Disjointed hollow, the red place--
travel from this
And take
the nasal admonishments
Of your own house, but still
Lock in
The marrow grief
That worship of mossy trunks
And dilapidated branches, in which
You may follow us across. If you
Have dropped all your silver already
Into the gross marsh.

my mind makes plays in clever defenses
at night

with hands

over my ears, my thin
film of hidden blush and intake

of you sullen breath
you dressed my personage, my skin
crushed like sleet, flushing
out and in with heated adolescence yet

the cadence is remarkable, and still
despite such forgotten and aged

intonations, again
i soon speak from my child's eye

in awe of environments remarkable once more
because you bring me flowers again

or not again to appease
my winter girl my foster
town and watch
in gentle trepidation

my linen thin, flapping
steps of fumbling adoration,

my whiskey stung repose the burn
reviving my mistake again and written
through my town again, throughout
those kid stung documents, heaves

of blushing reaction inked across my mouth--
still you ask me back again.

you flicker behind me
your hand on my lower back--

each finger
a gentle apology.

Down

You want me to write about it but I wont
Pirouette against the glass of your
Patronizing subjectivity--
Tulle to scratch your clutch like the mother
You lust and wish you could write about

You want me to write about that but I wont--
Coddle the gun with its glint in my fingers
And blow my lifeline with some vulgar yelp and
No help of dependence but eyes for the snow, stars
Embedding themselves in the upholstery with false apologies.

You want me to write about him but I wont--
The thump in my folly-cracked job, charity
From sympathetic gluttons:
Sympathy is the glutton’s wake and fancy,
I wont write about that, but perhaps

I’ll write like an angel, if that’s what you want
And heave startled words into their gross observance,
Would you like that? Like an angel I will
Espouse sentiment easily, facilitate the indulgences
Of corrupted and needfully pored over scenes; (he clutched
Me like a doll as I rocked myself across the limbs of God.)

I might write to cry, or cry some words to document,
To feed my disenabled peers. With the wind that said No
And the grass that pricked me lustful with sweat
And the heat that makes me cry in subjective compassion-- the cry
That said Yes and the wind that made fun
And makes fun of the show of drugged dolls forlorn

And names your words featureless and as false as childish need.

I could write about a mother who beat me and a man who loved and left me,
But I’d rather not feed the life-rattle that grabs
Each nuance of embellishment, spits and giggles
And hides them in an attic of mislaid yet pleasantly intended
Promises

Missing the Play

I'm happy but it just seems a little
Like a broken seed in a cup wearing dusk
For all the while I push against this wrong
Feeling-- it thrusts towards branching out
A few steps towards either pole--

A few steps, It would take me
To go to the bed of a warm clutch and love
But only two steps it would take me
Towards one pool to dip my toes into

Filmy with moss and ashes, and incandescent
With Cancer-less promises

Hannah

This gentle press of cheek,
Warm hearth of humble deprivation--
My little turtle dove.

Her song and
Twisted stomach of denial
Shuddering clutch as starvation
fails.

whistling notes peruse the bodies
Bloody as she seeks her God
Salient aged, & faithful as
Only youth & bitter-rooted beauty may allow

she sits
With chin in tightened palms, awaiting
Tidal shame bellowed
By dirge to murder time

& squinting frustration away, tears
To feed her molting messengers.
Her winter pigeons.
Hungry those birds.
Those gray & hungry little birds.

Missing The Play

I'd rather be a soldier's wife
Alone on the brittle pins
Of grass and expectancy
Forgetting what it is to love

Than be here now, with him
Asleep with blank humanity, night
Stuffing my touch with its vast
And chokingly small space
I gather up the race of a hundred
Mislaid tasks and vomit
Fear into a room so small
That only a universe of husbands
Would be able to find it.

Sonnet 12

I walk alone, the flightless plea
Of stolid, youthfull countenance
Disliked, I haggle my defense
I walk alone, he walks with me
Equivelence, he claims to be
Yet he is none but family

O light the fire and feed the bait
And feed from that smoldering reckoning plate
For the desk is wood, his letters from sea
Excrutiating company--
I come from the sea and he from the town
My twin is a lad with a blistering moan
I walk alone, he walks with me
Excrutiating company--

These letters are typed with that family touch:
Though I lie and I lie, I still say too much

Ingrown 11-6-06

Ingrown--
everyone i know--
a hook in their own
gut hold on their compass,
snaredchords leaking through
the roof over their heads.

Idlewild

Some word bellows through this open season. The air is blighted crisp clear with mothers and fathers and intricate events, and among all this, you sit there
And I have a camera, terrified of these blue eyes and the reality shuttled forth from them whenever you look at me. Legs are hung like a spider, all awkward and feigning honesty. They, and the fake sun, in the fake dusk light, mean nothing to me when eyes match the blue of your hat and I am completely terrified, nervous over extraneous circumstances.

It builds like the small shudder of infatuation, and breaches out. Throttling through my limbs and I am again ashamed. I cannot live up to my name
Or your name for me.

I tightened this scarf around my neck and played like a kid, and propped my silly head upon my neck but I am not so liberated as I come across. The ridiculousness of my situation is quite evident. You come and sit on the steps and they aren’t forgiving steps, after following me down through a bit of the town as I looked up and cried beauty. The beauty is there yet hidden between the soft and sorry roots of history. I act like a big girl but still its still a play and I am a grand debutant, making my entrance and shoving some heavy curtain away, feeling ugly all the while, but smiling while the others cheer and blessing with small kisses their ignorance. It’s a ball and I am utterly shoved against the wall. It’s a ball and nothing can ever mean as much as we used to think.

Your eyes match your hat and we are blinking radiant like the last lights of the planets, which we never see, choosing to live in the city. I wanted to speak with every person we came across, in slow and soft and equally persistent language. I wanted to be alright.

Oh baby they say, go back to school, and we cry in remonstrance that, yes, we have, we have gone back there already. And then they ask, well what are you doing here? We don’t know. And then we feel sheepish and hide in our coats and wait till we’ve been alone enough to feign joy again.

Incandescent is the porch and the memory that seeps through my sorry dreams and my thoughts concerning the steps outside the lawyers’ office. Legs pinned to the wall, and face pulled back till there’s nothing but the eyes. My limbs are still. This is the place between horror and affection. I sink with the thought of not meaning anything to anything else and strain upwards towards the trees. I was hungry and the prophet fed me.

You’ve made me a Shadowboxer baby

I am writing with music now
I am illuminated in perception now, and I will not write of this person anymore.

Did he see me try not to cry at the bar? He felt bad, obviously, or he wouldn’t have driven me back home

Scorn within the subtext of sleepiness--I avoided his eyes the whole time. I cannot write, sitting here, at this desk with the bright lights off while Hannah cries

With the bright lights off and I just put my head beneath my hand, only for a moment, just like at the bar--the awful openness of that place by my home where he has so often spent the night with me. I stretched out my legs attempting to evoke some strange sense of arrogance, as if that would outweigh my inability to look him in the eyes for more than a moment. And I spoke about the new restaurant across the street, about my mother, stories trailing off into nothing even slightly evoking what I was then feeling. Everything unsaid weighed in an air with no music and I saw him peruse the jukebox, and possibly he did so because of this unspoken inability, all bare and stark and out in the open.

this is a horrendous place; I am a fool. not foolish for ever thinking that anything would grow and disperse in some dirty white wave of seeds and stick to my jacket and get caught in my hair, but I thought something,
I hardly know what I thought, or perhaps only fabricated--
the validity of temporal satisfaction,

the momentary being, love being a momentary joy, and all the tiresome interactions between these joys being unaccountable, disposable--
yet the life we lead is interspersed with the sorry reality of truth, or the sorry state of remorsefulness. The other says that we cannot be together, and though I’ve been listening to This One for quite awhile, I have always know the superior strength contained in The Other. I actually cried
with a hand shutting his view away, away in some ridiculous repose I sat and cried and was very sure to be conscious of not letting my makeup run. the bar was all brown, just like him.
the earth is all brown and my mother’s hair is quite brown, yet I dye my hair to be anything but brown. I swallowed my repose in this pose and looked away towards those signs in neon that advertise some neon degradation, and attempted to think about those watery things--drinks and love and memories/wishes controlled by my erratic terror. who was this person?
who was this person to hold me, delegate a constant adoration from me, just as
has already been delegated among others? I am coughing now and my face is dried
cracked by salted water again.

I chose this.

he has a wife. they had a wedding. he never promised me anything.

I smoke in my room constantly. Zhalih is leaving. I don’t know what to do.

the moment that separates us is as stark as the
wirily filaments in my hands. and you could be doctor, or practitioner, telling me, within a
Hushed and overly-compensating voice, that I am okay
That it may all just wash away--

but it will not.

cowbell alley

O pascal,
groan like a wolf after the grey blood spills into it's cold dirt.
The sun comes easing over the slopes
lickslow, rolling us under it's breast.
This pool of sand is my home. I am relieved.
The coyotes cry like tortured women at night.
My father brought us here. He sleeps.
My hair is heavy, he says we'll find a shower soon.
we're all a shade of dust.
Mom is tired. Dad says the war is coming.
They'll draft little girls,
me. I have a plan for escape.
I haven't met anyone my age since I was ten.

10-12-3am-06

in the frightening everywhere here,

the caustic atmosphere--acidic threats to my scales

the violent mundane-- septic trampeeds of clockwork people

i avoid, i won't keep up with them, i won't leave this behind--

this-- serpent rise of promise, heavy cloud, distant shape at sea.

this is what makes my movement something i can bear.

i can't go where this current doesn't.

I am sorry. I am sorry that I am not readable right now.

I am sorry that I don't appease the company at dinner

with commonly accepted answers and fashionable humor.

I wish that I could so that I wouldn't have to work so hard.

Mimsy, your desk

i like sitting at your desk.
it is white. i don't want to leave.
i don't want to write from any other desk.
i am safe in this chair.
i am sad that the clock is pushing me out.
this spot is safe nough for my little birds to chirp.
thank you for your home and your heart
and your mind that is the most satisfying.
you are in the living romm with Collin and the girl
with the gen name.
I am happy to be here with Selma songs,
awaiting your bedtime.

sleepwalk

timebr hollie
here we go..
falling berry red crushing over the
stone steps where we take our breaks
smoking in disenchanted conversation.
your head stroked by my apathetic hand.
my pale blue sleeping hands, they stroke you
the way I would if I were here.
you know what I mean.
we sleepwalk together sometimes.

on

10-7-11:45 pm

A tall glass, red as iron rust going tall up my happy wild flush.
A winter ago a sledge of feet trailed down the silver mountain,
Descending into this bowl of dissolve.

Hello girl. I am brave enough to cross the feet of breath between where I stand passer on the street and where you sit, curled in your lap, hooded black. I can see you want to cry, but, and need a question to give you the answer.

The cold apparitions of my nature
Have finally reached your bed.
Unannounced, and unapologetic.
My attempts to suppress my vicissitude halted
When I stole a moment of rage, from our placid illusion of love.
I jumped out like a spark and landed ash soft on my dreaming body.
When I awoke from this spur of abandonment I was shocked
To find my spiritless body had been thrust
into the aftermath of protective allegiance to myself.
I am sorry to have such a ferocious guild of spirits intent upon my communion with them,
At the expense of idle moments content on the time I spent with you, dead as a rug.

O canopy of city steam, through which I have on better nights extinguished with my fierce absolve to see the stars! I older now, and more has settled on my windows. I look out in my sleep and on occasion stop and realize how far I have hung from such a thin vein. Forgive me, all of you, all of you who speak to God, tell him I know what I have killed. Tell him I’ll bury all the sapling voices when I find that lot of soil deep enough to harbor such a precious life.

Strobe lights, these

10-9-06 11:50 pm
Oh this and that my playful guard. Let it hit me, the hollow beast that hangs awaiting some blow that only a blindfolded boy could aimlessly break.

Goarding hapless legs over pregnant pink maternity gowns, stored, I am, like the rest of my mother’s years.

This ode to the reptile crossing , trappling over the bridges and on to the fabid ruin of our padded plume.

Do you love my brooming fallows and my instead trails leading up to the view where hay strings placid woven words meant for the rain to dazzle with it’s diamond remains.

sleep

Trace me a girl,
necklace thin draperies of pretend.
I close my eyes so the fuss over me
will drown like the day into sleep.
I don't sleep anymore.
My bed is mishapen after him.
It tells me the end without the story.
At this time of night I hold my breath,
for the coming sun is a wave
that I can't catch anymore.
I don't mind being thrashed like this--
it's the calm the stirrs me.
The waking up.

fish

O,
little perch.
Slender grasps of spring revival.
Thin green like that song,
reaching over the mills to rasp a note.
You break over and over
the sun, yolk round and all the animals
carry on as if nothing has passed. Not even
the name from your mouth, not even
the years that stole you away.
Don't I beg you, give up as I have,
on these imperishable trees
that carry your breath into the tower-
ing fire of their exuberant fall.
Down here, little bird
the ash coats your feathers, paves you into the roads
upon which your love goes passing
without notice of you.
Down here vanities absorb thought
until you are full of longing for forgetfulness.
I would go back to that branch,
and continue my song about the golden lady.
It is too late. I have aquired a taste for all
that stays below you, stagnant water,
comfort to a frightened fish.

4:30 AM 10-8-06

Open a riddle cased happening for a riot of blue.
Will you be with me when i'm a sillouette?
When my shards of glass loose light deepening night cloth?
When my sketch is smudged down to the nimble trembles
that my fingers fear to lay on your warm presense?
O my fleshened place, let me collapse here
on your breathing stronghold. I promise to be better
after you allow my wilts to gather on your fertile warmth.
Let me, and I will show you the heights these latent bones will reach.
All I want it permisson to to give into my feebleness.
With that I would fight wholly against it.
If you believe in my death, i will at once rebel.

10-8-4AM

Orphits, in my braised hollow. Simmering owls fed wiles. O this sitely view of umbrellas brilling over the alaskan corpse of my ash scraped memory. A tune to ride, like hoping hollowed out and starting over on the face of burdenned hours. I will embark on this journey to the racks we set sail from, without a hand on the steer. I will go back, through the black walls, through the howling vacance of our blood, through the invisible monsters that gobbled our time, through the waves we let pass between us in hopes of preserving the distant veiw of your ideals. I will go back to the real cry that I first let speak for our loss. Let all the bodies of our children float back to us warm with tears that reveal our nature. I will not set foot on the land until i have retrieved my remains. O shallow let me go. O father let me off your hook. O mother come with me into the past where you bore me without a hand to hold. O sisters, follow me, leave your desperation on the sand and climb onto this raft, that is setting into the heart of dawn.

And suddenly the spark will come to shudder, smooth out, and all crass rememberances will cry wiley and joke and my father will take us all out (you and I, and the rest) to griffith park, and we'll cry all the while cheeks shake and shuttle upon the ponies we aren't supposed to kick. O lordy, someday we're supposed to fall and live, and what if the consequenses of our personal loves just shake upon the sparks of stars and see nothing, nothing, nothing buzzing like a fly, a million fillaments obstinantly speaking on. I know how to love all too well. I cover their faces with the easy inevability of suppossed giving. When asleep I always walk around Beacon Hill though I know and fear returning to my home and Him in Roxbury, and I think of a false love, groping towards immediate satisfaction, the ability to live and digress in dress upon all that you are living for.

10-8-06 ruth's birthday 1:50 AM

Daddy? Why did you grow me up
in that field where the sun salivated
and the corn erections pushed over my toppling head,
and the mountains let me give them my own names
that you repeated , like my mind merited your attention.
Since you took me from that place, I have been faceless.
That is where you lost me.

(Zhalih, please always continue to be my relief, as you are, a solace amid the bland currency of common interaction. I will make a castle out of your said remembrances, a place wherein we can have a life again, just like we think we've had, yet never have had. Beauty lies in the desperate recourse of love, and you are my family.)

Pistons Hiss in Blue Distance

It’s silly to have, because it doesn’t work, the days
Are propped with numbers to dispel my disbelief.

I’ve started to grow young again--
Drawn in and beneath your angry footsteps, writing
Across the squares of our history,

I’ve marked your day
But have no fingers to take it off
No eyes to read your warm mouth with--

I’m a child now, drawn up upon this, and

Soon, mother will take me back.

You’ve marked this but there’s no voice to read it with.
You marked it when you came here,
Looking for me, and I wasn’t there, useless
Fluttering upon the wall, and

No mouth to touch your with

We were once engaged once

There’s a strange form of school in which all
Convivial support is credited by the incredulous
Fact of human fallibility, and the direction of such
Is laid upon the fool, who is, at present,
Walking down the street, and thinking he’s in love.

I have had many chances to correct myself, yet
Lately I haven’t wanted to,
For all I think about is you and you

Singing blindly like a saint fallen into the yards
Of some misrepresented fabric, and the sorry few
Caught up in building a house for you.

And I do encompass something to you, I am sure of that.
And fire away nightly
After instances of you and cough you up constantly.

You are one of the lost ones, walking
Down these alien streets.
You are the foreigner that makes

My nostalgia disease, you--
An incredulous figment to me,
Which my present life has conspired to create.

I have other friends than you.
And would you
Say hello to them? The man
I give our bottles to? He knows me so well--

And comments often upon my sorry streaks of embellishment,
And supposedly watches me, through my window
As I watch for you.
And I think he knows me better than you.

Somber arousal

This morning before I have slept
I will summon the rooted reaches from my bed
where they branch their webbed veins as
far as my heart sinks, to feel that caress.
The roots of my teeth are growing warm
with my remembrance of these dream catchers.
They will rescue me from being swept
into the shallow waters, where the treading is easy.

then

Fain affection from rodant kings
haughty finite smile.
You will be lost when your lipstick caves
with your dreaded destiny. A hag, thought so
by the same audience you left me for.
You left me for the hours of pretense,
squandering the last nights of your magic
for dead heavy gold,
which paid for your stay
on the decending thrown.
I wish you would have stayed, homely next to me.
You would have invented a wilderness
with your thoughts back then.
Your mind is strewn hapless like a beggar now,
because you have forgotten me,
like all the colors that once crowned you.

10-4-06 7pm at the smoke house

Is your forehead still a swollen absence warm skinned baby?
I am sorry for all the abrasions and the traffic
and the madness that will come tomorrow.
If I were your mother I would keep you in the dark
sheltered from the caustic armies of the generations.
I would be a bad mother,
holding you hostage in my lulling voice, yearning weeds
for the bottom of the river under our birthed bodies,
arid as our first breath.
I would keep your sleep tied to me
so all the marching soldier days would pass you by
leaving you as I was, limber enough
to grasp the world in a stroke of wonder.

10-4-06 5pm

Silly rinds, thick and tasteless
encompassing the black eyes
in the thick of the sweetest pink.
I have not slept for two nights,
I am at his computer two years later
as if nothing has changed.
My hair is blonde again.
I don't want to sleep. I am afraid of that surrender.
I don't have plans, but my glass is emptying
itself on me so I am dreading a trip out to the plaid,
where my dilated pupils my catch a spider.
I am ashamed to need so much.
I feel like a scare, but I feel like hiding.

10-4-06 3AM in your room

We’re emulsified in these cognitive attempts,
hindered by our consonants.
Will you find a word to measure me?
Will you lay a sentence over me
that will rectify the carcass of my life?
No, you don’t believe that letters spelled through me
Can amount to this. My freedom.
I know how to find the vowels in the thorns.
I can loose myself from any snarl,
dispatch the codes with these well placed vowels.

To my best

Perhaps despite the haze of ballistic intoxicating affection
you are being robbed.
Is it so far fetched to imagine that the one
you repeat over and over your broken heart
is just a scratch? A flaw in your shining surface?
O, I wish you would see that the laughter he fills you with
is made exuberant by your capacity to feel joy.
You enlighten him through your perceptive love.
I wish you would fall for your own
impassioned resonance with beauty.
If only our own warmth could
hold us over until we fall asleep.
I will happily accompany you
on these excursions with phantom promises,
but only because you know that we know,
that you are the road and the feet and the breath
that carries you down.
If you decide that this passion is too much
I will remind you of the vastness
awaiting your undevided attention.

You think garbage is made pristine by my tongue

Yes, there is something absolutely aching in your presence.

I act in a voice clotted with self-dissatisfaction.
There is a room with kind and subdued painted walls, it might be
The office of some doctor we’d both been seen by, with the pretense
Of gorgeous facilitation: the momentary
Release in small packages towards the figment of family--
It’s there and all too unpracticed and dissatisfactory for what I want you to have.

I’ll try again.

I’ve seen you on the bridge, over the river, through
The stilted environments we’ve both grown up with fictionally, yet still strive for within our minds.
I see you behind the hedge, lovely apparition of what we both could potentially be.

Funny, we live like such creatures of habit, but what is this
That loads my hands down, my vision of you--
Sulking against a kitchen cupboard, with all the strings thrown out and the
Bright contours of your face still crying out.

Do you hear the slow movements of a dolorous summer turning into fall?
With the caked-on histories of our separate inadequacies?
This is the way we speak, after the deception of our histrionic selves fade.

In nothing we sit, nothing but the love of what’s past and our mutual cares.

I would overcome your god but he talks to me too. It’s seductive, and all I want
Is to run away, take you with me. We’d go to the Cape and sit an inch in the water,
With no one around, shriek at the horseshoe crabs and grab at the hermit types, and take tea for cheap
In the lovely, re-done Victorian house down the street. And the scones and sandwiches would be delicacies, And we’d both adore them with no afterthought at all (I’d walk with your for hours, show you things).

I imagine you in this small piece of my memory. I feel you belong there with me, beyond
The harsh exhaust of needed personal activity, needed for the observation of honestly
Superfluous people. Zhalih, I wish I could take you there.
I wish I could go back there, honestly, but do you know? (as a side thought)

That you always hold the space hostage, leaning against the counter or even attempting
To make yourself comfortable atop a porch-fence pillar, before you even try to scoot over.
The self-inadequacy you feel does nothing to dissuade the viewer from perceiving the beauty that you are.

I look at you and it makes my heart warm, because you are one of the only people I’ve ever known who deserves to be so beautiful.

stealthily

Elaborate, these enormous accessories that quantify our space
and beneath all these dusty trophies are the pine needle bones
thin as silk the constructs of our histories.
I would like to burn all this away, all the success of our lies
I seek the still posture that I built this mound upon.
The brittle foundation that carries this.
I will dive into the rubbish as stealthily as night,
to reach the abandoned posture intact.
Solo as a star I must return to the bottom.

The Wake

Your fossilized heart scars my tissue--
pound pound pound after pound
weighing on my chest
in the moments I spent prayerless
for your warmth.
My beady eyes are fire spit stinging
the flesh on your knarled sneer.
Go away my phantom hope
and find yourself shaking in the boards
of your father's house. I loved you because
you are, beneath it all--
a cry.

When will I fear the danger, the poachers, the thieves?
O I will tell you. I will fear them when I am not one of them.
When I see my life as yours or any others,
precious as the rock that breaks us.
Defensless lilting hopes we are,
tilting towards the moon, long after
we have laid our monsterous heads down.

october 1st but after midnight

old whimpers stuff this box
you stole away with my papers,
those that i never had time to organize
because you filled the space for dreaming.
I provided amusment for you.
My insufferable shortcomings
could conjure a smile
though my heart and mind could not.

Teddy's song

I spent my growth on wasted time
and now i sleep and eat with swine.
I'm not welcome anymore
cause i laid shit on your front door.

And the sun I see it prey
that it may burn us all away.
I crinkle up before I sneeze
I hope that you catch my disease.

I see your eyebrow cocked at me
I hope that you
catch my disease.

We're the Selkie Population of Portland

Believe me, I am undeniabley forthright--
These nights are nothing compared to when I was a child.
I speak like a seal

And dive straightforward into the painful
Water and crawl back like a limp black animal
Back onto the rocks, thinking over you.

I do not brush my hair, and don't need to shave
This black and oily pelt. And when you cry to me
About your human fellow, over the rocks
It never fails to dissapate into nonsense.

I'll search for you, find your pelt stinking rotten
In the rafters, with you constantly second-guessing me.
And we'll kiss each of your children goodbye
And dive straight into the bitter Atlantic
And kiss the slimy kelp and keep laughing at those men

Who do wander the coast with our names within their lungs

For you and I, it's so laughable--
You and I, who don't even have names.

mother

He is the shut mouth of the spring
help me dilute my thirst so all the words dissolve
onto my supple tongue stiffened silent by these lies.
he doesn't love me mother, but mother,
he is all that gets through anymore.
I am like you now, a whisper clinging to the fall.

hyperconciousness

go long hope
goes always
i pale at the sight of day.
gross enchantments in the groves,
suckling our bottles without words
to pass between our mouths, to weigh
as heavily as the sounds before dawn.

i was a girl once for a moment.
children are ships that sail away
once you have touched land. I am stranded.
come back for me, my legs aren't ready for these snapshots.
here everything is caught like fish,
sold and bought and eaten.
once i could swim through any storm set by my father,
and his weather was hostile, but the temperate reality
was a fairy tale. now i am still, where there are no storms
but i am the storm,
without sails to catch a breath
to carry me away.

You don't even know, do you. Silly thing--

When I lie in bed alone and you're gone
To see your wife and I say nothing but these seemingly
Apologetic Good-Bye's

I start to choke a bit and you don't notice, and then
Wait, like a dormant annual, for that time when again
You to turn me on my back again and whisper

Oh God Holl

And all the while
I think that God will peer
Through the bars upon my window and
I will write something great, someday, and recur
Perpetually invasive into your window
until my roots grow into
The old ground and mean nothing.

falling

he will come back my seal,
don't fold like the envelopes
you always send into your boxes.
my eyes have captured what you have lost in him,
nothing but i know you feel that way.
the days of the week are marked his name.
the hours of the month are all gaping open,
hoping for it, always, waiting to be filled.
you are a white mask, you are bloody love encased.
it is evident how both of you yearn
to sing in each other's sheet's,
the beatles always scurrying between you.

Colin

recently i have ssen my rosita's eyes
rotated by mars- his ivory hints at her pearls
always brings warmth to my heart
he sees her, but he cannot stay long enough ever, and
she moans silently watching him pull away into the phone
or the road or the wife's house.
he adores her, as much as he knows,
but still there is more to adore.

Sunday Driving, Not Arriving

What is love but the perfunctory reaction
Towards the given moods of infatuative affection?
I do not know, and

You, with such bastardized senses towards longing, yes
You've had enough, and I shall make myself a fool for this.

Autumn comes with promises
Of school and more of that crass love, all bodies
Reaching from a darker place for grappling legs and arms
And the kiss that will make the unthought-of alright.

Well, fellow, I want to grow up to be a hairdresser,
And this is only petulant because I want it to seem so, right now,
Though I don't want you...and I've often said such to myself--

Yet when you go home again, to someone that expects you, and I'm
Lying here in the aftermath of drunken kisses, know
Still that I will never be angry with you.

In my mind we can sit under that warped and gnarled tree
Where Bronson would get Nathaniel to speak, bribing
Him with an apple. Am I bribing you or is this some degenerate
Form of love?

I never want to be angry at anyone anymore, and I take
What I can get. It's not all that I can get yet it is
All that I want--
Right now there are these

Blue forms above the wall and I make-believe the stories
About my history. This is Walden and I slap
Away the fish with my feet and you're around
To see what I mean. His house was fired (Henry David's), gone yet
We could waddle along that foundation and pretend along

With the stars that bolt
Themselves into the ground like the sediment of
Electricity that is here, and all of that silly

Nature
Will reach up with viney limbs and kiss each
Of our personal desperations
In forgiveness for wanting the pixies to be so selfless.

Hey, boy...Love ya. Don't tell anyone

dirty splits soak up this scum
a ring for a spill in my pants
don't take me lightly
with your dead eyed sneer
you rascal of clay
you earth quake
i will wander this fire eaten past
and find the root
that still grasps the earth.
i will not be sorry again
that i am this wanderer.
i will not cry to you after
i have spoiled the broth of my heart.

Iquitos must have sucked

Hahaha! apparently, one day
The smoke broke open upon the old stove
And the other
Family de mi Abuelito came into day
And Rosa, she shrieked and threatened
To go out the window, "Who will come with me?"

but in Spanish of course

And the children all hid behind Miguel, ha!

And what is a woman but a lost paper for burning? I can say
Nothing in Spanish correctly.

There's a spark when I walk, and the streets
Spark a green shock when I walk
And I am without a love, just the emphatic
Rememberance of ladies in Peru
With lovely hair and nail, breaking
A chicken's neck, with a chicken cry that breaks
Before a certain heaven, I toss my hair and feed
A husband and many children. It's ridiculous--
That they would ever think themselves the caretaker.

In the evening Rosita shrieks with the poverty
of twenty-five children who will not give account to a white Jesus.
This is a place only reached by plane or boat.

his bike

His bike was stolen from my house again.
This bike was given to him to replace the last one.
Last night it sat next to my pretty bike
like an awkward middle school boy, clunky and big.
It was chosen over mine.
Perhaps his was whining in the night and
someone had to shut it up.
Maybe his bike called someone a ho.
Maybe his bike took off on it's own,
tired of being taken for granted.

Memory Sleeps In The Bone Marrow

I believe I could be in love with a compromised man.

Bundled up with the ached of my history, this
Is truly ridiculous. the long low plundering
of a common farce--

In bed, talking,
It isn't like that, she doesn't care

These mishaps are my folly.

The pothos are thirsty and all I can think of
Is why I would ever love a man who could never have me.

I often think of when Seth married. I was on a hill looking
Over a field of sheep, and the mantra then was this

Or this: I am being left, I am being left
And the sheep cried to me, and I ran down,
Rolled up my pants and threw my shoes off

I got the hose to give them water.

8-16-06

A decade ago, these minutes would have been motionless,
numb throughout the body
but as the ages go
steadily harping on my body like wild children,
I feel inching minutes groping at me,
chasing down a blunt thought or a loose gaze,
desiring that every hour is thouroughly exhausted,
be it through my hands, my voice or any of these interpreters.
Who is it that drives these escapades?
This yearing to document what I haven't comprehended is my sole education.

For Jerrod Nathan Leopold

It is difficult to know what I've done right, it seems
Everything is reflected from you in negation, or forgetfulness--

It's easy to remember though: that

My car was wonderful to me, and I heard you say that it was the perfect
Car for me: not too fancy, impeccable in it's non-notoriety
And we drove it everywhere; each night
I'd drive down that horrid 84, and beg for the time to
Get me to you. Sprawling within the northwest and young
Trees, unlike those I'm used to. Now

Downtown is just nothing. Boys yelp like impotent dogs, and I keep
My feet looking at the cracks, don't break your mothers back
And I never cry, no I'd never cry again
Over you. You weren't one to hand me a ring under a willow
By a lake in Wellesley, nor were you
One to take my stupid shaking hand (I never shook for you)
By that maritime museum in San Francisco, you never
Measured my waist with pleasure

You never spoke of my dresses, my poetry was only a diversion
For greetings at the bar, (and my heart pumped warm blood
All over the table, in essence I guess, though
You wouldn't have noticed).

I suppose that you are too far away from self-observance, or the
necessary
Acceptance of folly.
But I am not.

I am still with you
You driving my car, on the way to an ocean
I've never seen, and myself crying
Cause there's no word I can get from you.

Your heart rocked shut like a mollusk. And all those shells--
They're still in my car

Spruce me up like a Christmas tree and I'll give
You another gift--
All it takes is love, doesn't it?

Out of the ash I rise, with green eyes
And stomp men like flies.

(that was a joke, that last line)

#12

I was just cruel to someone benignly self-absorbed; I couldn't
Handle it.

What's the cause then? when you love someone, and
Leave them to the leaves and flasks on the gross sidewalk?

I've always been the one that's been left, before--

A man calls to me at night yet I have nothing:
No almanac to decifer his meaning. He calls and for a moment
And I am fresh and begotten with some new ingenuity
And then my fingers dissapate into false memory--

Right now I lay alone.

I despise the ignorance of empathy. These
Sidewalks I pretend to remember are bristled green and crying
Like lonely housewifes despairing for Nicolas Sparks.

I cry yet I love you. I cry
Yet there is an angel in my heart who will never die

Same as me, no matter how hard you try

it's almost

all of us. Here is a peice for you.
Don't tell anybody how i feel to the touch.
Don't look and see the others in my eyes,
monstrous parties hounding through my closets,
shaking my hands like fat pinjatas.
Like my mother
I shuffle now,
my steps don't leave the floor.