c to zzz

too big downswing

to do anything

but breathe out a feeling

6am car crash

the pressing purple of fingertips bruised

are truly hues of the heavy blues

wheel turned on water

when feelings were fodder

what's odder, daughters who refuse fast and loose

truly new

i have nothing new, my socks have been washed countless times. i mean literally countless, because it's not only me that washes them. i abandon them under sheets or climbing up stairs, and a week later my lover will say, oh i washed these for you, like they're doing me a favor.

i shed layers as the snake does, leaving behind a sock, a book, eyelashes, the stray lipstick smudge, and i want nothing to do with it. if i can't have newness in my things, i want nothing. blooming like a flower, i swell and rise and don't dare look at the petals on the ground, the deadness that once was me but is no longer.

burn what you have of me and i will rise out of it, bald and bones, beautiful and unshackled. breathing and complete for my lack of anything else.

but for now, i stay grounded and give a smile and thank them, choosing for now to reuse.

RE: Meditations in an Emergency

frankly franky, i really feel you. i get the same itch, you know? even when i'm in the city, with anything to do, i want to scream

WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ONLY ME? I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE UNTIL YOU DO

i know that you know that that's as silly as it sounds. you spread your love thin, dear, like a pristine gloss that fills its full into the curvy cracks of a finished jigsaw. while you're left in pieces, you hold your beloveds together.

i've had my heart broken, and it is a rocket ship. the atom bomb splits and i'm send in direction i am facing at full speed, zooming on to prove them wrong. i'll find my spirit animal in the dessert waiting for me and then he'll be sorry. he will never find a spirit animal in that dingy studio playing guitar or diddling girls or whatever. and i'll have cool sunglasses too, and harem pants. he will be vulnerable to sunrays and dust and god knows what else.

no one will see your eyes then. who cares if they carry the crisp waters of change, the ebb and flow of desire? no one, that's who. your color codings are beautiful and self invented, and your eyes the color of skies are far more unseen, for all i percieve of you is what has pulled through those eyes, processed if undigestable feelings on reams of paper, so i'll carry your letter till i know what it means.

have you seen me lately? i'm not on tv but i walk the streets like you and love the trees so long as we're sharing the same city full of unlovers full of beauty

the one jazz class

i see your freckles in my mind

give it some time and they're aligned

see your freckles in my mind

lively and supine

i see a week when we're on time

lived in late sin sheets yours and mine

see a week where we're on time

gives me peace of mind

i wrote this?

rain splayed on insane windowpanes

sheets of sleet like a bad refrain

snow goes where hatpins did blow and

sleep creeps up like wet sugarcane

ode to the big earlobed comely

man you sweat charisma

the smallest eye move tickles and the eye candy glistens

razors on your neck, ruins on hands, deep eyes with perhaps some light at the end.

you pierced me, but that's not the right word. you permeate, and crawl through my nose.

i see you everywhere, on shirts, pictures, even your grafitti when i'm taking a piss.

you wear all black, ready for your funeral,and it's a quiet miracle you're alive

i'm glad i know the breathing and present you, but i long for the man of his stories

haunting

ghosts moan with an open rumble and open doors

to sneak first into warm beds

i didn't see you, but he did, walking before me

are you a little girl, or whats left of bathroom epitaphs?

catching up

i don't mind

buying your time

in fish soaked in an oily brine

what i want and what i find

in water wouldn't be combined

you could guess

what i'd like best

warm rest from wildness in this chest

but what i want and what i am

compromise the calm and storm

nasty sax

one thing about these breaks, man. they turn you wild and screaming into the night. they let you loose into the jazz bar, and you're the only little white girl there, and you're surrounded by some dapper motherfuckers in suits. no syllabus to give a shit about, you are free to drink whiskey and wind up in some yoga instructors apartment playing twister, hearing her cry about how the man with cancer she's been taking care of has been bending some other bitch over backwards. how you ended up safe in your bed by five girl, is something you will never fully understand, but you know there was a man 12 drinks drunker and 12 years older than you smacking the shit out of your gps in the passenger seat. the memories twist and curl like a snarl around the edges, but they're not as fucked up as they could be and neither are you, but you sure as shit smelled the salty air on the brink and had a good look down before worrying about showing up to class again.

pan9

ain't got no bones

with jimbo jones

but he got a bone for me

phht,a found poem

the bartenders a mini faggot, and fuck vice magazine

i got excitable, big time...it's all over anyways

seriously,when i'm trying to dance, get out of my way.

the dj should have paid me

he put the wreck back in records

i should have put on the soundtrack of kansas to come

a ny morning, 1pm

brooklyn, i'm staying in

the doorway to the apartment is hardly conspicuous

i should take advantage

492 broadway doesn't have windows

but there's the glow of old christmas lights

nestled around the brocade mirror, record players

we made it to new york, i celebrate

with warm bare toes that curl at windows

in a 2am ghost town apartment

i feel trapped

but it's such a big city

with wet trash that stays

the dry kind blows through your thighs

AH SRY

sorry i wasn't there to care

to be fair, to be frank

you called about blankets

sorry i didn't phone but moaned

at the dial meanwhile

groaned bus hospital

i wish i picked up to console truth be told

but a holdup to dinner

is what would have unfolded

i'll see you tomorrow if you're feeling small, oh

muscle relaxers are hefty setbackers

so don't swallow all to follow all your swallows

le sigh

a clean house, i know now, is the ultimate sign of boredom

not only is my house immaculate, but my nails are painted

guh

lost my phone

but i'm too stoned

to figure out

if it came home

to no one

i'm too mad. i wasn't always worked up, i was just working on being me. then here you are, herefor the harvest. i was just getting started, being happy to be, being alive to be happy, making eye contact. at the end of the day returning home to collect myself, to read from a book or to call my father or to get to know the brother my brother is growing into. not living with my boyfriend or going and not returning for four days. i'm not a person of habit out of habit, but routine felt warm and satisfying. then you, asking for my time, efforts, love, company,and you know what? it felt so good i didn't mind giving it. getting caught in the joy of your warm dry hands, the way you look reaching for cigarettes on the coffee table. i lose days in you somewhere. i love that you care,but its not what i needed but whats worse it's what i wanted, to make my stomach twist.but the thing is, i'm no good until i can grow, and have room to stretch my limbs to the sun. the snow that blows from skyscrapers is lovely, but it melts, turns brown and stains my socks. i'm not asking you to do my laundry, and i'm not asking you to hide your jealousy. but i hope you won't be upset when i get up to leave. i just had a taste of what it means to be me, really me, i saw myself and i want more. you are better than good to me, but take this as my ride for free. i'm a lost cause if you crowd me with calls on the cloudy freeway back home. don't make sacrifices for me, you wouldn't get jealous if you weren't serious, and i wouldn't get mad if i wasn't wrapped in you. being mad stops tonight, along with feeling guilty for your jealousy.

bbaahh

the sofa goat of my dreams

wouldn't be green but a

mean sort of sheen

that dreams tend to keep

hny

i saw a lot that 4am

but nothing appears resolute

or sturdy. resolutions swayed

with the legs that carried them

high occupancy

head counts count in the hov lane

so don't give head in the hov lane

cleaned

there is something to a clean room

it can be cold or new or forced or empty

thereare clean walls of my drunk neighbor

who says his christmas is quiet

its a children's holiday anyways

and the clean floor and desk of friends

just visiting the room they grew up in

then fly home again

there's the dust free dwellings of people

that couldn't stand it otherwise

and the meticulously folded shirts of my great aunt

who had all the time in the world

my room is seldom as clean as tonight

but i breathe deep and see my life

as it should be, a framed piece

of sedimentary sediment

not sedentary laundry

cleaning

today i came to my soul searching 2 1/2 hours late, but my coffee and egg sandwich kept me there, i wouldn't help myself. tomorrow big armed convicts will detail my car, i will wash my clothes and feel infinate again. my soul will be cleaned with my things and i will sing songs with a windex squeak. i will coo over clean mats and swoon into soft smelling sheets.

pierced septum

greg had it

a septum piercing dangling there before the dip before his lips

a precocious reminder he wouldn't let anyone punch him in the face

another greg did it

he was just some guy to me, around harvard square

someone jim lived with, but they both got out of the shit, kicked habits

i asked greg, the first one

brand me, cut me, anything to leave a mark.we never got around to it

but one day in the shower, he carved into himself a beautiful oak

most lovers carve themselves into trees, not the other way around

but that was greg, and us

this greg, the last one

laid me down after he did it, fishing his needle through me like there was

something on the other side other than my left nostril. my face went white

he asked me if i was okay and i said i had a mixtape of his, for an erin in 1993

the scars were left unseen

nhxmas

maybe i'll get an accent

traveling next to a gps

eve

therein lies lies

in bells that chime

silent night! holy night!

sitting below them

on long wooden planks of childhood

they are whispering from flannel pillows

muffled low tones that put out candles with steady metal swings

sherrice is my age and she has a child

sean is my age and once when i sang the hymns i didn't know who they were to

oh holy flesh, but he lives with the organist now

and a happy festivus

a young dreaded man asked

would this hat make it to colorado and will it fit a girl with a big head?

you could put socks in it and most girls think they have big heads

i wouldn't trust her judgement

a young long haired man said

he likes art and i told him to say hi to greg for me please

he wrote it down and showed me his field guide to whale insults

it didn't stop my missing him

a young man i knew quite well

brought me a burrito in a plastic bag and tried on bellbottoms

and it took my mind of the men of my day, flinging fitting rooms

almost feeling the shopping season

ed

better my plaid was worn but the kiss was yours

holly wipes

don't look at me like that,

i'll write one

about being mowed down at the mall

no row, not now but there were enough angry people

for the boxing ring to seem less far away

or about slapping myself driving to stay awake

first a little pat then a stinging

i psych myself out so that i'm hitting me when i least expect it.

blizzard is heard

we warmed up all right
washing all the cold from toes
we were up all night
waiting for the snow to grow
wishing more for hot coca
waking up to eggs and toast
we saw brightness whitened
out our windows
blowing snow

last day of chanukah

he makes friends wherever he goes

so clear the dance floor for dancing with myself

at least it's not christmas shoes again

and at least lynne is here

and a really drunk liz that goes

"i'm goanna make a fire with my cordouroys"

then burns a pretty circle in jim's neck

arse poetica

at the bar, i tell them

i need to fart out this poem really quick

before i get too shitty

and after laughing and making raspberries

if they’re not too drunk they’ll ask why

and i say because today is today

and poetry happened

and if i’m not a dick

i’ll write it down

at the food court

it's all bullshit, you know

new england christmases

the covers of butter cookies tins are lying to you

they are cold, and even if you are a lucky fucker with a car

you still have to scrape off snow and wait for cold to grow

out of cyllinders

new england christmases

they are cold and mean and loud people yell at you

to slow down or go faster, no matter what you do

and whatever you do, it isn't enough

you're broke and you're only getting broker

buying wool socks or tires

and nothing at the mall says i love you

and you know it and you don't give a shit

jouissance, substance, gentlemen, when

I remember when I first saw cats. I was wrapped in a blanket, in awe of the airbrushed unitards. I remember the first time I smoked weed. I ate pumpkin cheesecake and was supposed to be getting supplies for my missionary trip. I remember my first kiss, it was under that same blanket and started with my nose

I remember when I had my beard for my stage makeup class, there were screams in the girls room. I remember the first time I drank beer. It tasted like my dad. I remember how I suggested starbucks, and you grimaced and took me to get “real coffee”, it became my favorite place.

I remember winning 300 tickets in an arcade crane game. I got a unicorn figurine and my two front teeth were missing. I remember the first time I dropped acid. I tasted purple and my head came very close to falling off. I remember being flattered and repulsed when a local white supremacist said he “liked the way I was built”

I remember when we had to change into our costumes for dance class, and I was the only one without a bra. I remember the first time I did salvia. I lit a microwave on fire and fell in love with a Brazilian musician, who became triangles. I remember how you tried to pick me up at work, but I really just wanted to get my sewing machine back from the shop.

I remember that art phase I went through where I cut off toy animal heads with a rotary saw and mounted them. I remember the first time I did coke. I talked really fast about tattoos and fell in love with the phrase “Barn’s burnt down. Now I can see the moon”. I remember when I ordered a multigrain bagel with butter because I missed you and almost cried at check out

I remember the first time I did pure mdma, it was at a spirit animal party I threw, and was on a lot of other things. I remember dreams where my teeth would fall out, picking at my gums until they stretched out onto the bathroom sink. I remember the day I had a pot full of boiling marijuana butter on the 87 bus (it smelled), then I broke my shoe and was locked out of my house.

I remember you helping me across the ice in the common. I think I loved you most then.

rest

i think

that thought

can wait

one naught

hoo

there's no such thing as bad breath

bollywood final

curry western

in a hurry

scrambling ramble

papers flurry

delighted writing

on the fly

eastern cowboys

lullaby

i'm trying not to yell

so it's like, i tell my mom
i can't have a car with a broken speedo
i look down, and no matter how hard i push
i'm not going anywhere.

my miles never grow, and i stay the same.
i'm idle on the highway anyway today
but i want to feel the bristle of bustle
progress you can't find on npr

so you can imagine my upset
when you know where i am
and i know where i am
and can't get to you in my stagnant distress

in the fridge

is your angel hair
golden a bowl?
is it getting cold?
does it save your soul?

are your deviled eggs
molding or old?
downhill with the rolls
or a sight to behold?

overlap

race track record playing it safe guard rail way ward in prison tattoo gun show down and out of luck be a lady gaga goo gone with the wind tunnel of love sick of your shit storm warning

salt assaulted

hey, i wouldn't worry about not being able to fill dive bars
like you did ten years ago, its time for prime college shoegaze to shine

if it makes you feel better, we can wear matching striped shirts
and strive to solve, imagine, create, or recreate crimes

just let's not crash the car on our drive to yell at burger kings
although i won't say no to go and get those dry free french fries

werd play

it's not
snot

sweat tears
sweaters

...

i got your man back
you got my back, man

stop it!

belly laughs ache and
they left us full

but it was a lovely night

i didn't mean to be me, a mean sordid sort without retort for what it means. to glean wet cheeks, to be sorry i can't be anything but in between, uncanny to have me but it's not what i seem or mean, for i love in a dream not your fantasy.

first snow

as scarlet o'hara cries by her life
we resort to older times
practicing most ancient rituals
with no petticoats assembled

i'm not

i'm not that in love with you
it's not like the things i do
attempt to accrue
a more beautiful truth
of one one from a two

it's not like i only see
your face in every body
black hairs and sweaters
are poison to me

i suppose if i want
i could read some kant
who conveys other ways
to see beauty

but i'm not so sure
there is a cure
to this feeling i get
like a wave on a shore
and i sure can't regret
what has come here before
when the waters stay wet
i can't help wanting more

i might

geting lost
in the static with your voice
or later
with your hair in the eyes

hallowed

hall, oh all, oh. haul all hollow walls

of white to pink/unfold to wilt

sex of pollen bursting

gives little shelter

your sister goes before

the tabernacle rattles

swoon to fallen

colors change

arrange rearrange

in front of you

go before you feel

your sisters tears

mulch and motley

feels ungodly fears

shedding, peeled

gaining years

cater to kate (her)

soup rise

suprise

sous prize

real eyes

realize

real lies

craving nothing

some nights

like tonight

i'm anxious for unconcious

i mean

that my screen

has felt belly snores before

once more

it's a bore

to write right well into the night

good night

feels so right

that i risk again getting excited

can't jive, don't hate

to the musicians i will never have:

my language is the common one. the kind that gets you extra cream in your coffee, or your oil checked. it is the twenty-six letters assembled together that form these modes of expression that i use to make my professors happy, and my temperament said.

your language is the one i admire though. theres a middle man. or woman (instruments have curves). and i know that to play them is to touch your first love. i'm content with the status of mistress, if only to your wooden woman. but like you, i can't get content.

something about thumbs slapping strings to make the soul sing. mine hears it too, and wades through the nonsense of syntax and verb tense like a fog that cuts and clears away. i hear you and it's honest. i hear you. it vibrates my ribs and pulls tight my tendons, aching like a square peg looking down the round tunnel of admiration.

sure, i can jam. but you won't hear me. you'll hear the notes i could shake out of my cold metal valves at the last second. you'll hear the nonsense of noise. you wouldn't know of my soul unless i told you. i need to happen in verbal conversation.

so to my unfortunate unlovers: i love you. polylingual proprietors of my heart, i'm sorry you can't get me. and i'm more sorry than you that soaring free my heart can't be, without a-b-g-d-c. which may or may not be a major key to release a real ease, so i don't wear out what out i sneeze on my sleeve.

love, s-l-c

t givs

this mornings hard

so seans sister gets me high and we watch the dog show

it’s not fair that the judge has one arm.

how does he even hold a dog?

nicole was there too

she was pregnant when i lived with her

but now the kids in maryland and

the only teet being suckled is the bong

thanksgiving is for nonni

she doesn’t see me, but she did once

and tried to take my dimples, every time

even a few years ago, she would mark my skin

and say how smooth it was, unknowingly, endlessly

you know

I never thought changing diapers and coconut cream pie

would make me think of my grandmother

but i never thought i would smoke with my cousin

or drive a car at four in the morning

or talk to uke about the shape of paint

he has this beard now, my cousin

and sweatpants from college

and something new in his throat

shoegazing and blazing

holy shit

thankful isn’t really my bag

but i know i don’t have it that bad

and i know now not to go getting all mad

when holiday tv says i can get glad

longing a little longer

purples and yellows will be washed away
by the river of time
but i wish they would stay

so i could see the way your fingers pressed
in my light white thighs
where the colors found rest

"--------------------------------"

i wonder how long i can follow his lines
the sweeping steady nails, like trains sparks on rails
the lines of your feet, the steady left right left right that makes a straight
and a back, and a forth
and burns into the dust the curve of the familiar

the lines of soft pink blue yellow
that makes up shadows
on the wall when up your stairs
the lines i crawl up there

my lines are never straight
and are sometimes made of dust
and are sometimes a trail of clothes

but the best lines i know
are wherever he goes

lighten up ya sissy

can you hear it?
my heart breaks

every snare hit
it beats of being broken

plucked strings hang low
beaten by the bow
no happy notes to envoke in

can you feel it?
my heart shakes

missed the target
arrows and quivers, shaken

plucked strings hang low
beaten by the bow
all grace notes already taken

the gauge stops here

yeah it was a film noir nightmare
with white dashes on asphalt
and nylons with scratches

yeah it was an easy headache
that came just as same as
a stain on the lane

yeah i was too scared
to maintain cool jets
or curb dreamt epithets

but a gas toting something:
is the basis of my next vignette

hung over recovery

there are approximately

a thosand little babies

kicking at my kidneys

one i concieved

from my margarita

(strawberry)

and a few more

came to be

from that fucking jug of

carlo rossi

date night recovery!

a beautiful hip young thing shows me where to go

"theres a gameplan in getting you past patrons fajitas"

her words sneak out past red lips in a low purr

and tickle her septum

bright margaritas as red as her cowboy boots

i stare at the flourescent sludge with hatred and appreciation i grant prize fighters

how did you get me this fucked up, little guy?

i'm talking about fathers and ex boyfriends

to a rowdy cowboy stomping on eels

fixing my wagon

and eating the paper right off the tortilla

did i mention the deer

as you walked out, the sky fell
benevolent pinpricks turning to tear
to tell of brightness behind skies lying there
as the earth sang out with low toned bells

to the bar

i'm freezing to death
and can still see my breath

i’m not sure our realities allow for this love to come to fruition.

you try to wake me up but
i’m talking through my dreams
bout love with uppercuts, struts
and tea that flows in streams

i’m talking through my dreams
sorting out abstracted feelings
and tea that flows in streams
to reconcile the morning

sorting out abstracted feelings
in complex situations
to reconcile the morning
has concrete connotations

in complex situations
it’s better to keep dreaming
has concrete connotations
if you follow dreamy feelings

it’s better to keep dreaming
when we have this conversation
if you follow dreamy feelings
subconscious love is liberation

registration

times for deadlines
tied for the finish line
with fall and spring, legs tied
no more time to decide

right lane blues

there's a dude i gotta pass
cause when i move i do it fast
and when i pass i pray to christ
there ain't no coppers on my ass


i got the right lane blues
cause the right lane is wrong
i got the right lane blues
and so i'm singing this song

gettin the urge to merge
so i can take exit four
i'm never sure where it is
though i've been there some times before

i got the right lane blues
cause the right lane is wrong
i got the right lane blues
and so i'm singing this song

there's cars to the left of me
cars to the right
cars in front of me
and i can't fucking see at night


i got the right lane blues
cause the right lane is wrong
i got the right lane blues
and so i'm singing this song

oh thai there

there were garters and blood and a big white ass
that could be scene with a scream on the soul night scene

you k

you little ray of sunshine
like a dream
where everyone there likes me

you glide through my eyes
like a stream
where sunbeams trickle lightly

i'll change my stripes when i like

you can't make me feel bad
no no
about the men that i've had
yeah yeah

i know you want a house cat
to stay around get pet
but you should know by now that
that don't get this pussy wet

you don't go clippin my wings
no no
that just makes this bird mad
yeah yeah

my life

first musical roads

then the stage, bigger stage

songs, songs, songs

the entire album

screams screams screams

from girls, and girls

believing in me

coming together

being musicians, being

on different continents for weeks

smoked, dropped

i can see the spirits

changed into costumes

then i had a beard

then

then

years imploded

confusion

bad accident

screams, girls, crying

i didn’t feel anything

remembered

rest

she must not see

took me down this long way, man. that square glow. i mean that thing was a box, man. peter’s drive. i could have taken central to where i needed to be, which was between two lanes and myself, my neon. it took me down to where you were, and i knew your brother was home by what was on and i knew you weren’t cause the nissan’s gone and you’re not even there anymore anyways but that doesn’t mean i don’t get chills seeing the place.

i need to be new. dye my hair red. i don’t see myself in the mirror, i can’t. jaques lacan tells me totality is without myself, and what i see today i see in twos. thelma and louise, blues brothers, seventies lesbians. my roommate put up a mirror so we can see ourselves from the boots up.

i don’t know why that box took me to you. or why he wants to take me to france. but i do know i took my exit twice in a row. there were glares that obscured and obscure glares and it couldn’t be helped but dammit if i wasn’t piss scared going down the highway with lapses of vision and a wholly whiteness obliviating borders.

jam

you know the studio

you’ve been there before

you go down the stairs

where theres ground round the doors

but this time got my rhyme

play friendly again

play me notes to bend

friend lend CD to tend

shayna's blues 2

and if you were my doctor, then that would pepper it up

and if you were my doctor, then that would pepper it up

i’d drink you down cause you are brown but please don’t make me pee in a cup

and if you were my stool, i think i’d be your pigeon

and if you were my stool, i think i’d be your pigeon

i forgot my stool softener but that doesn’t mean i’m not smitten

if you were my chair, i’d move you from here to there

and if you were my chair you’d move from there to here to back to there

i’d go anywhere in that chair i don’t care as long as you were upon my derrière

my man dan

my man

let it go

there's a great road ahead

to float on

a bed and your six strings are all that you need

don’t trade them for shining and fine magazines

or fade when you take what your dosage exceeds

just trust me, love freely, adjust naturally

ode to sneaky faculty

saggy giraffe

conducting operas for no one

as your chin sinks lower every year

drug store shadow and stick

remains there

NEUTRAL BURN

remember new england winters
and i’m still in the same coat
but then i was new to snow and new to you

tounge, form transformed
found friends on beacon
there was symphony, movies, coffee

finding newness in grass
ego let go to geometry
fires in microwaves

crying when aeroplanes put away ashes
to sashays across ice on commons
are when i think you loved me most
but now we sleep in winters coats

jazz squat

goin somewhere, goin to the square
runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin and runnin
getting nowhere, i’ll know when i’m there
somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin its somethin

of pink to white - like wilting down to folded

of pink to white - like wilting down to folded

-a week before, the lush magenta leaves-

the sex of pollen bursting - swoon to fallen

above - a dry one - brittle with brown edges

gives little shelter

.

.

.

the tabernacle rattles

in front of you, behind around

you feel your sisters go before you

as colors change arrange and re arrange

one sumptuous leaf can still flex in the wind

for which no tears are shed

now mulch and motley variances of dead

working hard or hard at work

old shaft jackets and shaftless buttons
leather, fur w/ burns
and old ass hats
w/ feathers and snaps
leave sleeping to subways
and flirting to muttons

comfy

i want rest but i want it all
i want you but i’d rather fall
into my bed and get ahead,
be ready for my day
but my greatest want
is lacking jaunt
and in your bed to stay

film

in a small Cambridge café

it was filmed with big square bright hot lights

and small square dark cardboard to deaden them

there were scripts, binders, skeleton props

we made the skeletons dance, the actors

found work as baristas instead of being baristas

except for homeless man, who was a method actor

or down on his luck

for putting him in costume really cleaned him up

shayna's blues

and if you were my baby, i’d put the spoon in your mouth
like the birds that gurgitate the worms before they migarate to the south

and if you were my pussy, i’d give you fancy feast
cause if i couldn’t make it purr at least i’d make sure you have somethin to eat

and if you were my guitar, i’d give you a strum
your neck may be a bit too long but damn you got a round little bum

and if you were my mink coat, i’d wear you out all around
you’d keep me warm and be a form i’d love to walk around about town

massholes

when I’m saying words to no one
its in a drivers seat
and its for finger light honk
for verbal communication
usually what blurts out is
I don’t like it!
Or
Sorry!
When I’m saying words to you
Is when I’m most not sorry

retro a go go

throw me on your back
you sweet throwback

carry me around in the world
of mustaches, matches

batting eyelashes
full skirts and hair curled

driving again

it’s coming today
panic, swift and hot
a dessert wind
a subdermic shot
to do lists short circuit
and sun stays under the visor
blinding, wanting rest
from the brightness, slowness
tightening of the chest

change

oh to be you
to be anyone else but
what i am

could be a sham
i have feelings in my gut
oh to be new

fifteen things that astound me

i’m having dreams, and i remember them, and i know what they mean

i’m a self aware self sufficient organic machine

fractals

i thought there was a god and now i don’t and i used to think the pieces to the puzzle were random and couldn’t be put together but now i think they’re a little soggy and expanded and you need to work to make everything fit and i’m okay with being in control of my life, even if it’s the only one i have

i repeat my bad habits, but then sometimes i don’t

music (sounds made by people on wood and metal and strings and throats) can make me cry even if there are no words or the words are german.

the mojave desert, with long flat stretches of nothing, , and then mountains climbing up beyond where you will go, and the joshua trees that climb out of the ground and mark you with their stagnant ugliness

people watch television every day. some of these people watch conservative talk shows.

cordyceps fungi. there is one thing out there specifically designed to be the end of you.

self preservation through wealth and popularity is a high priority for the modern human

there is still war. people sign up to kill strangers for convoluted reasons, possibly because it’s a better adrenaline rush than halo 3.

perplexing victorian constructs such as the mutton chop and the penny-farthing bicycle

cchinnamasta, the mahavidya goddess that severs her own head, sending streams of blood from her neck. her, the mother of the universe, the fulfiller of desires, into the mouth of her attendants. she is usually seen standing on kamadeva and rati, fucking on a lotus flower, with her head in hand.

oscar wilde tells the story of salome, also one of decipatation, in heart wrenching prose: I will kiss thy mouth, Iokanaan.

i have an unexplained feeling that i want to smother you in. it’s like love, or a connection, or the desperate need to tell you that i am you and you are me and it’s alright we don’t understand each other completely because when i see you i know that in us all resonates a holy oneness, of whose origin we are ignorant of, but in our darkness we are together.

to the thin classmate darkly

you're so beautiful
i'm glad i get to hear you talk
even if it is off trifolded cardboard

you have eyes that are dark and
deep and sad, with bags
older than i think you are
hair thin but unrestrained
a wild mane wavy, not plain

i don't think you wear pants
but what you don't wear
you wear it well

with dark red lips, secrets you don't tell

you wear black but
you are a pale sad lilly
in a sea of tiffany's, stephanies

thinner than thin, i see you drinking tea
for sleep
in a big warm bed you can disappear
from providence or city

i think you drip sex that
no one can catch
the way your hands in a nervous flex
across your thighs and hips stretch

driving miss me

it's so scary
driving for the first time
alone, in my own car

it started off the same way
i drove my moms kia or the rental
laughing to myself
short and hard low laughs
a laugh of joy and disbelief

the same sound of the laugh that comes out
in frustration
in not getting simple things
like my times tables, and later
monogamous love

then i have my hands on the steering wheel
first at 10 and 2
then one and 12
then 5 and seven

how to make a birthday cake

mad libs poem

i'll add when i find it

donkey show

we invented sexual liberation!
he shouted in my ear
his wife was dancing
with their son, my friend

he wore a dead mans shirt
that rested at old hogs house
until we dusted off purple floral
until it had weird sex appeal

toscanos

tonight we practiced being adults
fumbling over bianco and assorted vino
risotto, bruscetta, scallops, gelato
crystal glasses so stiff and thin they sting
forks with a spiral metal handle
and wasps swarming up the walls

damaged goods

you’re damaged goods
like the vintage i sell
beautiful, exquisite, but
worn in the crown

that doesn’t mean
that i can’t be seen
with you wrapped around me
like a mink, about town

this will be a porm one day

Modernism
RenaissanceRenaissance
Harlem Renaissance
Neo-Classical
neodada
Futurism
Art Nouveau
Pop Art
Post-Impressionism
Post-Modernism
modernism
les nabis prophet
luxus—a name taken from a Latin word meaning "to flow"

thinking about boys

the ones that are brave, the ones that are not
that will do what they love or think they will love
and feel the joy of pursuit

that have loved without remorse, because they know these girls
sex crazed, young, possibly lesbians, compulsive, previously committed
time is not linear, love is not linear, their experience is fleeting and polygasmic

there ones that are not brave, that do what they think they want
but do not know themselves, self loathing and regret coming after indulgence

that sit for the long drives home, only because they can't pace
and go home alone to themselves, counting grains on planks
and might as well have gone to the buffet to gorge
instead of to whores that remain unengorged

it smelled like cinnamon sugar and beer

i want you. i need you. i'm going to consume you.
i'll tear the salt from your fine lined fingertips.
suck the creamy cool of your cornea.
draw a line down the spools of your spine.
buttons meet teeth, pop one, two, three.

don't watch carrie at 1am

hello there
you're up late

late au lait
you're up there

i know what you want but you already are

every single cell screams of beauty beyond time
where stars align, combine
become entwined with the dust of lives

i have so much love and you want all of it

but to reach the sublime, i scatter
myself to let the birds take me
in mouths alighting to pines

i let myself spread
like holes
that grow
in dough
for bread

who am i kidding i fuckin love food

i've been meaning to develop anorexia
so i can see myself, what makes me
bones, control, pathology

i've been meaning to melt into a puddle
of legs on black and white linoleum
to be with the rest of me, all jumbled

my outfit

green shoes
white knit tights
dress blues
belt bright red