mature

poop hole pooed in poo pool

honkey

i hope all the trumpets and colors and dancing and crisp air

were a distraction for you

but sometimes i think

you need a distraction from

colorful, blaring, dancing, fresh fall me. i am wanting and living too much.

Because Cunts Care - or - Bi Curious Charlatans - or - Breathe, Cool, Calm

the white plastic rectangle

on my right tit

reluctantly reads

"sandwich girlfriend"

four plush pink lips part

in a question mark

asking everything of

four white silent walls

embroidered

on my pink panties

and sweet ass is

"wouldn't you like to know"

big red

my autumns taste

like blood and cinnamon

now

and sink i hope

you know when i spit

on you

that you didn't

do anything

wrong

to mr braudigan

dick

i wish

i could make

them love me

like you do

so i wouldn’t

have to

(have to)

stay in bed

all day

with you

lost?

was too depressed to write anything

but post script, i will say, as evidence

SHAYNA: be proud of me i almost made it six days

KAITLYN: and it was the most miserable i’ve ever seen you

SHAYNA: that’s because it’s the most miserable i’ve ever been

KAITLYN: i know

my hair

is abandoning ship

waking up is hard enough but

i have to say hello to dozens

of tiny skinny redbrown corpses

that have agreed with my

internal sentiment

freewrite before work

a lie you told me

i play over and over like a record

i’m determined to break the needle on:

"if we need to fuck to still be friends

we can do that"

this and urinating while crying

is most likely why my head hurts

they skip your songs at the café

and cover my ears when we walk by them

(my friends are good friends)

i eat with them so they can see

that i ate something

they smoke with me so they know

i’ll sleep (too much or so little but it’s something)

in addition to you

i have lost my orgasm

i looked everywhere

it doesn’t want me anymore

i keep leaving it notes

on loose leaf paper that say

please one more please

sometimes i think

fucking you would do it

sometimes i think

i would just cry too much

but all the time

i do think about it

or at least

waking up in the morning

and laughing for three hours

before our bodies forced us out of bed

craving french toast and beer

i stand by what i said about my top

three breakfasts

(the other two were buffers)

i am sorry that i love you

i’m sorry i thought i could

fight moral battles to

find love in the crooks of arms for me

i’m sorry we can’t be friends

i’m sorry i’m working hard

to one day not be sorry

about any of this

two things you should know:

i always looked for something new

in my lovers. but now

i’ll have to look for this.

i fell off again on the way to your house

but you tried so hard not to look at my scrapes

you didn’t notice

i was bleeding and shaking and covered in dirt

but around you i always feel like

i’m bleeding and shaking and covered in dirt

and the muffin batter was fine so

i didn’t think to mention it.

sad ways to pass time

a playground pioneer

i mapped out

the surrounding

lands of the little

just so i know

where i can go

to smoke at 5

and never find you

on day two she said

my body measures time for me.

i painted my pinkie nail white

a “10 day no chip” guarante

one of the last times i saw you.

it is half gone.

seven days ago

my legs were red, embedded in asphalt

now, the hurt skin sheds like tiny oak leaves

and my knees turn hard and and black

designed to keep everything out.

the last time i got a haircut was for the wedding

where i excused myself for an hour or more

just to hear you make me laugh on the phone

my chartreuse cotton taffeta ass perched on

parking space cement blocks, railings

and perhaps you liked to know

how my knees fall at your whistle and that

so easily i put my face above that white dress

in the heat and joy and love of the evening

but my little tendrils grew long

and i’m shy and shaggy now

a mess is a better word.

last, quite literally

my toes remain blue and lovely

but poke at my socks

and ask them

have you seen the boy

that made her skin glow

and sucked out the grey

flaked sadness

we have all become

frank o'hara eat your heart out

it is four forty seven pee em

i have been up for almost six hours

and have found zero reasons to leave my room

escaping to the city, my city, would be of no use

i would be trading chaos for chaos.

it is almost five and i

i cannot leave my bed

i keep thinking of the dream

(ten hours is a lot of time for dreaming)

where the cafe turned into an

ice cream shop and i was so excited

they had toffee and i hoped they would

have peanut butter should you ever come

to visit

in the dream i had the best pedicure of my life

but she shaved off my heel and it looked like

my healing legs. i peeled off the skin like paint chips

and i hoped you wouldn't notice.

i arranged my drugs and forgot to take them

then looked at my packed bowl and my

antibiotics and arnica and laughed and laughed

and sat and sat and died and died

my shoes came in the mail

they are pretty to look at but

too big and i know even if they

were perfect i would not be happy.

resignation letter

i hope you have given up on these little thoughts. they are mine and they are not to be loved. i'm getting far less "i like that about you's", which is a thing, maybe i never said it, that i really, really like about you. there are no more cheek to lip fake outs in the bars of cafes. this is all to be expected. i am sick at the thought of remembering these moments for the rest of my life. i want to grow out of them, grow out of you, and discard the husk that was once my sexed pink skin in the autumn leaves. i want to be well. i want you to see me happy and normal, not sick with grief. believe me, i'm trying to find peace, but my mind, and the things it thinks it needs, are so strong. so this is my resignation letter. the one i will never send but know i should. i want so badly to be near you and there for you and happy and bright and helpful but my words and actions are poison.

by the way, she doesn't love you. she loves an idea of you, the one you choose to project. if she knew the real you, she wouldn't love you anymore. so you will keep yourself inside your chest and try and forget it but you can't. i'm not telling you anything you don't already know. it's easy to play a part for a weekend. if you don't live together there is not much to fight about. but you both seem to manage. i could take her away from you in 160 characters or less. i wouldn't, i wouldn't, but i understand the people who do now. i never did before. i never understood monogamy, jealousy, unrequited love. spending hours on mixtapes and other nice things without ever expecting to be reciprocated. my love was a business, a well run machine, something i gave in equal parts to those that wanted it. something superficial and something that never hurt. something very, very comfortable. i realize my love is not comfortable to you. it is strange and new and hard and fast and something maybe you can't understand or are afraid of or do not trust. that's fine. i can't expect you to switch from a huge fucking lazy boy to whatever this is.

please know i still believe i can make you happy. please believe i still think somewhere down the line, this could work out. i'm in a bad place maybe, and maybe you helped me get there, or maybe i did it all to myself. but know, please know, i have never felt such affection and admiration for someone like this before. i don't think you deserve it, but i want you to have it. it's the most important feeling i've ever had and it's the only one i have left. maybe i can't talk to you as much anymore. maybe i can't talk to you at all. maybe the only way i can get better is if i pretend all of this didn't happen. i don't want that. i want our old dynamic back. this new one is too painful, too dead. but know, in my little blue and white room, surrounded by my records and little glass animals, tucking my toes into clean white sheets every night, all i will be able to think about is this boy i have loved with everything i have who didn't want it and now it's gone.

ps: i don't think you will ever read this, but thank you for reading it at some point. it made me feel very special.

say anything

something about

your talk

the timbre

tempo

thoughts

tone

reminds me

of everyone

i have loved

but only

my favorite

parts of them

and the boy

to maybe fool himself into going but mostly to see what he was missing, the boy visited the campus he would never attend. and on that day, he would confuse a sweet little stoner chick with honey blonde hair for someone prescribed to him by destiny. they got really, really high, the boy especially, and talked all night, making out a little before bed. he tossed and turned, this boy who belonged here but not in this bed exactly, and couldn't find sleep in him. he quietly left and went for a long walk. by the time he was in front of the teashop, it was the darkest it would be before dawn, and he was a shadow. she was too, but in his heart of hearts, past all the anxieties and hesitation and general disbelief that anything good would happen to him, he knew it was her. wide eyed and very stoned, he quickly left the scene, but failed to convince himself it was a hallucination.

in the shop

she dropped her keys three times before breaking into the tea shop, but she decided she would have a good reading because three is a good number. to amuse herself and make up for lost time, she flung her body on the counter and rolled behind it to her tea leaves, like a slightly faster action movie. gingerly uncapping the jar, she rubbed the leaves between her fingers until some of them broke into her favorite mug. holding onto the mug full of warm water while it steeped made her sleepy so she closed her eyes. she thought about him in his city that wasn't this city, in a bed that wasn't her bed, and in a life that wasn't her life. upon a long exhale, she knew the tea was done, and looked straight ahead.

on the other side of a plate of floor to ceiling glass, on the opposite side of

the street, was a very normal looking man, with the exception of his stillness. he could have been confused for a lamp post if he had one leg and wasn't wearing a hoodie. he was looking straight at her and he looked scared, or perhaps he looked like nothing. startled, she dropped the mug, her favorite one. it shattered and the hot water burned her toes (she likes to remove her shoes when she's alone). she was startled and jumped and took off her socks and by the time she looked up again he was gone. she looked down. each individual dredge was pointing in the same direction, like a sad magnet that couldn't lie even if it wanted to.

at the bar

tonight!

she declared with great bravado

i will read.

and i will know how he is doing

you are drunk

the bartender said

and you know he is always

doing scared and miserable

maybe he had a good day

he could have seen

a bratty child faceplant

or he could have gotten a job

and maybe those things make

him smile

from what you have told me

said the bartender

nothing makes him smile.

i could make him smile

she emphatically slurred

then frowned and slumped

in her chair for a moment

before rolling off of it like it was

the hood of a car

in a shitty action movie

where no one gets the girl

to paint perchance to dream

tomorrow is a blank slate

i'm happy to fill in the lines

but we could flesh it out

but seriously

shanus shits on richards

shayla queefs on dicks

shaynal bleeding's heinous

anus has the shits

another one

i can mix popsicles with vodka

but i'm still drunk and sweet

on your smile

i can have a house full of friends

but i'm still alone on the couch

with you

reluctant writing

i'd rather go quiet on today

but if you must know

some things

i will tell you good things

like how i bought how my room is going to smell

and i can eat chips with the back of my mouth

kind of

and agent orange is a repeat offender like you

so like, don't feel bad because everyone is

a confused asshole with too much love

write a tasteful and elegant poem about your gum surgery and jeff mangum and put it here.

mention i am listening to hear where you are and tomatoes

and how you hope heaven is like being in a big wood theater in the round singing along with everybody

lessons with tolle 1

let go

ego

let go

things

let go

clothing

let go

everything.

everything

is out there

set it

all free

today's the day

i catch myself

folding laundry

arranging books

boiling water

reading in repose

and wondering

if you found me here

would you like

the arrangement

and rituals

i have chosen

for my life

without you

lets cross paths between days and fall in love

i saw her under her bright orange umbrella

as one day was ending and another beginning

for such gay rainy garb she looked so sad

she may have been crying. she kept her head low

i don’t know her but i know she is beautiful in her sadness

and all i wanted in that moment was to kiss her forehead

shuffling wet bangs with my thumb. i loved her in her

dress she wore like a hospital gown.

i want to know her and make her smile

because then she will never have

to wear her hospital gown like a dress.

dream #1334

hello?

boy number one?

this is the part where

you come in stage left with

fake plastic flowers

and say

i love you and

i always will my darling

but i caught you in

the isles

he stood there

with big blank eyes

in an oversized blazer and

tophat. holding the flowers down

by his side. miss, he said. i know how badly

you wanted me to. and i didn’t believe you and

i stayed in bed all day that day just sick at the thought of you

out here in your directors chair and your blonde bright beautiful head

dream #257

he was walking down the street and everything was familiar but it couldn’t have been home. no one was on the street and no one was in their house. he walked and walked and stopped in front of the piano. it was in the middle of the road and so was she. they stared at each other with great reverence.

“i’m moving”

she said after a great while

“me too”

,he replied.

“i don’t want to move”

(she looked tired)

“I don’t want either one of us to move”

(and he was in love)

so they sat on the piano bench together and when she looked down it looked like the belly of a big cat and when he looked down it looked like a sleeping python.

“do you want to hear the song i wrote?”

she put her hands over the piano and every key was depressed. every key was depressed and the sun moved across the sky like a scared sacred purple comet and when it kissed the horizon it could not process the beauty of every puzzle fitting with every other puzzle ever. so it exploded like a firework and the sunset - in that way - ate the sky. i liked it he said thank you she said. he went to open his mouth to ask her something but instead of words there were eight thousand bees. they circled around them both. she looked sad but she is smiling. she is smiling.

in the morning

when he woke up

it was to a body covered

in hives and ejaculate

and it was his own.

.w.o.m.p.i.t.m.

i am

notice ably slow er

when i smoke weed

on my porch

in the morning

a beginners guide to moving

take everything from your room and put it in boxes and wrapped paper

take all the things out of the wrapped paper and boxes and put them in your room

books on the bookshelf

sex toys in the toy chest

dishes dish rack

food fridge for food

paint the walls

not the color

of your ex lovers hair

(skin is fine)

frame everything

you are now an adult

ununpacked

too sleepy to see
monsters creeping
past sheets and things
too big to beat

a love between two people

when you press two thumbs

between my ribs

you pave

the way

for a river.

blessed irrigation.

we can feed families our love

found poems from october

the girl who read the white peony leaves (in solitude)

wiped the counter (to be noticed)

she wanted to be seen by a boy

who would only come into her tea shop once

and she would be sick that day.

she knew this by looking into

the bottom of her cup.

still. it helps to seduce the pyrex

in a way that says

i'm in control of my destiny

***

and the boy sat in his prefabricated predestined dorm room

surfing open source pornographic video sites

looking for a girl he had only seen in his dreams.

he was twelve. so moved by

the woman he loved before knowing

if she was conceived in this century or the next or never

that he drew a picture of her

it was a crude but technically accurate depiction

down to her flat matted blonde hairs.

unmoved by the offerings of the world wide web

he gingerly unfolded his muse again and relieved himself.

***

in the late afternoon

when the sun

hit the counter

in a way

that lit up her smile

and electrified

little baby blonde hairs

crowning her face

escaping the dread locks

she would confuse

the leaky steam wand

for a squeaky door

this is how

she wanted him

to find her

***

she wiped dust off the teacups

with a white fresh rag

and thought about her shop.

it was tuesday at ten.

most students were in class

most god fearing houusewives were at the

fundamentals for fundamentalists knitting circles.

the ones that did not fear god had the luxury

of idling on the sofa, uncaffienated,

the men were at work.

***

have you seen my dream girl?

she goes to the college i was too scared to leave home for.

she works at the tea shop there, and reads

leaves at the bar when shes drank enough.

she is too good at it, so she never likes to read sober.

she sees my face in the dredges of white peony

and smiles sadly, knowing

that inaction is the folly of man.

***

have you seen my dream girl?

she lives in a city that holds

my stillborn successes to her skyscraper chest.

she works in a place i can't afford but know i should

i'm sure she works there

she smells like honey and rain and dry earth

rubbing between her finger

i'm sure her shoulder blades point

to the highest stars in the heaven

and fly past penthouses.

have you seen my dream girl?

she saves my life in a mini mall

full of tall grass

by regurgitating orange julius

into my mouth. right before i wake up.

i wake up and shes gone

i don't have a number to receive desperate texts

or solid material for a missed connection

please tell me if you've seen her

she's light on her feet but sure in her step

there can't be many people like that left.

she puts her arches to the ground

as a descendant of salome, lifting her step.

so light on her feet

is the girl of my dreams, that she leaps over

begrudging push carts and undeserving oak leaves

on her way to work. she performs her tasks

with beauty and duty and grace

and never even misses me

love er bust

when hitchhiking across mattresses

jumping from sealy to sleepys

memory foam. box spring.

my feet never touch the ground

my face falls to earth when i wake up

and see sleep lines have spelt

out your name. panicing

i look out. horizion lines bleed

a pale orange blue and you

are not there.

i survived

this hurricane

was horrible

everyone tweeted

about the treats

they were making

without me

i have a sick slick stick stickley couldn't give a dick and if you wanna rick rick lime rickey goanna get with me play some fuckin frisbee bettah fuckin quiz me what it be im a nerd see see or don't see me.

panties

the most permanent mark you left

are the bleach marks on my panties

a curiosity created

by your order of operations

for hydrogen peroxide

and oral sex.

it took me a while to discover

that i wasn't cloroxing my laundry

in freakishly consistent locations.

and i wasn't excreting acid.

what i'm trying to say is.

there was no big mystery

this year. about why my

most hidden spots.

look so washed out.

dingdong

sorry to bother you.

did i catch you at a bad time?

should i come back later?

i hate to inconvenience you.

i know this is a difficult period.

i just thought. well maybe.

we could love each other

and you could make my pores open

and they could talk to your pores

they would breath and laugh everywhere

sustaining the Other

bodies singing with touch

tasting the infinite cosmic calm

...nonono it's cool.

no worries.

i'll just...yeah.

see ya.

12345678

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

please

sex for one please!

i am anti midas

turns out everything i touch

turns to shit

but a least

i'm a chronic masturbator

and a fecalpheliac

so i don't really need

to bother anybody

night 4

the tattoo ink was a nice cover up

and dripped down my side as he

fumbled through his belt in a hush

he poured the tattoo ink and said

hey. do a good job at making this

more meaningful than it is.

as usual, the tattoo ink gave a half smile

and scoffed. whatever man, he says

just don't drag me into this fucking mess

you're the fucking mess! i hate whispered

but the words were slurred and thick

and i know

the tattoo ink will never take you seriously

with tears in your eyes.

so i lowered them. and ran my fingers

through the warm, wet, black puddles.

or diet dr pepper

sweet and low

gets a bad rep

because everything

is a shitty substitution

sugar substitutes whole foods

that make a steady pep pep pep

sugar substitutes substitute sugar

we get a rush and forget about fiber.

fuck complex carbs. this is america.

he is coke zero. roller coaster tycoon.

he is 21 y/o single wants to live chat NOW

he is rubber corks, digimon, decaf skim

sugar free vanilla iced latte just drink a water

you fucking BITCH.

you are the bread water base jump

real live butterflies, not pinned in a box

you are the ginger ale my mom stirred

all the bubbles out of when i was sick.

you are the grass i grab and pull, sitting

outside in the sun. you are not from concentrate.

picked fresh daily, vanilla extract extracted from vanilla

and in actual, actual reality

i like that about you.

but i'm still drinking diet coke.

to the girl with the baby blue luggage

oh darling, you look tired

have you been traveling long?

you have the look

the corners of your eyes

wrinkle and shine

your toes want to leave

baby powder on carpets

your things are folded neatly

everything in its place

although you are so transient

please consider my offer

of perching you

on your stack of luggage

i can sing to you

and it will be so sweet and safe

and you may even find me

a small place as a guest

in that big empty room

before you unzip your files

and decompress

we can scream and sing

and the noise will

bounce back to us

in your hollow home

wrapping around four ears

like a bandage, holding it in

and everything

everything will be fine

oscar has liberated

when i have children i will tell them

i never got to test drive my motor scooter

and that, a man with a lotus on his neck

well, he died. and i wanted to ride his memory

but the day it came i was not happy.

I MADE A MISTAKE. I DO NOT KNOW

HOW TO RIDE SCOOTERS.

I HAVE NEVER KNOWN THIS

TO BE TRUE ABOUT MYSELF.

I WILL SHAKE AND SHAKE

AND CRASH AND CRASH

AND DIE AND DIE

the thing i so badly wanted will

be my folly and i will crash and burn

like the lotus man. like everyone else.

that, my sweet child, was the summer

where i discovered if you want something,

it is best to try and get it. you can stretch

out the dangerous what-ifs into a blanket

and roll yourself up in an air conditioned room

where everything is nice. familiar. a comfort.

but you will never fall in love with the wind in your hair.

screaming at the black yellow curves:

I HAVE LOVED YOU

AND I WILL LOVE

WHO YOU HAVE MADE ME.

the never we

you never had the will to wonder

what i looked like with a scarf on

and how this hey girl hibernates

see me in gossamer cotton please

going up the stairs on my knees

begging and beautiful, a memory

keep it between your teeth, and

spitting out songs just think of

the never we and not planning

down and down

there was a place you used to call home

but that, that's all over now

and i liken the feeling

to screaming tea kettles

and sleeves hanging over the dawn

there was a life we used to call ours

and we raced in great lanes

roman chariot cars

but our town was a circle

and all of the hurdles

were games that they trained

to be playing along

long weekend

lengthening my hours

is the greatest talent of your absence

miles away, you lay my life over your knee

and with greatest care

your flat steady fingers

smooth out the wrinkles

until days wrap around hills

and minutes are mountains

sry

you

don't get it

and you can't get it

because you just don't get

it. you've never had it, which

leads me to believe you never will.

perhaps you believe you are on the cusp

the breaking point, about to spill out with love

and understanding. well let me be the first to gently,

painfully, and with great regret tell you that you are wrong

real or imagined, the blockades before you will steadfastly prevail

wait!

every room is a waiting room

i move freely, place to place

never with any prospect, progress

i hold my teeth in my hands

they are defaulted, smiling

it's not news, it's not you

perhaps a message, a...

all i care to know

frozen indecisive exile

is what i am waiting for

espresso lime rickey bomb

i'm going to write this poem for you really really fast.  if spacebars weren't like breathing i would say fuck it but let's see let's see. i love you like streets with no potholes you let me stand up at 30 miles or put my feet over the handle bars if she prefers. i love you like the summer nights where i pass full speed the same stores and bars and some people are new and beautiful, in love and dying. i love you like three shots of espresso in a raspberry lime rickey for free.

my type

my type of neighborhood

is where i can come home

and see everyone i know

at great mega local show

so local i could spit and be

home

s please

i just wish

for like, fifteen minutes

things could be like they were

and i didn't have to be so concerned

with being sexy and interesting and new

take it all

take it all

but fuck

my father told me i'm losing sight of it

and coffee is no way to make rent

and i should be big and famous already

but fuck

its hard to break into this town

every one, every thing, already

appears to be broken, still

rockumentaries

have been better than melatonin

i prefer ones about british artists

the critics voices so soothing

war head

i couldn't possibly
write a poem at my fathers bar
im waiting for him, killing time

it's like
at softball practice when
we would sit around with
a pile of warheads
and unwrap the amount we
betted we could stomach

im counting the candies
and taking a drink
for every one i put back
In the pile

it's just gotta

the acid throat tickle

will go away when

mugs stop breaking and

the fridge starts working

clover

dinosaur vs search

dinosaur vs bedtime

dinosaur vs the potty

dinosaur vs reptile

dinosaur vs dinosaur

dinosaur vs pig

dinosaur vs cat

dinosaur vs king kong

dinosaur vs dragon

dinosaur vs dinosaur games

dinosaur vs bird

getting back

i left something outside months ago

the snow swallowed it up

sedentary and never ending

the snow piles walls

between cars

and sidewalks

(you, now)

the thing lays there

forgotten and sleeping

in blank albino sand dunes

leaving endless shoe puddles

expressionless and unapologetic

i was sure that, a surer sure than usual

a bath would be taken for the first time in years

even if I have to boil every pot in the house tonight

it is warm and almost free and the thing i can’t remember

that I left in the snow will wash off me like stepping salty boots

in a fresh spring puddle and every vertebrae will think of when they

can lay exposed and beaming from a swinging sundress, and stay there

not many more

learn to enjoy nothing days

with seconds slower than scabs

relay to the hurried girl yesterday

its easy to close all her tabs

no bus today

for the first time in sixteen years
there are no sharpened pencils
new t-shirts
or rehashing of the old worries
my anxieties are brand spanking new
adult ass ones.
a three hundred count newness
of cotton softness and simple adulthood
making coffee
and living for my own
unborrowed learning

a practical guide to painting your room, pt one

so!

you moved into an urban shithole and need a self affirming domestic pick me up.

not to fear!

painting isn't just for self harming german turpentine junkies.

there are a few things to remember however!

one.

you may never paint your new room the color of an ex lovers hair. the color of their skin is acceptable, as it is likely soft and neutral and can remind you of other things, like wurthers originals or cottege cheese, but hair colors will surely entangle you in old memories.

two.

you are renting. fuck tarps.

three.

when it comes to painting your room, price is no object. mostly because they do not tell you how much your paint is until after it is mixed.

hey

this poem is not good. do not think about this poem.

true love beach, rockport

he stretched for miles

swinging those hips through

the flat smooth ground

.

the stone broke itself

so that he may

be gathered by

.

young girls of the village

that stack his fingers up

reaching to the heavens

long not ride

every drop that fell

on the car with

no windshield

was like a pinprick

to the aged milliner

a small, pained

expected detour

off the course of

beautiful direction

cutting

thank you

little blue

leather man

so many uses

who could guess

this was one

blank

don't drag one out of me

it's not that nothing happened

it's that

well?

i don't want to talk about it.

let me come back when theres something to say.

even this

it all must fit perfectly in nature, he said.

even this.

as he calmly demonstrated

i believed that all the strands of hair.

could live, a perfect match

in every pore.

awe

gee jimi

im real glad

ya tagged along

on my one night off

babe turks tits tats full

home please screamin nites

aw

gee v
awful sorry

ya got drunk enuf

to break away from a

2 ppl post rock freak fest

runinscreamin into the night

today is thursday

wednesday was a strong loss

tuesday was forgetting how summer rain

lays heavy in noses

a wet grey calm

things missed:

windshield wipers

you

i rely on our heroism, dear

it's lovely how you drive the torrents

under your resined planks

full speed ahead

like there's somewhere to go

see thursday

see thursday

thank you pink sheets

does the nine year old owner of this bed you are here?

do you remember being her?

the nights you slept so easily alone

it was the only thing you knew

coming so hard now

get back to those days

sleep less

i need to match your breath with mine when i go to sleep

to the steady in and out of your dreams

or, i can count to eight over and over

until i've erased their meaning

but our unknowing, all loving breath is best.

is this a previous lovers act of retribution?

programming me to synch

set on simultaneous scroll down?

cyrusly

i could never be sorry for screaming like wild creatures at the charles with drugs and homosexuals, white sex asses in bus terminals and long breezy grass

another scorcher

give me give me

ice cubed kittens

and days in bed

the heat pressing

us in like

laundromat quarters

sleep bus sleep

excuse her.

this is a hardly day.

new tattoo missing you

i see you in the flaky black painted rust of brooklyn stoops.

and the wood splinters of old telephone poles, bleached and bleeding, talks spanning generations.

i see you in the kitschy confetti of chinese bus upholstery yellow red blur green specks meeting your eyes and finding a home there.

i see you in the shady red convertible memories, when we tied indifference around our necks.

i don't see you now on these strange vanilla bedsheets in a city far from your sweaty july knuckles swinging.

the fact of the matter is i've seen you where you've never been but i see you in the places i want to go be stay live, and on the backs of my eyelids the places i'll never see again.

but i see you most between my ribcage in the shadows reflected off the windows we once called home.

just stop it

late june heats up quick

the clarity comes only with the morning in the ground dregs of coffee

it is always comfortable to drink

i am a house pet, resting blushed cheeks on dirty kitchen linoleum.

tomorrows goanna be another scorcher. scorcher? like yesterday. yesterday?

yesterday you said you'd call sears!

yesterday we said a lot of things.

tomorrow we will say more.

it doesn't mean you are going to break out of this chrysalises anytime soon.

if stoned tuesday afternoons passively absorbing animal planet have taught me anything,

its butterflies aren't your ne'er do well prissy insect ornament.

they worked for their wings.

so don't expect me to just hand over my powder perfect, fluttering paper tripped out ink blot appendages for pinning when i sucker punched natures shell with skinny black arms for three days, looking, hoping, living for life with my head pressed against the sultry june sky, only to come out slimy, disoriented, a little hungover, and a long way to go

let me tell my own fortunes in lost coffee grounds

and the lines on my six little hands

small world

a shark, a rabbit, and a four eyed man are in a park.

didn't i see you on shark week? the four eyed man asked

no, said the shark. i'm a hallucination.

and you, rabbit friend? said the four eyed man.

well, i'm more of a projection of a talking rabbit onto a lethargic park squirrel.

oh. well then.

will i ever find it?

together they reply:

we have all been many things.

we are one.

sometimes, you are part of the one.

but for you, there is often duality:

the four eyed fucker, and every other fucker.

so it doesn't matter what we look like.

you want distance no matter who we are.

and that way, you won't find shit.

then will i ever see you again, shark and rabbit?

you already have, fucker.

i know the score and

i'm sorry for everything*

what i haven't done yet

what i won't do

not sorry for what i can't do**

what i'm about to do will make me sorry

and i'm sorry this wasn't a poem

*i'm not sorry

**sometimes i am

another crash

i hit a man today

not like, domestically, sexually

but

the way he collided into my windshield

his ribs fractalated snowflake solar systems

that obscured vision

dusted the dash

with dangerous, bloody stars.

i was shaking

it was beautiful

to the bed i never sleep in

oh, hi

remember me?

i made you!

...last week

i'm sorry.

i'll try but i'm made of fire

and every tounge licks and crawls

around the people i love

consumes them

with my three in the morning talk

and you don't see any of it but

trust me

when i get back to you

i know it will be soft and sweet

and needed

car song

they picked all of her cherries and they tied them up with string

stuck em in a yellow envelope with lovers words and things

but the postman squished them both together and never was read

the love notes that were truth and beauty turned soggy and red

so i never truly knew how much you loved me

until the day you caught a fuzzy bumble bee

tied a string around it's waist gifted it to me and said

if you let me i would build a shrine for each hair on your head

you think you can keep things close with with strings and knots and so

you keep them close to your chest till you're ready to let go

but i know you don't have to go great lengths and wrap me up in twine

to make you so sure that i'm yours and you are fucking mine.

i didn't need anymore than that young fuzzy bumble bee-ee

newtopia

you!

you are reborn

you are smooth white plaster.

down feathers.

closed eyelids.

(breathing and translucent, never opened)

shayna:

we are the new car smell

we shed like snakes

our skin

too small and fast to see

exploding off us like it had somewhere better to go.

(it didn't)

oh and

in this new and perfect land

the roads smell like fresh laundry

it is not bridges that are burned

every iris is ignited.

you will never see a popped balloon again!

roadkill is dead.

and with the merest feather tickle.

butterflies will drop the strings

of your gut elevator.

again and again.

like a seventh grade morning.

jambo

use what you wrote in your moleskine, bitch

another excuse note

oh christ

excuse her

there was time traveling midgets and

oh...ice cream and

oh...nail polish

some of it in the burly clinical massage chair

some of it on a hot picnic table

painting white to match

she couldn't have

she just couldn't have said anything

hi greg

any day at all darling

is ripe to be

picked out of the hum hum hum

and tossed into a theater

year nineteen sixty nine

rich and sexy

or the day is

soggy tofu croutoned

mix tape talked

sweetness so few know

the soft easy flow

of shakers and mike tests

the can

the sky stayed grey

like it was all week

and did not care about

the lovers quarrels

small as ants on the ground

pills paper

pills paper

beep beep

eleven oh three

a low battery

only if gram bell thought of this tragedy

oh dasterly bastard of phone function standards

haphazard are plans for more longevity

card house

a house of drunks

is a house of cards

fragile

bright

faces that stay the same

and with a new wind

falling flat

jack on queen, aces

sevening fours

all a matchbox and bourbon away from extinction

gah dam

another night

my pink sheets this time

when will i heed last summers advice?

oh you

fireflies fly in small circle pirouettes

while i forget the regrets to begot, beget

old friends

old friends

the bends in the road

lend themself to

the friends of what's been

piss poem

talking through

the bathroom walls

to you

on my lap

forming

the thing i am

crap shes slipping

excuse her. she must return from a boozy somervillian exile in one piece. this is her main concern. love always.

warning

this woman took the bar exam five years ago

with school street dick breath and failed.

she played with the cats and warned us.

don't let this house suck you in and kill your dreams.

the warning fades as the sun moves across the sky.