
you ate it anyway

and in such a manner,
i took you into myself
again
and again, giving chances
you didn't deserve, sacrificing
my peace of mind on the altar of passion.
if i gained nothing but the
knowledge that i failed honestly,
at least i never threw up my hands.
i gave all, too much,
i threw myself into the war
the battle of our bodies,
and i am wrung out over you.
there is no solace in it.

i wish i knew who was taking me home

i think i have overstayed my welcome here
at your house
or if not,
that's how it feels
with my shit scattered over
your bedroom floor
your roommates bristling over
the shitty way i treat the dog
that i lock into the kennel at any
opportunity, since
she shits in the house
and i'm the one cleaning it up
since you're immobile.

i'm tired of going without
my shampoo,
my pillow
sick of sleeping on the side of the bed
the dog took a piss on
of pretending to eat more
than i do
it's hard to lie to you
since you actually take notice
of what i do
or do not

hiding with you in the garage,
shivering with shaking hands
welcome to the fall
the season of cold, and
my madness

where i shrink smaller
inside my mind,
which is not the wonderland
it's cracked up to be
i won't pretend i'm someone
other than me,
but i know the concern
that you don't show
when my brain begins to alter
into this season,

and same as any other,
i won't care that you mind
when i bleed
i won't care,
because i won't see
anything or anyone
past myself
in the end,
i never do.

dollars are just dollars

the quality of our surroundings
hangs heavily in the air
spilling drunks into the parking lot
to stumble towards their cars,
memory sated for the evening
smelling of the kind of thick, stale smoke
only old bars can achieve
the scent of an affair
in a cheap motel room
that's never cleaned
in between its lovers
we watch them go,
clenching
empty wallets in fist
our wording wending,
whispering
wonder
into the next set of ears

verdicts

look i know i'm fucked up,
feeling closer to you
after fucking someone else

i take my freedom, and
i know you mind
but i appreciate that you let me
on my own time

but when i leave
and roam, i
just get sick
for home,
which is what
you represent to me.
my peaceful center,
but more than peace, you are
a possible future

someone who
i think knows me,
better than you even think
a hard task you seem
to manage gracefully
you don't struggle, push
or even seem to try
it's more like you absorb
the fact of me, and
stand solid against the flow.

i don't know how you do it,
but i'm glad you do.
i'm so glad you're here.

on the road

all night
i grasped the pillow hard,
my teeth grinding
in my jaw,
i was clutching
the lack of you
wanting only to come home,
and resume
the hold of us,
a molding into my mattress feeling
the grip of you.
or the lack of it, rather
in a hotel bed with scratchy blankets
tossing in the quiet
and solitude.
i am so unused to sleeping alone.
only ten days has me
tossing in my skin,
writhing with your absence,
a decade of days traveling
on the road, my life
packed into my luggage.
i am not running
away from, but toward
you, love.
i am counting days,
holding stock still,
breathless
for your touch.

i write to people who will never read it

how quickly we forget things,
until they spring back to haunt us.
calling you kitten...
trying not to, but
failing miserably.
you leaning into me. the way it feels
to be curled into your chest.
and you,
refusing to let go,
and standing in the doorway eagerly
awaiting the next time
i'll be in your house.
these things should, but don't,
get any easier with time.

next time...
next time i'll have my brother along.
and we won't touch, we will pretend,
like we sometimes do,
that it isn't there.
that we have given up.
and maybe you have, but i doubt it.

i wonder, when i leave this state,
how you will say goodbye to me.
meanwhile you are an itch i
cannot scratch,
a truly terrible idea
someone i should hang in the back of my closet
and let rest
until the idea no longer consumes me

but that isn't how this goes, no
i will court the fire, breathe in flames
until i, too
am burning alongside
what we give up does come back to haunt us.
i wonder what will haunt you, in the end.

meanwhile, i shouldn't give
a shit.
i should be occupied,
not wasting my time dreaming of you
although i don't know how i could stop,
no matter how much i tried
there is no forgetting this, no pushing it aside

so next time, yes, next time
when you stare at me with that
look in your eyes and awkwardly
kiss my cheek
i won't look away, or try to separate
i think what i want is to stay in the
fire - to burn willingly, knowingly,
seeing that no matter what the outcome,
there is this
this burning,
the branding you've made on my skin

and when the time comes
that you will take my naked body
and deliver art into my flesh,
i wonder how hard you will resist
and turn away, or whether
you will break, like time and time again,
give up the resistance,
you forget
that you are trying too hard to quit me,
like i am a drug

and this will not be the end,
or the beginning, just
another chapter to the cycle
you wish you could end,
another captured moment i wish
i could forget

i hold another, now,
in my bed. i should not regret this
but i do,
when near you and all i think about,
despite my labor,
is what you feel like
when you do to me
what [s]he does, what you make
of our patterns,
how we move and trace shapes
in the dark

we will never run out

you are stoic,
refusing my proffered ice pack and
insisting on walking to the car
on your shattered knee -
stupid man, the kind
that will never admit
how bad it is, even if
it's really awful

so i fuck you instead,
hoping it will make you
more pliable, so that
you might make faces at
my tea,
but drink it anyway

you hobble from bed to couch,
my eye wary on your balance
which is drugged,
and a little bit off - thinking,
i might
love this man, but
i'll never say it -
especially when your pride
is bruised
more than your face,
but i might -
startling as the realization is

so i smooth the stiff stitching
over your brow,
kiss the side of your mouth
that can still smile
and i watch you stand,
awkward and slow, dragging
your leg behind you

we stand, supported by crutches,
and we hold, we just
hang on tightly

a bit less

hello, my body said
pressed against yours,
i was looking for something
on the tip of my tongue
or my finger,
not sure of what to find, or
why.
this is not new, but
age-old -
a click into place, a
sudden peace.
desire does not grow old,
only us -
jaded and a bit less
self-assured,
every time.
i watch us settle in to
each other, adjusting
the fit,
squirming in our own clothing.
instead we writhe into nakedness,
and lay open as this book,
readable in its entirety,
if you just give it
the time.

i don't mind.

ask how that colorblush dark heartmelt looks

when i punched the wall
so fiercely my fist dented the hardwood, i
didn't feel it
only the tingling that presages
pain
that will come only later, when
you are alone.
nor did i bear the ache
of you,
drugs spreading through my limbs
i was finally detached
in my own head with the wraiths
i tried to forget while i was
with you,
love

my roommate looked at my
swollen knuckles, my
ashen face, said
i think you've finally snapped,
& now i know
what you mean
when you say you're crazy
and i believed it
holding ice to a fist
twice its size,
wanting still
to bruise everything in my path
until the bones of my hand cracked
and split,
staring off
to the side at the electrified air
around me and waiting
for my cracking wall of glass
to shatter down

looking later at the oval mark
my flesh embedded into the
wall, i ran my hand
with the fist i couldn't close
down the boards, stroking
lightly, trying to see
a pattern in the grain.

if it can't find you, it can't hurt you

all those hours
drinking shitty beer to rid my mouth
of the taste of you
i never got drunk,
simply ill
then lurching about the house, fingers
clenched in my hair,
tugging tightly to stop thinking
i stumbled the staircase,
holding the phone to my chest
with its messages that wouldn't come
at least not when i needed them,
tripping upwards
to lie on a bed that wasn't mine,
mouthing a silent plea
for better reception
some blind line to put some
trust in.
toes throbbing, hand
fisting belly, mouth slack
breathing through a choking nose
with no sympathy
i clutched the hole of you
and the neck of the bottle
and it rose, washing you
down into the bitter pit
of stomach
the cavern of the toilet
as i knelt, preying
upon my roiling mind,
and washing my mouth out
with a swig from the brown glass
i stood,
holding the counter,
met my eyes
which couldn't quite face me
in the cold, predawn
light of the mirror

hope

it's what makes you hurt
a little harder, every time
it fails to come through





why are the ones
that stain you
always the ones
you can't leave behind?

deathlike

i felt cheated,
i mean
when were their eyes on me
any time that i just
fixed something,
or chopped wood
hauled tree limbs, hacked
at your garden beds, when
did they even notice me
unless i was laughing and smiling
in that certain way,
wearing something
cut tight and low
i felt cheated, i mean -
always in the spotlight for the wrong thing,
never for any skill
or even a bit of personality
oh they loved me,
but not
because i opened my mouth
and told the truth
it's all to do
with a certain cock
of the head,
flick of the hair,
the tightness of my jeans

creation is key

this is how it begins:
a twist
of stomach when we speak
over the phone, and a tingle,
a tightening that descends on my
entire body as i begin the trip
that brings me slowly to you
and to us

my anticipation sick, almost queasy
and you are impatient, always

wanting to know where, how far,
how long?

i sit outside waiting for the train,
wind flipping my pages
and blowing my hair wild
and i'm switching on slowly,
surfacing to awareness, the
resemblance of our bodies
and i know
there is something in this
connection of ours that is
not simple, that will not
flame into ashes
no matter how we burn.
there is more to this, despite
our denials.

you call
and i respond bodily,
so deeply
i have no way of putting this
kind of desire in words.
the need to not leave this behind
and disappear, although
when i plan out my days,
they tend towards running
the want to wander, to
assuage the restless mind.
but i have time
to decide.
and while
i wait, i come to you
when you decide you want me, right now

and damn the consequences
we are intertwined, our lives
mixed and messy and full of life
and anguish
and you roll it around on the planes of your mind

i sit stiffer, straighter when you're
around until you pull me onto
your body and we meld

and the world, for moments, molds
itself around us

so when i'm on the move, heading
your way, this is what i think
about -
the seconds where, when
you touch me
and everything disappears,
time
and all the other shit
we worry in our teeth
is wholly irrelevant.

keeping score

i feel empty,
flesh hollowed within my frame,
the peculiar sink of belly
familiar, and intimate
the jaw i clench when no one is
looking,
locking my teeth together
for the sake of silence
my tongue tripping and turbid
with the lack
in the cold pre-dawn light
that barely escapes the covered sky
i have solitude.
it holds no solace.

the small rustlings of a house
starting from slumber, jerking
a hand through its hair
and stumbling sleepily
towards the sun, muffled
as it is in its blankets
of cloud
nestling in the sky,
as if
it hides from us
and maybe it does

i hide from it all, don't
step off my porch to
confront the world

not until the softness is
wiped away, and replaced
with unfeeling armor,
until the cracks are soldered
shut.
i'll be waiting
for the one who will pull me
from the grave my bed
has become

museum

he looked at me
expectantly
i said
what
the fuck
are you staring at
i'm not an exhibit,
not yours to gawk at, anymore.
i want to know what you want from me

waiting patiently with the look
that's more intense than you
let on but really
what do you need from me
that i have not already
tried to give, and failed
my delivery
i can't help you
stop
waiting by my side staring
wanting something i can't
fathom, much less define

what do you see
what do you see. what you see
is weary, washed out and barely
transparent, too proud
to speak, too tired
to lie

you see
what i will not bother to
guard of me

the story of you

obsessively chronicling you
on the plane,
i only stopped
to eat their fucking pretzels
and order a vodka,
which i loathe, a
continuance of the earlier mistake
of a drink
wondering, god, wondering where
i was for you,
all this time,
because it wasn't by your side at all

off, too absorbed in the trauma
of my own skin to even see you
but i'm seeing now,
far too late
32,000 feet above
your home,
under the level of the sea
and god, i hope not thinking of me
useless as i am
with the words i never shared
and yours,
that i never read
for years, not until now
flying over the heartland,
trying
to absorb home, the raw concept
of it,
if i could just figure out
who or what or where
it might be, what the definition is

tail ending winter

a freezing wind
blowing off the river so hard
it bites through jackets
& layers of clothing & i,
dressed for the warm
sunshine,
am huddled behind a pillar
after two hours of riding
a bus, stamping my feet
trying to bring life
to my toes
& thinking
of you, warm as you must be
in the enclosed car you're taking
to where i need to be,

but you
would not ask if there was
room for me,
and i think
maybe
that is the only room
i have in your life now -

a
lunch hour and no space in the
car you're riding in,
to party with
the friends who used to be mine
but no longer invite me -
maybe tiptoeing around
your new girlfriend,
as if
i fucking cared, when all i wanted
was a warm ride
that would not even take half the time
i spent shivering beside a bus stop,
hoping if i paced
and ran
i might warm up

the opportunity

i just left a note behind, and
disappeared

if i'm not back in a week, send
a search party

early morning sunshine filtering
through the clouds,
silver and dull
muted, like my own flesh when i
rise, chilled and pebbled in
the cool air, and step in no
particular direction
just gone,
elsewhere
as if i could escape my head
by climbing
a trail to nowhere
clouds overhead dampening the light

don't go crazy... you're already there

go ahead, don't
look back
just examine the moment
you are in.
do not
look forward. exist.
waiting it out
screaming rock through
your headphones
cultivate blank and smooth
maybe willing to change, but
expecting nothing
barring randomness.
just wait it out
cultivate the face
that shows you nothing but a face, staring
right back at whatever
you let your face,
unguarded,
show

schweingrippe

the nasty sort of flu
is setting claws of panic into
the country, and naturally
i'm rooting for it
thinking of the fat fucks who
block my way while waddling
down the sidewalk,
the brainless public driving
Hummers
and buying names
to plaster across their bodies
to fit in, to make sure
there is no deviation
from the norm

i sit in my living room room,
sewing my life together
with my hands,
with
every thread the needle binds.
i have the time.
i patch scraps to make the whole,
and wait
for something to take down
this ridiculous life
the pre-packaged kind,
that will only stop waddling
in the direction of the nearest food
that's fried,
when the world is altered
radically
so i'm rooting for the microbes,
and
a healthy bit of mayhem
and destruction,
i mean
it's all bound to crumble,
and all we need
is patience enough
to live it out
until we find a fiddler
to play
when it all goes up in flames