a perfect spring song

and a little like it was. A shade of a tree, but not a shade on me! An invitation and I should shed things off. Something like the foot upon foot of white thick snow and the silence but for a crunch under boots. It all feels a little memory in me, hurting the heart stomach with pleasurebliss excitement. a dream real happening presence, now.

viper in, abundance

I is waterslides, you is equivalence. The terms I learned, the songs into which your mind sank. My hair and the captivating sunlight of your glance, your own little watergasps, trails & streams of and from, a rocky path gathered back from the side of the road & into a little round opened from a mouth of yours. The pretense burns and the little man on the wrapping player, lamplit, snowdry.

a burning sunset fill s the nostril s. Scampercat across fence. Pale amber tree silhouette, casual stop-time.

I and the slipnslides, you and the remember the backroad, to the place on the riverbank, one could crawl gasping into the clear freezing cold; naked best beneath a summer sun. ? Remember the beet of a taste charm? And the bright & its shadows!
Small beat, small salad. Little root of fuchsia. Just a colored remembrancer. And to think I thought thoughtless of spelling.

I cut from the branches of ancient jade two tiny limbs, one sick, one gifted, both gifted by & to and for proof, I claim

oh, around your face is the sunset on snow for all a dream effect.

a quiet hand-key, a quiet kitten

engagements:




Fine breaths, fine blows, and a chime a remind a soft whiskered nose. To-wards, one paw before the next, one tiniest footprint in a freeze of fluff, tufted ovals a paw makes and a tongue-wards to lick the cold from.

My own little ends of time meeting yours; we stop & gasp & think, is this how people do? have you ever met a friend a love a date enough? and then does time stop for them too?

aghast: I and we, I'll bring us up. Like never to think, to watch, to write, to work. We are simply do, and done, but always doing still. Yours & mine are like foreverwards exclaimed. We know not friend or dinner, but us in & in deep of friendship together and always in dinner. An awkward anything to us is foreign and for all the others. We'll only have the familiar, even the most perfect of news, of never has beens but feels like always & forever has. With us never a question to the other but a smile knowledge heart palpitate, palpitate, palpitate. You to my forever mind innerflesh. Your remarking tongue sews me open.

orange cream mimosas

Just a silent winter I let about. The pretty shrinking nights capsize by a snow bout, fluff about a dark wind shorn the night gown down. It is for all the languages we speak. For all the feathers shred. The dark underlined paths, and the red fallow splits in snow-breaks. Hellow, tingling caller. Tingle thing collar.

nice in bed
knives in bed

beaver moon

and we wonder to see it through the grey, tonight. The air is colder and the rain comes down as if in prophesy. And I'm going there in gulps/ \just accidents. The sky from a window view from sitting here crosslegged with the left falling into a deep sleep on the beige sheets of 500threadcount egyptian cotton one lighton, to the left illuminating otherwise just that window in me, the textured sky now because of rain like a fuzz on a screendoor, mini webs built by mini spiders, microscopic chasms filled all-ways with silken threads too small to see or touch or be swept by...... The creosote in the windowbars, tree leafless for Autumn and nearing to december closer everyday. A horn beeps just once below, cars splash the walks, I anticipate umbrellas, even those of a lepoardprint persuasion, and then in later dates of future the songs I will write sadly to sing whilst idly a keyboard is touched, and training my own throat and hair and instruments. Only the warm keys beneath the heels of hands and pads of fingertips. My water is full of waves like the messy ones, ones which capsize a floatboat at the laziest overestimated swash, swishing it over upsidedownwards just because of confusing spell, slepp slepp slepp.

ringlets dripped down of wind

& the hot spicy tastes lingering awhile down my throat. This morning was looking too good could be true, I saw through dizzy fogged eyes out a window and through a fan, the orangeyellow leaves fluffed out a bit now, not drooping sad in the view. The sky a perfect ocean wash; I could see the tides breaking from where I sat squinting. Like a to be hot day on the coast, but during that time of pre-heat, (though in truth I think proves perfect out, and oh such fall. Autumnal in all its obviousness. I will never close these parentheses. My hair has little knots at its ends. I let the fan blow no matter the temperament of day. I like the slow accordion sound. I like the spicy herbs, dandilion leaves. I like the cold ankles, the anticipatory shower, & poems written for you, & the little documentations of love, & the secret smile at corners of my mouth (in regard), And those trees everblowing more and more orange everyday! Like to change the seasons, already! And the full hunter's moon, tonight, which is why then I stopped to bleed, which is why I urge vocally in silence for you to return to me, this subtle soft sour I have for you, to glean in these bright fields, to roam among my fattened deer. & something about the excitement, feeling heartbroken when hearing a peice of music or reading something tantalizing, and falling in love & dying in the same moment at the fear awe of something so bewildering, so great; and this all of this is a bit like that but without the right words to describe. Every minute & then again every week-end. But my moon is bright and my deer are fat. And my arms stay open late.

active dreamscapes.

"Love is the mystery between two people, not the identity." This from The Magus. Same I think as the sentiment: love is the possibility identifying two such people, shrouded in its mystery.

meanderings

don't know why I'm listening to it... nostalgi. Leaves on the tree outside drooping, sad. New york cried yestersday, sits silent, emotionless now. Only I know there's a missing. My own spirit heavy. The heft aware of it I am and also that to work hard & up I'll have to. Just to not sorry myself away, oblivionwards. My little room scented still so thickly, my bed still sunk in the middle & sanded, crusts. The little articles laying about. Dropped & left in their places like to walk in the room he will @ any moment (just noticing the sand lizard & the sand turtle in an apparent 69, a yin and yang), the musics, my unsmilingness can't help it. You are too worthy for let a haiku to belittle you.

youths

items, recent

a real air blown through, even I feel fall immanent.
cat on bed
hair familiarly oiled with an eastern spirit
,easy spirit
,naturalizer
blooded marias.
sunset parks
icedcream
bicycles (brakeless, reckless)
drunk tongue
remainders
reminders
girlfriend (not girl, friend or girl friend)
tall & bold
young not old
already been told
vacuum
money
laundrey
time
local gala apples
lorn.

it was awkward

wednesday

coyotes hooting, like a bunch of cans dropped or clanged.

I am scared

I am crying

I am stopped, I told myself to stop.

I don't know why I could react like 

as if a pain had happened.

When there's only excitement with in me.

Concern of immanence.

But just the immanence of disturbance.

We call that pessimism? right

(but I was never of such persuasion)

carelessness   -   

but o, too late for I've already given it gone.

I'm swept & left, wet on the boatbridge 

for storms' carrying away of me.

plants & animals

I found this beautiful thing ontop of the refrigerator. I consider myself lucky. The alternative would have been a squishy leathery bag containing the foul innards of a sweet potato, long since forgotten. Fortunately nature smiled upon me today, allowing a full life blossom splosion upon my needful little world. 

views from belows

And to think:

now, if they would have looked in through my kitchen window, would have seen me nude. as I now go nude through rooms, as it seems I'm alone finally in my big apartment. Save for the cat, and the coffee, and the epics (thoughts, musics). I allowed myself minutes here to do justthis: I will drink quickly a cup from coffee, and in the new sundress shrunk slight & ripped a new one. Makes it iffy for a button, a buttonhole no more more like a button tunnel. When I finish the coffee from the cup it's just a jar I have to find, one with a lid, and I'll fill it up with the brown black drink, and on the train to Russia. Floral print seems to me what a Russian would want to wear. 

A few words which spring to my fingers from a personal lexogram: about the feelings felt:

maudlin, mellifluous, mercurial, mucilaginous.

or, Love, times

sustain hers

Sustain able, to think of two hipbones now. Never speak to me again, I don’t know the pelvis,
I’m starved for all of us.

Don’t worry treating sexual matters decentless. You’re not even near the beginning. I’ll take care displaying your favorite meat, my hand gently on her face, the subject horse. I am here, an edible European plant. I see her in nature; she stifled a tear and put the daisy near the potted flowers. I am a weed with him, with a long root like little icicles.

And guess what
He fucked her slow and a parsnip is standing on one foot, still. Just the way she wanted it. Slow, stately with pink cheeks, holds true after they finished. A piece of music and lips and we possibly forever will.

She looked at the seven stars; we stand and smile. Can’t see him near, and she puts her face in sight. “Are you the north pole?” Close to sightless eyes because I don’t love like a serum. And we touch, I wander; I love thin, watery.

I put my chin in her, sort of experiencing everything. I love the distant stars, warm with the other senses. Why don’t constellations smell her? Though to have a baby with fixed stars, we kiss more particular than any other. They were silent, not cold and we’re not paying any attention. Show me lavender, softly. The sun, she rolls in styrofoam... She looked at him, considering, a position requiring little nothing keep from touching you. Various types looked into his eyes, rinsing. We can’t really stop… and examples of vague and meager depressions looked into hers.

oh, sea

Oh not to know,

recalcitrant 

to romanticize a trust, throwing a blanket over an obstinate

until dead.

Belief in the baby.

I won’t regress from my human intention, to want you, to come here.

Only to look forward at some next circumstances unforeseen. When anyone seen again.

and every trust in his eyes. To get a person with such feelings once again. Looking straight at us &

out of this.

An attitude flame, (whether or not you knew) : (this was your idea) renascence upwards. All for you know I’m not dormant. In true, he was captivated because I am a twist, I'm reticent.

It will happen at one night, revealing there’s no way an awayance can be from anyone. seduced unintentionally into thoughts, a someone so happens in such away, feelings can't readily be believed.

Needs for anyone, and then then someone unpredictable, this is happening. Relating to need to be need to be. Hours later, so close a cry. A triangular bone is gone, there will be another pacific: she pulled back. You won’t really know the sea.

speaking in favorites

Dream parenthesis

the traits of an avocado: fleshy, plump, warm, thick, like a summer night with sunset, from a viewpoint higher than the valley below, slomotion, time stopping (in the process of stopping), breezeless

avocadant = having the traits of an avocado

barrette, comb, tombstone

charmed, & sure

outside my window just the day before yesterday there was the most beautiful sky & the breeze mostlike fall I've felt across me in months. On the stoop at the restaurant J asked, did you see yesterday? and we laughed, because sometimes really one can miss a day like that.

and yesterday, then, I thought to have a breakfast alone, a bikerides away with a sweet mixdisc arrived from the post. I rode slowly in my favorite pale dress. The one with the flowers use to vomit, but now they celebrate aged & quiet like antiques. Everything charms me to death, nearly.

scially inpt

So... cially in-ept. Is it an unfair charge against me? What happens if today, for example, I have yet to see another person (I know, I've seen the grocers and their shoppers, the families of six and the couples in bushwick with a guitar and a dog), and I like it, I know not their names, I doubt to recognize a one of them again, we spend nothing addressing one another. I'd like very much to exist solitary in this apartment. I shouldn't make commitments: this is when I am rightly accused as fickle. Acting on whims. My whims today have me dress to leave for a party, then call and send off an abstract apology, the receiver may be offended, or angry, or anything, so I'm off the phone full of guilt feeling, at why can't I just go despite it. Also I'm proud to want to stay inside my house, to not have to put on a farce of friendliness, to impress those I know already and don't care to cavort with on this night, those I see almost daily for jobs I don't do but to save up money to just move to the different Country. To not drink, to not stuff myself full with pork though delicious it might be. There are beets  in my future, and spelt berries, and carrot juice. Romance running me up and down like the uterus of hysteria. I like to just look out the window and listen to thunder. I'm sorry for using up one of your rsvp s. 

- mad projection of a fulfilled future

The summertime monsoonwind in an effort to blow down the outside my bedroom window tree. Those green fronds rattling visibly now: I've taken the fan from blocking it, turned it off, and so live in a quiet new york, just the papery rattle of leaves blown, and a subtle endless siren not so far away. The grey and the wet and the sirens closer now. A thunder struck, and I here, happy, wishing not in the slightest to move away from this little bedroom of mine, moistly breezed to perfection, drinking cold coffee from a little mexican cup and reading of course a lover's discourse. o kind oblivion.

head over heels / sunburst and snowblind

Happiness abounds. Here, on display, a few pertinents from CONJUNCTION #7. I can't commit to its entirety. Just some lines running through my head at this moment. Sent off some in a loveletter; realizing how good I am at loveletters, how unsullied they can be through all imperfects, past or present. How good I am, and how badly I incorporate my own real life. But, no matter, sentences are worth more than given justice.

I’m so cautiously wondering if it is

about to happen for a moment

I’ve saved it for the bushes

somewhere
noticed it wonderful,

the verging of panic

It’s snowing like the grass,

(forewarning) a moment, gorgeous

Thinking a soft moist mass isn’t an exaggeration.

I try to invite plants or flour

(and a brief pause)

because it’s snowing

Then he heard a voice applied to the body.

it’s over and I know there’s no chance

in the deepest blue of relief.

Bite angrily into the darkest depths

of reality calling over.

Inflammation in despair at why even exists she.

Talk, did I think this would, and even if it did

(the exact color of sunlight foolishly),

He’d come south wearing a soft blue, tediously

interrupting in a car through the snow to be warm.

The same color of her.

Something suddenly with the likes of me.

She had high ecclesiastical sexlife; he’s got everything

else and he watched with fascination as she moved

toward prepuce.

That is supposed to fix the rest of the life?
Up there

in the world already?

She was carrying a bunch of red and orange tulips.

This lonely, lonely, so amazing.

I am clutching his fold of skin, closer to his waist.

Surrounding the person to whom you’re attracted but

who means nothing save for one hand.

Clitoris is little romantic joy

This ridiculous waste of a morning.

The collector of prepuces, she’s been with someone else.

Lies are good, she smiled magic tricks

She didn’t seem recklessly extravagant.

looks at the ground

To explain yourself
I’m glad I caught you licentious

My relationship lies are pertinent tonight and
we’d like

dissolution.

Vigorously do I know you a little bit more

an inclination I don’t have…

sometimes these ideas linger, eyes sparkle like

that natural tendency to fall asleep awhile

before underwater emeralds.

In a particular way she doesn’t touch me again,

and then over to catching the sunlight, encouraging,

looking down quietly and childish.

Couldn’t stand there, excessive interest with great sadness.

I do not know for much longer.

Sexual matters I find, something else but I remember him tonight…

salacious, obsessed, concentrating on forcing a smile.

Licentious, she kisses me closely blood
pumping lascivious

my mouth intently hot. She was lecherous and leaves, but then

I accidentally admire tulips
to her chest,

lustful and quickly allowed.

Flames on concupiscent tears,
night on the silken pink.

Trivial perfumes… a tangle of mindthorns.

But we can hear each other inside.

The discharging of love breathing around courage;

timid.

Aching in panic instant inside now.

A square with pain warm from it… tonight/ feeling

I'd want not to.

Across the lawn from loss

a circle in love with sleep

bounded by a curve

feels not Mediocre

the position of the moon
happens to days and moments

and months effective.

Being in a state perfect elsewhere. I’m the only one

who feels the urge.

I’d want to keep it still inactive

so I’m silent, reticent, judging for a reaction,

caught up in the romance of happy and alone.

Wanting to be impassive as always

and the pursuit of unreachable goals with certainty

I know obsession, foolishly impractical happy

a year or more goes by

I’m not obsessed with the pursuit of ideals, looking

at other things.

If I was obsessed capricious,

the philosophers I love

would have impulsive suicides.

I don’t celebrate quiet

Unpredictable is left for today when his eyes, in which

words and his closeness and hands are represented,

flood love.

All that, all over, combinations of pictures I don’t want.

I don’t care if he was, for instance, to suck me dry.

Care about eyes represented by a picture.

So I can suck it dry, for him. If he cares, I know.

A person to whose name it punningly alludes,

suck someone else dry.

a person with parasites (I could).

I was never so revealing.

Anything to say…

I have a strong memory.

I think treating sexual, killing time.

Living in regret and distaste,

willing to give indecent.

A chance display      you in a bed becoming enraptured

Gasp the life out of everything.

He put his arms around enjoyment of the subject,

and you remember sex

and you remember regret.

The red glow of the slow.

Stately, enraptured by a display touched.

Such a dance, and you find yourself logically.

Screamed worldly things

and imagining it’s nothing in those things which are

not regarded as the moon,

and the grass means nothing.

You will be on her side; sacred could

have never meant less.

Such a drastic change of the temporal.

Let’s not try to transcend.

(Out of respect

to the distant temporalities.)

dream, Monday morning

I strolled along a boardwalk, with the cat Mexico inside a mall.

A person, nondescript couldn't determine sex, passed walking two animals on leashes: identical fox creatures somehow. Orange bodied, white faced and chested, but with brightpink wings folded at their sides. One was tiny, smaller than a squirrel while the other was large and stalky, like a boar. I stopped to admire such fine creatures. Mexico was a dog really, and jumped around sniffing the fox squirrel. 

How much joy there is!

green car green cat green box

lean-to

It is too soon for one, not soon enough for others. I have a fresh tongue on me, like fresh tongue on leaf. Still a freckle of a beat of a brush against a soft facepart. Still white hairs across my cheeks whispered by a steady hand. Still, I hold in the air. Though a handless air brushes me by, a breezeless breeze floats around, a still remembrance throbs delicately (like a spider heart a beat), nada movement, not a gesture physical.

for #5

prophesies turned true

pictures, car rides desperate,

questioning a bath

for #2

beginnings, firsts or

necessaries, changes up

to nevers again

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

mwyn, or melodious

morllyn, or lagoon

moment, or moment

monllyd, or sulky

môr, or sea

mynydd, or mountain

atgof is memory

.............................................

diffeithwch is a desert

dysgu ar y cof

1

 Insisting on living is obviously different 

from stewing or rotting away in a 

pathetic little brain. 

It is a sentence wanting to change, I wanted to at least, but an attachment I don't know why I have it so committed to memory, I think I had to write it here a dozen times to finally delete it from the proportionless epic still creating itself. 

Kill the babes.

could have been some vocabula affected me

In an example of ample defenestration, I watched aflutter down my little wills and ways. 

If I could have, I want to

Events of a week: evenings, everflowing aways 

my tempered little heartsac. 

Standing, platformed at hours between earlymorning & latenight, darkhair in a face which I wouldn't let wipe away. I body and limbs, hot face parts, mouths. 

Sweat-ed.

"on labels"

I wish to say that I, unlike a computer, or a computer-speaking-language, cannot create such things of beauty as labels, searchable labels that can be alphabetized labels, oh.

Thanks for them, because my life is a better thing now that I can list words like in such ways. Fuck me with ideas a little less, and maybe I'd become pregnant with productions! 

ah

for the ones I didn't forget them

& never will! Luckily I've tightened myself into a spot here, so no matter what happens I can't forget all the everythings. I've ever done, and in particular the everyones. Is to say I kept a record of every second of my life (in offs, and ons of course, for whoever is truly there always & all at once??) So celebrate yourselves. Prettily I try to justify you. 

for #17

perfect examples

coincidence left obsessed,

kiss abyss wanton.

for #10

scent of wind behind

your woolen collar whispered

ignominies in me

for #21

past tenses   again,

fortunately remembered

left to sit dumbly

I can't, for the life of me, contain such elements as are throttling around rasping for grips of air and wanting solace in their solitary existences- all within my little tunnelroom of a brain, so how can I placate them? Am I expected to. I don't even want to know the answer to this question!

words I hate:

silly

belly

grownup

bum

keeping up

for #27

mouth like a comma.

possible wet (but not whet),

washed in whatevers

for #26

ecstatic splosions

abound, unwound tenacious;

fearless in the throes.

I am abandoning thought to drift into the present. I even will refuse my own fun, for my own fun tends at times to drive me away. 

If I was made of it, I'd impress endlessly my own self. 

And just so common

7 June, 1:11 pm

beach house method: 6 7 1 7 6

And just to admit now

that days have been, and not to

remain

throbbing visibly from the

spying. Reminiscing

not am I of his trembling

tempers;

his salt no longer crusts

my lashes. Wearily

(now am I the nervousest,

and

said it isn't mist, it's dust,

and awareness of my

satisfyings, sitting soft

in

knowing forever that I

swim regardless of him.)

(he, an unmentionable

different.)

(he with his name of only

four consonants. Counting not

that one particular

elusive.

A letter for sometimes or

always... The sane, the sane,

the same.)

Hot,

in temperatures, hot not

in heat. Tempered to a

tepid temperance, and the

somehowance

of a superior quiet

around me, if it could

be called it. Because of being

spied,

and maybe the other &

I (,that four-consonanted

fellow & I) could birth one

another

without the shadows; that I'd

like twilight, because with

with with the danish I wasnot

lacking

in twilights or craving for

them, not in he or the

other fellow, the bread-fellow,

he

and his vowels, or anyone

else in worlds/ so it is

happenable; who could care

about

mist anymore anyway,

and who could care to skip

a spying with anyone

on

such a pretty earth; all

the prettiest types and

their prettiest tastes, such differents

when

good, so good, so common.

I wind

6 June

ariel pink's haunted grafitti

I like almost all the world's things. Liking a cool dark, bottomless wish cupping away that it could come by so I would have not but to swallow it down, serviced & de uglified.

I, hearing music having watched long hair, grow through the air, limbs brushing against the wind.

inland seas and others of my favorite things

5 June

I this morning spied the 

twitch out of him, with 

few

ings different in soft & quivering tempers.

He spied me and I spied him. He

lost himself away, 

a 

tergo, and spoke beneath a breath       spy me, spy me, 

spy me,    It was snow; still 

must be peppered     I 

will 

admit

growth in foggy abundances

Nearly torn. Tearly morn, blurry turn. 

turning blur method: 6  5  1  12

5 June

I this morning spied the twitch out of him, literally, with fewings of fingers different in soft & quivering tempers. He spied me and I spied him. He lost himself away, a tergo, and spoke beneath a breath         

spy me,      spy me,      spy me,                                                                   It was snow; still must be peppered

I will admit, I might have idead different intos. 

ospe & llewmlyn  (called llew)

came too, (and after the other characters were introduced (vidag & vadid, then culias as stood shimmering behind a bar); all the faces familiar and good to see, and pretty sure a kiss was quick on the mouth as I was gone only leaving a vermillion collegiate logged up to hop cab with 

a pretty familiar, a different familiar prettily clad, a friend to the house expressly asked for...

A presence, apparently. On the telephone with women, fires to look at. Sun to see up close. 

I died

I almost died by ambulance this time, tonight it was speeding through with only lights and engine sound to warn, no music of sirens, not a thing. Seconds on time was I, to life everlasting. Disasters distracting as shapes from outwards of nowhere. Delicious departures from certain snowy landscapes (of a mind). Still fawning, breathless. Envisioning seaweedscapes, a mind full and collapsed, envelopes of dramatic dream memory sway, each little disaster eclipsing in on itself. It would have been an anniversary to end all anniversaries, inside but not to mention a full moon to end all moons full. I am so incipient, excited for my day of birth. I will see the 24th year. In all manner of ellipses. Breaths of doom lush ever ending nervesway.

˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚

---

I almost

Died by ambulance,

It was speeding

Engine sound

Day of birth

I,

Disasters

In on,

Envisioning seaweedscapes, a mind full and collapsed,

Delicious

It

Distracting ash shapes from outwards of nowhere.

Inside

Envelopes of

Departures from certain snowy.

I,

Dramatic...

I am so excited for my

Each

Dream memory sway,

Inside

Disaster

In all manner of

Eclipsing

Doom brush never

---

To, was with only from the landscapes (of a mind). Little lights and warn, no music of sirens, not a thing. Seconds on time was to life everlasting. Ellipses. Breaths of to mention a full moon

would have been an anniversary to end all anniversaries, not to end all moons full. The 24th year will see ending nervesway.

the anniversary

Elements of the day: The moon, sheets, rainfall, I was thinking and then it went by; there was adoration, remembrances. 

THEMOON:

Tuesday hones eagerly. My only omen, naturally. 

TUESDAY:

Tomorrow under every soft dream, alleviating yesterday.

TOMORROW:

Towards one more omen, riding, roving, only wandering.

TOWARDS:

Total outward wandering, a radical, delicious sensation.

˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚ T O T A L ˚

True 

Only 

That my head is 

A hologram memory horizon collision box. It betrays 

Like sways in

Tempting, 

Of 

These 

A citizen 

Like stools,

Themselves

Organisms. 

The water.

A moment 

Little,

The

Obituaries remembered from pages before. 

Tiny, 

A day 

Lyrical, 

Triumphant in gaze 

Oration, redundant desserts.

Technicolor verse, pretty

Anagram 

Lengthy

Telling 

On words in whorls. Prettily,

Twice, 

Animals built with charts 

Lilting 

To feet,

Organs playing for 

The bush. 

And maps,  

Little

Tails,

Our) 

Tucked beneath. 

Amiable 

Lilacs falling head  

To

Our 

Tiny earthly delights. 

Animals, 

Legs. Brilliant 

Torrid, that supple song and a little earthworms crawling, a puddle splashed, melting faces and figures. 

sweet sweet tide

melodrama, else letting old dogs roam arbitrarily, memories abundant

am

astronomical mournings

assumptive measures

asinine melodies

arbitrary maybes

arbor manor

amazement mud

tomorrow:

turbulent omniscient meditative orations raised righteous or woebegone.

omniscient:

overly monotonous, nevertheless it seems coalescent in every narrow triumph

monotonous:

Melancholy overtones, neurotic omissions; tufted omnivores nesting on underturned stems.

overtones:

omnipresent, verified, each remaining twilight obituaried; nevermind endless sobs.

verified:

Virginal eternity rides in flesh igloos, ebbing dignified.

eternity:

emitting terra entwined roads, notes in tiny yarns

terra:

torrential elevations reap rolling alps.

elevations:

echos landing eastward, vague armor tells it over northern seas

landing

lamentations, aridity not dwelled inside; nettlesome grievances.

sympodial inflorescence

1.

It has an apparent main axis formed from successive secondary floral axes, all with their appendages. The budding and unfolding of blossoms in such a manner as a cluster of function.

a sip of light / heroic branches, lateral

A sip to sway

something light, the mood

A slip a shine

just simply shorn, of bright

Metal off a window glittering

Shone interstices form

metallic words

Sentences like shards

for instance, of light

18 s

[ 1=2, 2=1, 3=2, 4=3, 5=0, 6= 4 {c=1}, 7=1, 8=5 {c=1}, 9=2 {c=1} ] = 18 s sounds

A heroic instrument, a tool of terrorgrip

........................

Rent for the entire brownstone is $10,000 per month – Firm. The brownstone consists of a 9 room triplex apartment and a 3.5 room garden apartment and a full basement. Total 3510 sq. ft. plus 810 sq. ft basement.

A young shoot; any sympodial inflorescence, the main shoot ending in a flower, the subsequent flowers growing on successive lateral branches. (cyme)

a sip, for instance / doubtless like fruit

A sip of something light,

to sway the mood

A slip just simply shorn,

a shine of bright

Metal off a window shone

Glittering interstices

form metallic sentences

Words like shards

of light, for instance

for #25

doubtless to know he

will never be a tired

sodden soul fellow.

The coconuts are smoke way down the beach.

The ocean raptures, fails.

The coconuts are smoking down the beach.

The ocean ruptures and fails.

A method of a breath escapes, a sullen movement evaportates.

The twilight soucher of an enraptured soul,,,

Aptympani, a tympani /

I meant an apology here. Wrrors unwound me.

I killed myself or tried to in a blare today, said the madam of her house to the traveling houseshow enjoyers. Typing is better than a blender. Difficult like fruit...............

..............

continuations of some species

Specious in all thoughts, character types. Typified in diagrams of memory webbed out nonlogistically in informal invisible patterns.

for #7

first times, like the first

time for the first time. Unwound

in such pale streetlamp.

A pale equation erupting on some skin. Some and pale being ubiquitous nondescriptors

smudging time

I am good at everything I say, everything I see.

Here is a lovesong written expressly for you

for #24

Some sepia eyes

Colored matching just a scene,

Italian stilllife

for #23

Broadcast delerium

Swim sideways, Iowawise

Eye wandering lost

for #16

Cashmere coloring

Like a look softened by sludge

A smudge on the brain

for #22

Breakfast like cookies

Dirty bores kettle alight

Those pretty scab wounds

Iowandering but still unable to use avocadant in a sentence.

the cat barks at the no-see-ums

I flipped a switch of ghost, liking the term of a dirty switch and grabbing hold of it to self-entitle. Cocoa butter, a roll of toilet paper. A french press copper ashtray jar of lavender stems a bottle of black ink.

Get lost in the moss. My little stone's throw from a battering brook, a beating from that wayside burble, stones (like I) tossed in and out of tiny wakes. Buried bruised in sparkling pink of bath.

References made shatterable, from rhyme 

unravelling ribbon, spells outcast

my imploding pink sheath.

one salty song for spring

The cat bats at something I can't see. Joseph says cats bat at ghosts. It smiles an uncertain smile, but most of what I'd like to say hangs in the reflection of moon against a glasspane, something that is nonexistent on this darkest clouded night. The cat scratches at the door wanting to leave, and I feel proud. The particular moon, one undoubtedly crescentshaped though haven't seen, truly, on this last morning in march, the first of the shortest spellings. One unseen by me, for the mentioned darkness above, erasing any spatterings of stars or a little slip of moon, even.

In this particular bedroom, one particular for many reasons, I can always it seems see the march moon on an early predawn morning. Usually there's a bright fog piercing softly through the mottled glass of the bathroom. Tonight is a moonless night. Though maybe is just moonless to us still it's mine I can't see. I know its pending shape so can picture it beautifully in the mind.

An upward glance. Warm brown paths unmowed, unplucked. Growth unleashes but is walked upon; the gentle fronds part. A rustle of tufted tops. Tickling a shin, grazing an ankle. Pale orange sunset over a simple hill rounded. The brain a simple patter pitter, just a dust rock skipping sidewise from beneath a meandering foot. A spray in clouds of little dirts, tiny explosions laying soft in patternless waves. A print to blow away in a matter of seconds or months depending. Circumstantially skidding softly down a slope, a loping of hands and knees operating openly. A small gash, a twig on the river. A canal, a rope tied to a tree, a wig of black lichen blowing. A small checkered warbler making a moan from a nearby branch.

Contentedness abounds

remainders

The mirror has fallen to break so many more times since the initial crash, undoubtedly that occasion leading to its abandonment curbside as trash for my finding. The mirror has fallen so many times, but this last at an attempt desperate by K to leave my crowded bedroom. She left mostly a crescent of glass in her wake; I approve consistently.

An icecream cake, cookies and cream and yellowgreen flowers. A birthday cake for Ch. A red dress, one with tulips maybe, forest green, taco chile sticks of smoke. That old coconut scent everywhere, probably just a reminder of the future, the next weeks during which peregrenations occur.

a distressless little creature beneath it all. a dreamless little one!

Yes, this mirror story is not me analogizing, for example, a tale of the innards in rhetoric and flavorless poetries. Just a decent little remainder of a night spent. And then yes, I too should pick up those busted shards sitting like shiny mountains resting against the walls. By the door, so always underfoot nearly. To be laconic, that is for certain...

I love a laugh a punch in a bowl called icecream cold brings.

I can't like should care am listening can't

I can't remember why I hated you. I don't like bike gangs. I cannot be affiliated with one, though I like the idea of them very much.

It's cooler to meet someone outside a party than in it.

I should be looking to the girls... Skip a cock though I maybe have never learned to skip rocks on a pond.

I don't care; I maybe drunk stoned and tired. Or one or some of the above.

I am sure that moon memorabilia is for a purpose that I like so much. It is.....okay, just the moon & me......

I am listening to this song: "I leave the party at three am alone thank god"

true - Budweiser

And, this song I can't stand the rain by tina turner always comes on. Never wrong

in about two minutes

I will bathe. I made list of the people I've seen, or those spoken to over the telephone.

I bathed. My hair, in similar shades. I swear I'll stop this, I know that it could be anywhere I do all this, but not for long, for weekly trips mandatory to the beach are in my future. Thursday... I have to wait, but oh what a wait then, and I...

firsts

Oh, bursts.

Here is what I have to offer tonight: swaying under the projected black sky, clouds in shades of blue spreading waywards. But this is all just a projection, and not from a projector, but just a mind. The Mind. I will also offer, a moonlit glance. Oh, I listen to neko case all of a sudden. Which reminds me of a tale I have never recalled in writing.
Summer, Ch and K, two beers two tiny bottles of transport whisky, a mountain of rocks at the Park, the park all capitalized, carlo rossi, twilight, runners in underwear, a joint, sky through trees, peeing in a rocky crevasse, neko case across the valley, holding a dog on leash. Holding hands & looking for boys, bikeriding, pool playing, winning and losing.
But now: now it is not so different, it is my room not the mountain, but if a room could be a mountain I'd like to say that this was it. Pretty woman's dress from the polo game. An adventinus.
Shades of blue... cerulean, david rudman. Put out in a snuffer. Snuffed
There were a lot of times when I picked the names for the children... but that's nearly the furthest I got... aside from physical traits by collision with those of some loved one at a point or time... ah ha, ahhhoooo creation! Congratulations.
Ferdinand
Merrill

patrimonies

Oh my little butter print...

I remember that all is another 12 years, before anyone could articulate anything. I love a lobster like I could a wet sunset/ just nearly evaporated...

oblivionward

my innards like a haystack all destroyed

Hello, are you free tonight, I like your looks I like your smile, can I use you for awhile... It's all wrong but it's alright!

Mostly joking, but seriously, now I am going on my first beach adventure of the new year. I can't predict anything, but can tell exactly. I just cannot stand for the life of me an end to anything. Too bad everything must end and end again to begin.

a fine job then

she congratulates herself dreamily. Lying before, always so it seems a 2 o clock day just centered. Hours still to come of it.

B       ooooring

the 23 of February, forever: I guess I'm punker than others, have a creamy massacre of the heart

Monday February 23 2004

WELL   I'm free. once again. I guess I told Neight that I wasn't comfortable being sexual with anyone. The pointlessness took me over. I lost track of the original idea, the original plan to befriend him and to hopefully be able to hold him in a high enough regard as I would hold a friend. Because as it was, he meant very little to me. Especially after Monday when he asked if we were dating and Friday he called really late and then I threw up (it was symbolic) WOAH, documentary idea. Silent, I walk into the living room, answer the phone, sit down, talk for awhile, go to bathroom, throw up. No, people would think it was about bulimia. I'm documenting my bulimic tendencies. It seems that hooking up with Neight was some strange distraction from the obvious necessities and realities guiding my life. And now I'm free again, following my own rules and moving along on my way. 

Tuesday 2/23/99

5:30 pm

Hi. Today Bruce wrote a poem about how much he loves me. And I wrote a poem about how big of a homophobic, sexist, Racist man he is. And I got to wear the Barbarian Bracelet for awhile. Britta has my pyramid-spiked bracelet. And yesterday I got some red converse hi-tops. They are so cool, I love them. Now I'm 100% Grade A Punk. I played bump at lunch with Stacie, Nichole, Bruce, Kemper, and Rachel. I'm killer at bump. Stacie also watched Brink! last night. After school I went bowling. Kemper wasn't there, so Bruce was on our team. It was a good time. Then we dropped Britta & Bruce off at Kemper's so Bruce could steal beer from his garage. You know, for the Kegger Saturday. Oh, tonight is the dinner with Carol & Hailey! Excited? Can't wait.

10:23 pm

Hey. Well, Bryttni told me that I am a "wannabe punk rocker." Okay, sorry. I told her I got converse so she got into this big thing about how I've changed so much: new friends, different clothes, and different music. Oh, and I have a different attitude. Okay. I was always glad because unlike Stacie and me, Bryttni & I had a good relationship where we didn't judge one another. I always knew we were different in some ways and alike in others, and I never thought of Bryttni as a poseur as anything. I had always thought she felt the same way about me. She just tells me I've changed. Well I have, but like she hasn't? She has a different attitude lately. Like how she was at the movie, bitchy. That's her new thing. But if I were to tell her that, it would just start a fight. But it still hurts my feelings. Whatever. I'm sorry, I had no idea that Converse were so "punk." I don't consider myself a punk. I guess I'm punker than others, but I'm no punk. Some people actually think I am, when I don't even think that. So how can I be a wannabe?

Monday 2/23/98

5:28 pm

Well, well. On Friday I went to Fruit's after school. I also bought a new NOFX CD "Maximum RockNRoll" and a used Tilt. Right now I am listening to Blink 182's "Cheshire Cat." "Ben Wah Balls." Then we all went to Teen Night. We got there early and went into the stereo room and put in the likes of Blink 182, Tilt, NOFX, Beastie Boys, and danced crazy-like. It was fun. Then we found Andrew. Poor guy was alone and depressed. He was being his normal boring self at first. Then the gangsters (Nani for one) came and told me to take out the Beastie Boys. So I was pissed because they were forcing Tupac in the stereo. Excuse me, but Tupac? Hello! So I took the cord (devil child that I am) and ran into the bathroom. So Shannon Mackintosh came in and was threatening to kick my ass but I wouldn't give the cord up. Everyone was pissed at me but sure enough, the gangsters won. Later on Andrew got better. That was good. He let me wear his sweatshirt and he knocked me down, sat on me, then licked me on the cheek once because I stole his shoe and wouldn't give it back. Then he tried to do it again but I stuck my hand out so he got it instead. Then as he was leaving, he asked me for a hug and wouldn't give one to Fruit. That night I spent the night at Fruit's with Stacie too. Then on Saturday we walked around downtown and we went to this skate shop called Pipe Dream across the street from the skate park or the "skatpark" as this cool store calls it. Anyway. The dumbass guy that works there asked us for a smoke, then made fun of blades, then kicked us out. He was a total sexist jerk. He kicked us out because we're girls and I was wearing my Medium sweatshirt. Dude, I'm sorry. Then we went to Cafe Ole and Fruit & Stacie told our waiter it was my birthday so I would get free ice cream. I couldn't get any though, because I didn't order an entree. Fine then. But that didn't stop everyone working there from coming over to our table and singing to me anyway. Gee thanks. Then we went to Spanky's and Stacie got an awesome hat. Then Stacie & I went to my mom's house and rented two really cool scary whore movies called "Jack Frost" (starring a snowman rapist), and "The Fiance" whose title made no sense because no one was getting married. Talked to Andrew and said, "Stacie has her shirt off. I bet you wish you were here." And he said, "Stacie's cool, just not in that way." Then she asked if I was cool in that way and he said yes. Dude, what is this guy smoking. But anyway. Then on Sunday Stacie and I went to the Mall and I got awesome $58 olive green. Rusty cargo pants from Mr. Raggs. They kick. We saw billy (yippee). Stupid Fag. Then we went to my house and then to dinner at Amore with Shirley and we talked a lot about TJ and Halloween and all that crap. Then I talked to Andrew and he said out of nowhere, "You looked really good on Friday" and the more I think about it I get really scared. What? Poor guy was so embarrassed. He also said I had a cute laugh. Why, thank you. I know. Today I dyed my hair blonde. 

Wednesday 2/23/00

Hi. There's a new boy in PE. What's his name again? Starts with an S. I don't remember. OP IVY T-shirt, (like a lil' boy called Trev'r) pyramid-spiked bracelet. He was pretty nice. I spoke to him briefly. he's a private school boy. I don't know, he seems like a cool person. He started out friendless, but he took off with James and Joe, so who knows? I guess you can't expect the new guy to hang out with you if you're me. I mean, I'm just not your typical hot you know, in a boy's opinion. It wasn't like that though, at all. I just think that since I'm not the hottest girl he's ever seen, he's going to naturally hang out with the guys. Naturally. Oh well at least there's no one for him to hang out with in PE, besides myselph, and I've got no one. Nick broke his collar bone. So I'm all alone. A good chance for me to attack the new boy? I'd have to agree. HE'S MINE! He seems nice, though, so it shouldn't be difficult to get SOMETHING out of the boy. Mmm Hmm! Fuck, I don't even know his name.

{The following was written in sparkly green and purple pens.}

Saturday 02/23/02

High! And guess where I just came from? The apartments of Shawn and Zach. But, it was Justin who called me which was the coolest part of all. So I left the company of Kari & Sam and went there to chill! And took knife hits. And I told Justin that he was coolest one, and I said that he was the coolest of his friends, and he said, even Zach? And I said yes, and he acted really flattered. I think it meant something to him, and I think that he thinks that I'm really cool. It sucks, he's leaving on Friday! I don't know how we're expected to chill. It sucks, because he seriously is way cooler and way much more fun than his friends. 

Thursday 23 February 2006, 12:10 pm

Romain has soft, serious brown eyes and hair the color of mine, if mine wasn't so slightly copper. Our eyebrows are almost identical. If we had french/american children, their eyebrows would look just like ours with no distinction. His cheeks are gaunt, his face long and straight with a rounded chin, unclefted. His lips make a red heart. He is french, yes, and with a tiny waist and muscular stomach, soft, muscled arms, and delicate hands and feet. His body is almost hairless, save for a few very long hairs surrounding his dark, flattened nipples. His skin is more olive complected than mine. His penis is short and uncircumcised; attractive as an unattractive penis can be. As solemn as a sausage. He is built like a thick and shapely version of erwin, who, by coincidence, has recently emailed me a love poem about sex. I'm drinking french water, also by chance.

We meet at the Embankment train station after I pick up my perscription for birth control at the doctor's. I race out of there, sweating madly in nervous excitement at the idea of our meeting. I suddenly feel high, I feel serene, my heart picks up a notch, my blood burns red, and I hurry through the Oxford Circus, wanting to scream vivaciously that no, I don't have a minute for the environment, or for unfortunate children, that I infact have a date! And my date is pure, it is innocent. I want to see Romain again because I liked him when I met him at Fabric. I guess it was because he had nice eyes, and after I found him to ask if he had any pills, and he told me no but that he'd go with me to find some, and then he said to me in his accent of course, "I want to stay with you... until the end." I liked his voice, I liked his sweetness, I liked how he said this to me and I felt like it was important to both of us, how he didn't look at me with fuck in his eye, like most people. I wanted to see him again because I trusted him. I didn't know anything about him except that he had a hickey and a girlfriend from Slovenia. Because of this knowledge, the awareness of a significant other on his side of things, our date is then forced into this place of could or could-not-bes. It is chaste because of my undying love for Charlie, and the fact that I don't know this boy at all, and I have no idea why I've invented this attraction for him. I think it's because he is very beautiful and has the sad, serious eyes. I don't know why I have this liking, this creamy massacre of the heart. And I like it, I like that I am not being repulsed by someone, that I have a trust that comes simply from my intuition, and I of course must take advantage. So I am excited, I'm thrilled, having made Romain to be this boy for whom I have a strong attraction and desire. Even if it isn't so.

I meet him at embankment. I see him first, and my heart slams softly against its cavity walls, I say aloud, girly, oh he's so cute. I approach and stand at his side. We walk, hoping to find the pub he likes, but without heed. We stop in somewhere and drink Guinness, probably the best Guinness I've had in London. He rolls Drum cigarettes (can't smoke french tobacco in London, it's too expensive) for us and guesses my birthday, he guesses the 23rd of May out of all the days in a year. I ask his favorite colour, he tells me blue, like my scarf but less bright, Royal, just like mine. I feel comfortable, too comfortable, like it's very easy to speak to him even though we didn't always know what the other was saying. He asks me to repeat myself, I've got to simplify, to speak broken english. We sit on stools and smoke and stare at one another and laugh. He tells me he's leaving London on the weekend to go to Slovenia, to see his girlfriend. I'm planning to leave to Switzerland in the next couple of days, so part of me celebrates our leaving one another and the probability that I will see him in Dublin. I tell him I will, that he can show me the pubs and we can drink real Guinness. We drink and I go to the bathroom to stare at myself in the fluorescent lighting, noticing all clogged pores, wrinkles, redness. I then scold myself because it's better that I look unattractive because I shouldn't want to attract this person. We leave to find food. 

We end up in the Duke of Argyll. The barkeep remembers me, and tells me I look much happier and I gesture at Romain.

"He looks a bit young, doesn't he?"

"Yes, that's exactly why I like him."

"Ah ha, robbin' the cradle, uh?" I nod.

"No, I'm just used to having old men hit on me. This is refreshing."

"Oh, I see." He lets me sample all the Samuel Smith beers, exclaiming, "Here, here, more washing for me, then!" I settle on the Best Bitter (which actually isn't as good as the other) and something else. We eat toasted cheese sandwiches, sitting closely on one side of the table. I tell him why I am a vegetarian. He tells me his favorite kind of meat is horse. The bar closes. We leave and I call Maz to see if I can get some weed. We walk with our arms around one another. I'm fairly drunk. We find Maz and go to a stupid bar that reminds me of American college. Maz at first seems interested in meeting Romain, but shortly he begins to make jokes about "the frenchie who doesn't speak," and at one point one of Maz's friends says to him, "those two are obviously in love."And Maz says, "No, no, she's got a boyfriend..." He needs to explain to people, or to defend, it looks like, my decision that he's so obviously respected, to be faithful to my boyfriend. He asks me later if I have cheated on Charlie, to which I can honestly reply no, I haven't. I ask him if he's got anything to smoke and he says apologetically that he doesn't but he'd really like some himself...

We leave; I am very happy to be with Romain, to meat someone with whom I feel absolute comfort. I am so happy to have met him; love the way we speak when we aren't sure. We joke well, and can say stupid things to one another and we share some kind of abstract understanding. We walk with our arms inside each others' jackets, as it's very cold and the wind is sharp. I like the way my hand feels, clutching his slender hipbone and I think, this person is so beautiful, such a small hipbone, not a giant pelvis like Charlie has and I think, oh charlie, you don't want me to clutch this boy's bone, but oh, I want to and oh, it makes sense. Especially in these misty streets where there're no cars only fox and leaves and moss, and wet wind blowing down us. It begins to get warmer. The rain comes and goes. The houses on the streets get bigger and the puddles reflect golden streetlamps. I feel increasingly happy, but I know we are headed to Romain's hostel and that it's 2 am and maybe I could just stay up all night until I go home in the morning. We see a fox. Very close and laying in the grass between two bushes. A cute, round face bigger than I'd expected, white fur around its eyes. It's a cross between cat, dog, and squirrel. We walk and walk and go the wrong way and Romain says, "Oh, this is boring," because 'boring' somehow translates in french to annoying or pissed off, and we turn around and walk more, and imitate the imaginary sounds of the fox as though it was that creature. He sings Frank Sinatra and something, something that sounds like "My Girl," because I think we heard it somewhere on our voyage. It's so cold and I feel so good; I tell him the chorus of the song. It brings back the image of him guessing my birthday, the two of us sharing a sweet coincidence and blushing on wooden stools. 

We go to his hostel and sit on the stairwell, drinking tea out of a pint glass and smoking cigarettes. I let him stroke my head. We tell stories about the ghosts of the hostel. Once, a long, long time ago in the Hyde Park Hostel, there was a very bad fire. An american girl and a french boy were smoking cigarettes and didn't extinguish them entirely. Everyone was killed, but it's said that the ghosts of these two are still there, along with those two Spanish twins who constantly run up and down the hallway, making out in the bathroom. I tell him I will lie in his bed with him. I have the option of another bed. I would have a sheet, it would have been a bit cold, but mostly, I wouldn't have been able to lie in bed with Romain. 

I want to lay with him because I like everything about him. So I do. I tell him I can't kiss him. He says okay, you don't have to. I get in bed with all my clothes on, and he wears underwear. He is tiny, very much like Erwin only shapely and muscular and very hard. He's cute in every possible way, and incredibly soft though at first I avoid touching him. He puts his face in the crook of my neck and his arms around me and we sleep. We sleep until he begins to rub my head.

He rubs with both hands, gently, intending to make me smile. He pulls my hair softly, and I begin to do the same. It becomes erotic very quickly, and I'm not sure how. All we're doing is touching one another's heads, but it feels so wonderful and we begin to breathe and it gets warmer and soon our bodies are pressing against each other and we're rubbing noses and pressing cheeks to eyes and lips and chins and it's all soft face parts caressing each other and we're almost fucking with our hands, our fingers fondling the other's hand and palm and stroking the outside, and the inside, soft then hard, and it's all a bit difficult to not want him so I keep my eyes shut, knowing that if I open them I'll see how beautiful he is and how much I want him, and if I keep them shut I'll not notice... but it doesn't work, I open my eyes and he's beautiful with parted lops big and red like an opened heart and his face is slender and brown eyes soft and serious and looking right at me. So I think, I've gone this far, it's not innocent anymore, it's as though we've kissed, our lips are rubbing over one another, we're smelling each other, he's pressed against me and he's hot and we're entangled and my hair's matted and I want to see how he'll kiss me. Our lips are dry and he's insistent, with thick tongue plunging and he's kissing me quickly. It reminds me of the first time I kiss Charlie and how young he is and how beautiful and excited he is. The kissing means nothing, it's the movement that's so incredible. One of the roommates climbs off the top bunk and we hide under the covers. The roommate stands next to my face; the frame is filled by a crotch wearing boxers. I never see his face. Finally we leave the bed. I go to the bathroom feeling like the queen of shit. What have I done? I ask. Was it worth it? How did I do this? Charlie will be so sad. I try not to cry. I tell myself it's done and now I'll have to pay for it and there's nothing left to do. Don't torture yourself. 

I do cry, a little. And then I'm embarrassed, because Romain makes a half-hearted attempt at comforting me, and I can't except it, I don't want him to, I don't need to be crying so I stop and rinse my face and we leave to a cafe where I check flights, realizing it's too expensive to travel to Basel this weekend. He realizes it's too expensive to travel to Slovenia to see his girlfriend (simultaneously as I write this he is on the plane, or maybe he is still at Stansted listening  to Valley of the Giants or Miles Davis). I'll go in the middle of March, instead of journeying to Dublin to have an innocent meeting with Romain. [I cannot, how I'd love to go to Dublin and go with him to the Guinness factory and to sleep and walk around in Ireland with him! But I can't, I can't, my relationship with Charlie is too important for me to allow this affair to continue. Maybe we'll never see one another again. Maybe, though I feel that if Charlie and I separate, I will crave Romain. I already do, I still do, I wish I was touching him right now.]

We have breakfast. His is traditional english, and he uses knife and fork. Mine is tomato soup with chips. I eat hardly any of it. I am in a daze, as I haven't slept but have instead partaken in a particularly beautiful (however innocent it feels, I know that it cannot be, that I've only just kissed him without letting him touch me and I've kept my clothes on just so that I could say I did, it's all about what I can say later to Charlie, about having the correct things to say even if the words themselves mean nothing, as they don't as I had an orgasm somewhere, and another to follow shortly, and it was not innocent, it was a most erotic experience) affaire francois stupide. Soon he has his hand on my knee and we begin to desire each other and I suppose I think to myself, well, I've done it, and how I want it still. His mouth is on my neck and throat and clavicle and ears as I clutch a cigarette and think how we are in a cafe with cheap reproductions of impressionist paintings and there's house music on the stereo and fresh-squeezed orange juice and bad coffee, and he smells amazing.

We have an astonishing kiss and I think, what a lover, and we talk and I listen to his voice and his accent and I love it and I still trust him. "It's okay," he always says, meaning don't worry, or sure, or I like it, or it doesn't matter. We leave after a few hours; whenever we go anywhere we sit for at least a few hours, 2 or 3. We want to walk through Hyde Park, I'm thinking how I have to leave soon because I need to go call Charlie and admit myself and stop the lying, I suppose. We first go back to his room, where we are alone, briefly, and we gaze and then lay with our arms around each other and doze. I dream lightly, but only in thoughts that keep going when I'm only slightly asleep. I think about Charlie, about telling him, and about making work here in London that I am proud of and about my friends back in Chicago and saying goodbye to Romain, and I think it will all be okay, almost that it is already okay. The thoughts are led to where they need to be, where normalcy and contentment are once again restored. We don't want to get up. We'd like to stay like that, because we find each other's faces are soft and pretty, and our bodies warm pressed against each other, our legs enmeshed, and I, fully enmeshed 'in an adulterous affair.'

We get up and I wear his shoes as my texas ropers are extremely painful and still wet. We walk through a misty Hyde Park, dark and bright at the same time, green and grey with long footpaths and birds flying over our heads. We approach a pond arm in arm, sharing a cigarette and there're large white swans with beaks tucked behind folded wings, floating on dark water. The geese wander slowly, unafraid of our presence. We walk through the park and I feel london and what I want it to be like. This is an example of what london should be. I realize again that it's really time to go. I produce another stupid pun which is always difficult to describe in broken english. He says what is a relationship and I say, or affair, and he says, what affair?

We kiss long and hard for maybe ten or fifteen minutes before the Bayswater tube stop. We have the most amazing kisses here, where we keep losing our balance and falling over and saying things like, I don't want to leave you yet, yes, neither do I, but I have to go, okay, I will see you later then... kiss for a long time, say goodbye, grab him again and pull him towards you and kiss more and more and finally wave as he's across the street and break into hot, confused tears and pace the train station, exhausted, bewildered, feeling slightly in love and totally vacant of anything I felt before. I think of charlie but not that I am sorry. I don't want him to be anything but happy- I keep saying this, but why would I still do this? It's so strange, I think about Charlie, or, at least, I did before I created this crush, as though he is the world, he is the best, he is the only for me. And suddenly, I am so attracted to another, I am so desirous of someone else that it negates all sincerity. I forget about Charlie, I forget his height, his heft that I love, his dark hair and lips and green eyes and I only glance over hipbones in my mind because I'm distracted by the bones of another. Charlie is so so so very far away, which is how I knew it'd be when I told him what I'd done. I could barely see him when I was with Romain, he was nearly a recollection, and I didn't miss him. I only missed him when I began to kiss Romain and he can't kiss like him, but then there's the truth that the kiss of charlie isn't absolute, that it began one way and developed into this perfection that I can recall now, only just. Of course with more time spent with Romain I'd have the perfect person to kiss. Later, I'd learn that sexually (except, of course, with Sex itself) his actions are hurried and he's as eager as with his mouth. This too would take not long to change... but I don't have the time or energy and there is no reason to commit to such things, it's for someone else. I'm only his american girlfriend, never to see him again, most likely. 

I can barely see Charlie in the background dark. It doesn't bother but surprises me. I expect him to always be in front, to take me over from all sides, but now he is so small and I have no idea what he smells like or how his stomach feels. And this is the danger. It is frightening to not have an overpowering need for the one you love. I am happy to be separated from it, partly because it puts me in a safer position; I know that if something happens, if Charlie and I are not together soon or later, I will be okay because there are so many people in the world. I could have loved Romain more than I did. I wanted to, very much, thought still he would be wrong. He isn't in love, I'm sure he never has been and I suppose I've come before his time. He is like Charlie, I think, before I met him. This boy I could love with ease, and I could also be hurt and disappointed. If I didn't have Charlie it would be too much. I would cause myself too much damage. He is that good. Still, I don't think too far into this because it isn't reality. The reality is that Charlie is still there, that I am very much in love still... I have to tell him. I try to call him on the bus but he isn't there and then I fall asleep for 13 hours and miss Romain when I awaken. I talk to Eleneus about what's happened, and at this time I feel giddy like in pre-love but it's safer than that because I have to control it. I know that I'd like to see him that night, that I want to bring him back to my room so that we can sleep together. I am happy, I am relaxed, until it's time to call Charlie and I do and he's so happy to hear from me because it's been so long and I open up with the truth immediately, apologizing afterwards, without a tear. He is sad, then angry that I am not regretful, and I wonder how to fake it. He says it seems like I'll leave after the conversation to meet with him again. I can't say anything. He's somehow very understanding. I tell him: I love you, baby, and it sounds so fake. My voice is so small and far away. I love him. He knows how to react, nothing like how I would have. He tells me not to worry too much about it and I love him for that. He tells me to call him later. Later I am with Romain so I can't.

Wednesday February 23 2005

A break for intellectualizing. 

For clearance of Mind. What's on mine? Oh, let me but tell you.

Erwin's coming back on March 8. I won't have forgotten about him by then. In fact, I think of him frequently, everytime I see the narrow back of a thin boy. Everytime the winter breezes catch my ear. 

I don't feel mad at actual people and circumstances that have come from my relationships with them. Jealousy doesn't matter now. I don't have feelings either way, for or against Steve. It doesn't bother me to see qualities in others that I wish I have. 

I like purpleorange trees and steel grey buildings outside the window at school. I don't yearn for there to be mountains, and if I did, it wouldn't make me angry to not find them there. 

Still unsuccessfully growing up and playing the game and getting my act together.