december the twentyseventh

8:55

And my blood, lungs, full with it. The piano, or the blue, the whale cry in the smoky club scene. You are a scene. Scene the scenery. I thank the piano, and the slide guitar I whimper to, asking please, but not needing to so doing it silent. The last five years are the ones of life. I slap across the song. I flood myself across the piano; a piano spark waterfall. Forget the semicolon; this is what I need. Skipping punctuations like stones. An explanation like pebbles dropping on keys , the comma, an upstroke. I can feel the heart now.

    Subtle smoke curtain now. Ash on a pillow, the porcelain dish. Not a dish but a lid. The porcelain lid to a hairbox. This a particular delight remnant of Nanny. Poor Jack, didn’t get a gift. The only one at the party. Jack Clark wish not to write his obit. Without mentioning death, will they surpass it? Without mentioning death, they passed it. Without mentioning death can one suppress it. Without mentioning, death surprises. It’s without mention, without mansion. Without mandibles, death surprises us. Death sells us. Without mention, mandibles surpass. An ñ of sourts, the unitalixized ways, her little fingers skipping stones. The brown stones, the ones  made from porcelain, the little stubs of fingers wafting generously. Like the breeze. The bees worked with them, that’s a fact. Soon as the sky fell earlier in day, like a shade of red over everything, and a call given to elbows and arms in favor of sweaters. The possibility of sweaters, sweater possibility, sweater ability. My shadows over everything, the letters abrupt and flat. Oh, but if I could go back then! The only time is time viewed rounded, like the edges of courners cut, and made curved and painless. The letters, though: the letters are so straight up and square. The haunted voice

    could change eventually, ending gorgeously. Yesterday, yesterday: yellow winter remaining, gold drives serene. Enough hazard dreamt,

    Scratch the spelling off that piece of bark! Knowing gratefully yields some emotional leverage. engaging gratefully yields savory youth, harrowed, dimly, yet triumphant, trying, gggggg

    Songs stretching, going grim, marbled divine,

we found your virginity, to hunt in time and bounty

"bloodstain on your majesty

four seasons dark combinations

13 years of Karen

to be given all the unity

the hunt & tie of bounty

bloodseed of your majesty

in this mighty plan

dark correlations

I found my 13 years of Karen

in all four seasons and their dark brethren

your four seasons and their embarrassment

with dark combinations, I found my

13 years of Karen"

What an unnecessary document! considering the effort, I would like to offer an effort, in trade, a words with five or four letters time.

We will be together in Old England we’ll be together

And as for falling in love, this mighty contemporary thing. Trying to recreate the divine. Only smokers need desks. The ashes are flying!

21: cryptic dust

Searching, endless, we found a dark wood, and in it, surrounded by the most exotic mosses and lichens, stood the hazy southernwood.

Determined dust lichens, softly ominous, splayed dryly. The yawning grass suppressed itself. Sometime else elated deer rose, those emblematic creatures spread diligent towards a spotted fog. Let's take an inventory: Gold dust lichens; stuffy yellows, so original lemons, soft tangerines... Spearmint, tortoise, emerald, dream malachite, every young grass slick kinetic. Curt tree coral lived dangerously, yelling gravely; yarn needles stab one blistered, dwells the lavender, rapacious.

My rock hair, my roast beef plant, the thick fur which is called black tree lichen, I wear them all like I should wear a kingcup; my swarthy rock pigeon upon my clock.

Three or four things about me are ordinary. Some, like my cryptic kidney lichens and cancer, are obvious, but I have also many tools at my disposal... tools like the sweet rocket which is intended to generate a response in a crowd, and the legendary Irish Healthblanket, also known as tree moss, in which I wrap myself gladly for some sake of pride. As this proud soul, I spurge & caper about my home on the coast, the cove in an emerald bay. The rock-olive lichens lay clustered against the wash of waves, and beneath bare feet behave as winter squash; toes sink but for a moment, a memory cushion. I'd trust a hag taper to lend the way, an austrian briar rose as my strength.

22: sweet sulphur

Right by my side, and always, the ones like black legumes are rock-olive lichens (cylindrical), and they tend to weigh on the heavier side of three dimensions. My body shakes in spirit. My leeks run wild, looking over their thin shoulders and past the ones they know to the ominous dragon's head which tends to pierce the sidelong glance. Their footprints in the dust lichens, sulphur in the night.

20: goldspeck sparrow, sour greens

My larkspur longs for you! My rockfrog leaps into the cool of a pond! The only flowers on their backs are goldspeck lichens, (sagebrush scented) while a hawk (ferruginous in style & temperament) seals the deal. A rusted Solomon's seal, left by the sticks of lungworts melted over a high flame. My own sour greens grow wilted after a hot summer's look, yours, in particular. My own sparrow (chipping) in the early, early morning, before even the grub lichens have slid out from their dormant domiciles for a bite of fresh sorbet. In this heat, in this desert, my skin is yours; my own flesh melts off in jackets of toadskin lichens, only for your smoothe fingertips.

19: spring snowflake lichens

Like a snowflake (in spring), and the only character around is a goose (Canada). I, along with water hesitate, churning my hands in and out of air (an element of some water there), the fine fog surrounding the frost-lined water. The goose (biting at the snow) warns of impending something. I scratch my flesh; wart lichens happening to grow across my calves and knees (bitter, I am at this, but still in wonder at the colors & textures). The fine dirt below, the rockbright glimpse shining off cliffs. Your own cliffs, your own fuzzed & lichencovered rocks (testes), there, so in my mind a snowflake (in summer). Your own resurrection plant. I admit, there were tranquilizers, but this was a summer of regretlessness! Awakening to the sound of the sparrow, the scent of soapwort as it sapped across my happy earlymorning body! My skin in the cold, cold pond, the scratch of thornbush lichens (coastal) combing through my hair.

marvels

if i wasn't immortal I could cry, lying

I make feeling in that mindset

prettylittle 80 - 82

I make feeling of the brain. Most recently low-growing, the mixture of that sun and me without trying, simply. The avocado’s point of view is a little frolicky. Belonging to the primrose those strong legs of his. I’m a magnet for choking the mind outright.

I’m not family; I didn’t like this like that. Making love, having tuberous rootstocks and nodding strong legs. I’ve been complemented often. A self promoting deprivation. In the alps with deer, white, purple, pink, I see. My ability to create such a young and early death. And berries, unfortunately, crimson flowers with reflexed petals, can get pretty intimacy only just awhile. In that mindset.

Describing expectantly comfort with strangers, a life donated to my abilities. A circular boat so I can find severe athleticism. Here I am, viewed from inside.

the day could look of you all along

prettylittle 76 - 79

The day looks forward, pertaining right now. I see far past this, I think. I might resemble twilight, & cashmere. Were you thinking? I want to. It matters, dim, indistinct, and I love that much. Deny the attentions, those appearing active in their recognition.

My hands are made of women, of twilight, sight as certain lanterns see. Living clavicles which are bats and insects filled with light. I think about it, but I can’t see. The window is open, we are able to slice but the crepuscular memory. The sun or the moon. I can’t see fresh air in my living everyday by them, in that cimmerian place. Let’s move environments, new reflection doubtless it be believed. Still on that island I want to illustrate, loves distorted and we've all night to understand. I am afraid, all the music mutilated, the night is a little more of a lot.

I want to know raining but my new irrecoverable smell wants to tell me in a song. It’s quite culpable, with me, it follows, and who is deserving a blame? I had always thought this; anyway it’s threads of censure, you know?

The most special out there, a mind unusual, honest, as I stop you. I am listening to art and I really wanted you. Importances, oftentimes, my originals, valued as curiosity. To be there of secrecy comes the bloated new, some curio of you all along.

on this day

In the wintertime, everything you know which lives is dead, and if not dead, asleep in a powerful example. I was making love to my dictionary yesterday; it is a dictionary used to belong to Mrs. I.W. Stoddard, also known as Aunt Mae (I wear, usually, her golden ring embossed with our shared initials on my wedding-finger), and she wrote this name in its front cover in March 1940, so this I know as I see it writ right there. The book is rubber banded as pages of it do fall out in haste. Well anyway, I discovered a good many words and somethings about myself, as well: for instance, I am quite ashamed to have written down so many words beginning with specific letters to form a sort of acrostic telling the story in a short graphic novel I've written. There are a few such runon sentences typical, and also the gratuitous use of large words I can't define. (I must get ahold in me a cold cup of beer.) Also typical. But I wonder? Could I get ahold of a rather large and impressive dictionary with whom to make love? I hope it. Listen... I have some big ideas. This is too personal for the intranet to bear.

"from the ground" in subtle listening, an ode to

keep your floor warm. keep your soft rocks ready. keep your hair down. keep the keys down. keep the wet away, keep the peach in heat. keep your fingers tap. keep your ears uncovered. keep your dreams down. keep your smile on the ground. keep that ground an old secret.

also,

I was given a few books! To my joy and surprise, on the inside cover of Anne Frank's The Diary of a Young Girl is written my name, Molly Stoddard, in feminine thirteen-year-old script complete with hearts, stars, and exclamation point. And even more worthwhile is the original copy of William Goldman's The Princess Bride, a truly exceptional book. I started it again last night and haven't stopped from smiling. The opening sentence: "This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it." Ah ha, intriguing, no? What else is here: Cat's Cradle. I read Jailbird and liked it but is it too late for Kurt and me? The cover art is brilliant, vermilion background with a small inset of pink hands holding the all-important cat's cradle strings, the going-off of an atomic bomb, and a confused psychedelic sun. "Call me Jonah. My parents did, or nearly did. They called me John." Mm hmm,  pretty Clever. Ah, well it's about twentyseven pages long so I could just suck that down. IF I WASN'T so busy sucking everything else down. You know! What else, oh if it isn't Percy Thrower's How to Grow VEGETABLES and FRUIT by god!! Depicted is Percy Thrower himself, wrinkled oldman brow and long elegant pipe... it appears to be unlit. He's fondling a large & impressive yellow onion, and showing off with this sort of licentious look on his face a wheelbarrow just full of delicious treasures from the earth. Mm hmm we have potatos, radishes, beets, tomatos of all flavors and persuasions... oh, and they're so damp and dewy with earth and newness! how hungry you've made me. This book is filled with images of hands using tools and breaking off beetgreens. In fact, there is a bookmarked page I've just opened to... the Beetroot. Just delights.

I have to go now, to rinse my hair... let the solemn ballad of poor Lonesome Susie leave you charmed.

I almost got lsst

I am in this sunny room in idaho where the sky doesn't change from perfect at all. When the sun sets a change happens, but within only bounds of perfect. I like it here. ida likes it here, her namesake place. I like this song called "my heart" by a band called wildbirds & peacedrums. in bed i sit, and here I am waiting with henna in my hair. I recently got my period, and am subsequently writing my first novel about womanhood.

This whole thing has a purpose, I felt it before. I felt it this time, too, after coming over the blue mountains. It must have been near north powder, and those were the little alps, all silhouetted with the sun still bright over the edges. undeniably alplike. I am writing this because Once, during summertime I was on the same drive, eastbound to idaho, and there to my right in a beautiful lush field of peagreen were two lounging llamas. And they dazedly, dreamily, admired a flapping butterfly above and around them... I couldn't see their eyes but I can only imagine the heavy lift of a lid, the twitch of an ear, the peaceful admiration.

I saw them this time, coming on dusk, but this place hasn't a dusk, or a twilight. I wanted it to be, but in the little alps the bright sun creeps behind a jagged peak, still leaking bright, until finally the sky explodes into every texture imaginable; purple lace lining vermilion velvet, soft pink silk and chiffon folding itself endlessly into unimaginable blue, neon flesh.

no v ember

the sight of leaves on street. the fold of my hand around one, veins transluscent through and towards a streetlamp, or the bright of the sun, or the shine of the moon. The wet sky making through the dark of the early night, visible only too by these orange and yellow lights. the size of one leaf, bigger than a face. the sight of a leaf appeared dipped bloody, or into the juice of a beet, or any other naturally staining intoxicant discharged by a wet autumn root.

vocal organs

prettylittle, 19

In the middle I spied him. How do I. Remember it an early morning escape, ascended from all between this and them in the dark. Driving that night, in from the drunk-stench. But now as always, aphonia. Your long journey home with poolstick as prop. I suppose this loss of voice, I think it was explanation. The only song is organic, and we were. I feel like I recognized him. He looked on my nerves, my functional disturbance. Driving down, that’s worse than staying nervously around, wondering symbolic. The vocal organs, late at night.

About this, persuade me from the feigned passionate speechlessness.

urge tinged else

prettylittle, 18

Now you see that I’m tired. Foregoing and urge tinged, altogether uneven. True feeling anterior, sitting on the old voice. Altogether disheveled. Blue without my primogenitor. Mauve, bad or good, it all coming across time, lineage, family tree. Sectional sofa, sounds the same. How I’d like to move to taller roots. Looking at the loneliness. The good way, anthropophagous, is muted and I probably will after I tried once, I say. Remembering with solemn description of the upstairs, talking to the night with him more (alas, I thought, a final time), annoyed at the human flesh (his). Soonafter I return to erasing his opening (such of the soft human beings), and cannot be heard over the hushed chicago. And from memory, he beats of recognizable song. The direct opposite of conversation and rhythmic tap, tap, tapping. Maybe I will leave with me.

sipping sense metal

prettylittle, 15

 Sipping metal, I shake to death. Someone else oftentimes wonder typically, and  was I wrong. People do much, that holds through this comforting. At first things cost, burning in a fireplace. Failure, then inevitable when drunk, maybe and yes you were. You’ll get out of that. Seems I should straddle the hearth slab… obsessed with bed and a good idea. Smoke a cigarette being full of fashion, move somewhere else to the time. And concern yourself with windings and intricate turnings. Failure in the truest sleep, even be regrettable. Looking occupied, tortuousness in a theoretical sense.

enter enough, tip of true

prettylittle, 13 - 14

Enter tip of tongue, temperature as the gazing fact: I’m sitting alone, at or on or near the sun. And the hands on him now would be large.

Ameliorate the sun. Hips to go against, I keep thinking to make something care. Waist, neck, and everything I’m attempting. Someone will see better. I’m sweating myself, a finger behind the ear. At just this moment, find me. Amity explosive. Stroking a stubbled chin, it would be interesting friendship. Grease congeals me cleft, to lower myself to myself and begin anathematic. To this and then that, the most useless of positions, strange & heated, relating. Spills, drips down, goes away and he shouldn’t have given me his conversation. Something me, onto me. Remember me with me. Vehemently hurry before I bed true enough.

sweater of introspection

prettylittle, 6

My sweater of introspection. I laid out in bed, good to be the truth in a famous and well loved agglutination. Consumed in aware, radically monotonous: clamped back as if glued together. To worry over independence, I shouldn’t have come a clump; coming here I can. I come in vermilion. Into this clumping if for no other reason. And make it on a monday afternoon, riding boots of bacteria; the city, he misses me. This year I will off when sick  with him. Blood corpuscles, protozoa, he must be in love with nothing serious & could be watching my type of word formation process. The idea of an impossible possibility, all serious. Such things getting darker, words are inflected, but those memories and reflections are making everything. Thinking to self, by the second. The addition of one or more presumption makes it all so romantic. Happen by self. So good to get. I appear to be the only one meaningful & delicious.

in lime like life

prettylittle, 1 - 5

In eyebrows adjure, but simply. I love the falling in this apartment where nothing is my urge. Probably going to love, but not sacred, at the moment. Solemnly come and visit the staying there. Where carcasses rot away in their Being, or earnestly, or with exuberance. I want it always congealed, no doubt, whilst I sit uncomfortably. To do something grand, to be new & fresh & hot, grease on the countertops, waiting for things to die.

Admonition, idea, like always it is for days on end. Sounding rock, gentle city misses you. In the beginning cartons of yogurt, dark, shiny wood. Friendly reproof. Just a little, that means days of spoons stuck in tables, gold and green. Warning against a week though it seems.

Multiple orgasms, gelatinous masses. Ceiling decorated ornately with fault and oversight, I guess  it means giddiness & euphoria. Crumbs and shoes, gold detail, praise what he feels inside. Ecstasy & lentils spread about, reminiscent of someone. Some kind of love stirring. Jubilation, coated pans. Royal, excessive, shaking and stirring. Possible feats scratched, hid. Brick walls with fireplace.

Obsequious I understand, but also understand I the stolen and filled. It’s working, the remorse, because relationships have nothing. A place where I reek of conscience situation, and feeling is to do with past or future.

Toilet runs consistently. Lavender repeated contiguous. They fail looks. Having recently doused, bite & wound, too many circles. Lime like life.

root vegetables

& I, sometimes, we're turning colorless. It is because we're steeped. And I, like that rough outer skin, can be bit through solidly. I fulfil myself, irons & spices. I am a self fulfilling prophesy.

on riding over the dry leaves in the road

finally, the red leaves a litter. They like largest driest petals dropped from crusted rose. I see here, the roses still on their tall stalks, if brushed would crush to fall. If a rose could talk it would bloom; in the times I've felt the nearest push of prick into me, my cushioned thumb in hazard, in lightning, I never hasten wonder when wilst the final bud drop to crumble. Anchored now in thorough autumn, still open and gushing sappy pink light of softest flesh petal skywards. The open rose, the frozen palm.

harvest moon

To be literal, you were missed... but the moments with you last night spelled all if otherwise. Your wise face almost screaming down to us in light, illuminating all the yard and the bench and our cold breaths. The harvest is so icy this year.

there to wrinkle around his eyes

prettylittle, 71 to 75

There to die thinking fast I’ll be, with you always. Fast I’ll be with you always. And just cold enough to live for looks. In letters, to live. To trek a journey I am. With talking and feeling I have been here four nights. The origin he is. The universe. But I feel of some figs I should figure.

More obvious a walk, I should only.

The egg out then, the solar system a cheese of some kind. A favor and we’ll be turmeric coterie. What do you see?

Waiting on our way away, and red with such potential future. Wishing badly on the bedsheets. Interests & tastes, on this island last. Burn sage familiar in my ears, especially obvious. Smoke talking terms, thinking exclusive of others. Tell me what you’re seeing.

And listen like we could, undulating on the crepuscular little wrinkles around his eyes.

tonight it's near to see

prettylittle, 67 - 70

Tonight it’s near, and how dissension nods his head. We both arrived; I found altercation for a minute. We were, that very night, attractive, contrapuntal. And how the emerald outside would still pertain. Picture me on a skylark, attempting, though repulsed by counterpoint. There. Can you, begrudgingly? Smoke the idea in music, composed. I’m wearing the yellow dress to dinner with light kissing melodies sounded; I remember this morning. Rust. But my love, it's an island to leave, I suppose.

A blast from forever. Whistles, rocks, and then the noticing cold remain true. Melody cliffs neglect the beautiful cold to him, the beautiful cold to my own fugue. I’m barefoot to take a snowstorm at last, it will be to violate. To climb up how he didn’t, too lonely and difficult to oppose anything at all. To contradict me I wish he would, a drop of airsnow, nothing like the ice I have. I think small and he holds my face of watersnow. This group of trees I’m climbing, those which the earth tends to unforgivingly deliver, will definitely make inner. I don’t slip and fall, dying beautiful white stronger, and I envelop brief silence things. Sparkling extreme of floral leaves. Anything happened, a snow everywhere; accusatory of a flower I wasn’t. Your mind at which I look, I’d simply love to live in.

A delicate texture I make, looking. I look around lovingly forever. Of a color other, that little peak. Be confused fearfully, too. Green, typically, that little tree on top. Your mind from across a slim whorl, I see. A piercing platform. We stumbled within, I see.

Be confused for a need to look upon sepals; that tree above right, straight at the garden, and enclosing. There’s a bird. Red chipped opaque sky, here it's rained all day. Reproductive. An eagle exactly in baby blue, the perfect midwestern call. Organs, bald like mine, a black winter. I find I know minute bodies, who every once in awhile be actively doomed. Cells in the water. And with a real winter. Too bright to failure, especially. Red blood is something to see.

equinox

And autumn, and tuesday, and only to have the celebration, on days later, something befitting to us. And us never includes me. but the sunshines in me immanently, and what if it isn't anymore? look I know I see, look, it isn't anymore. you isn't anymore and I don't dare to be.

dream this morning

I was with my mother, walking late at night through the park towards my Portland house. Through camel's back, it seemed, and up through the hill houses. I've had this dream before. I don't remember it during my awakened state, but while I'm in the dream I just know I've been there, dreamt it, or acted in the film version. I had seen it all before and knew what was next to happen, but always with the allowance of changing things slightly as I wished.

It was snowy everywhere. So snowy the banks were high with it. I pointed to the flat sign, the signs marking important landmarks in state parks, and I told her how I'd moved here when the sign was piled feet high with snow. Even higher than now. We decided to cut through a neighbor's yard. -do you think it will be alright? -I don't know... And then we saw them, the car pulling up to the drive, the dogs bounding, and knew it wasn't. -climb over! my mom called out, regarding the gate we couldn't get to open. She was more limber, was over easily. I put my foot in the oversized slot of the chainlink fence, and she attempted to pull me. I recall my embarrassment at such clumsiness. But then, we figured to open the little bit of fabric holding shut the door by wrapping it back around whatever it was attatched to ... And through the gate, dogs bounding at my heels. Around the side of the house where there was landed haphazardly, maybe crashed, a small plane. We went in through the tail and wove around the inside. We had to crawl, it was such a small tunnel. Little windows opened outside. It was light now, and I remembered as I pushed my way through, shouldering the narrow passageway and growing hot with claustrophobia, that the end would die and we'd have to get turned around. Sure enough a box took up the rest of the way towards the front of the plane, and my head would never fit. - we have to turn around, I forgot, I told my mom. But then, there we were, in the nose of the plane! There was no way out from there so we were back through the tunnel. Then the small television screen showing the family of the house, the woman and man and their two sons. She was exclaiming about us, how they couldn't let us get away because we'd find the money and they'd get caught, etcetera. And opening the windows, trying to find one large enough to fit through. And a distance not so far to fall. Through the little window... In the yard we had to creep around... went into the shed where I saw the shadow of the man walking by with something on his shoulders... and heard her voice saying,  the woman's, well, we'll get them when they try to open one of the doors to escape, the alarm will sound. And then his voice from around the corner saying, waitaminute, who left this door open... We had to make a run for it. Found a red door, one  of many lining the shed walls and tried,  it opened quickly and soundlessly, no alarm. Around the shed and there he was, the man, casually smiling, and my mom, frozen, sitting now on a stump and staring straight ahead. I held a stick and yelled at my mother to take one from the ground, and I tried to beat him with it but my blows fell to air, and he laughed and grabbed me. He had ahold of me, I urged her when his eyes were turned to run. She had very short hair now, was not herself at all anymore. She sat frozen. We  were near a large tree, with a hollow large enough for a few to fit inside. I pushed him in; I would embrace him and perhaps have sex with him so he would be distracted from my mother's escape and her subsequent finding of police to save us. My plan started to work, he took to me. His mouth opened disgustingly, his tongue was a dark green swampish color, and his teeth were small and square, brown at the edges. I couldn't taste anything from him. Then I heard & saw them, the woman with the children and their two adult friends, throwing and catching a ball and headed right where we were. My mother still frozen outside the tree and I, pushing him further into the hollow, to keep hidden from the woman. The small boy looked at my mother, and the woman yelled out, what are you doing here! and the boy said, I like her, she babysat for me before, she's nice... but she had ahold of my mother. The woman called her husband's name over and over, drawing nearer to us. He held quiet, and she turned to her sons and told them that their father had died. A moment later she was in the hollow with us, she and the small boy, and all were celebrating the father's still being alive & with them. But you! she screamed evily at me. I had to run! My mother urged me, crying, to run, and I did towards the back of the yard, up a mound of dirt... I couldn't get away, but I knew where I would go, as I'd lived all this before. Into the house and up the stairs, the woman on my heels reaching and screaming. My mother following quickly behind. And into the room, the bedroom and bathroom that would be my prison... I locked and bolted the door and noticed the room was much more messy than before; in my memory this room, my new home, was void of excess debris... just a small bed with red blanket, a red toilet & sink, and the tiny television with the program I would have to watch over and over forever... these were all accounted for, but the floor was littered with objects and clothing, things from my real past, my real bedrooms in all the days gone. The door had a window on it and I could see on the other side the woman frantically trying to open it, my mother and her crying horror-ridden face on the other side... I closed the blinds on them and proceeded, but the state of the room held me fast in such confusion. In the original version of this situation I would have poured water on the television from which blared the program about molestation. The latin name for molestation is something that I cannot now recall, but the woman and her husband were my accusers, they thought me to be a molester. A molester of what was unclear, I assumed children but couldn't be sure. I was innocent of any allegations. They made their righteous christian film about how dangerous people like me were, and how we could be saved by joining them. I was meant to watch this film continuously until my molesting existence vanished. And in the original version of this story, I doused the television in water from the sink which caused the plug to spark and a fire to take the room and everything and everyone else, in a conflagration ending this experience in a way I felt was fair. But now, with all these objects, I couldn't focus; and there she was, in the room with me now, so I threw the water on her and she screamed & cried out, and I beat her with an old christmas cookie tin, and she fell and I poured her with water and threw the objects laying about at her head until she was covered in them and dead.

when the seasons are falling in love

the pink reasons falling in love

My head explodes and mine mouth burns. Here, in the kitchen at checkerclothed table I sit trying, typical typing. The dog collapses beneath, only a crimped & done-up tail to see. The remote sounds of jazz, the behind-me tweet of a housefinch no doubt swaying on the windblown line just outside my attic window. They fight, the finches, and the red breasted nuthatch swoops in with its little tubular stone of a body, beak apoint like a needle, to chip away at the black oil sunflower seeds. I hear the wind in the trees & the sun is hot on my bare neck, just visible over the horizon of window. The pink rose from another day still perfect in brown medicine bottle- still insane in its perfume, enough do disbelieve a smell like could be a natural one! and if it wasn't we'd shake our heads in revulsion at such a saccharin scent.

The dog woofs low and emits habitual growls. They're like hiccups, they can't be helped. The yerba maté chai + peppermint still warm and thoroughly enthurmosed. My ankles and cheeks & everything inbetween, enthurmosed.

yearn at the corn moon

In the tempts of maize, I attempt to weave around. Maze around in brightest-lit coldergrowing night. Chicha de jora, milk substance, strawlike color. In the americas of the opposite, tantalizing hemisphere it is drunk from a maize fermented by mine and your own ptylin enzymes in our open mouths, our readiest salivas. How it is true, then! The wild yeasts yes, but how forgettable is that of you, of us! Our own bubbling, budding abilities. We have within us, the powers of the distillation. Mine in yours, and mine in mine. My saliva in the fruits of earth, my burbling beings in the taste of a large white moon.

remember then that subtle sentiment

song of yesteryear: 2008, 8 september (and yet ever pertinent, when will not it be)

Remember then that subtle shudder feeling. I felt it and after still. The night to the country, raining my height take things from my hands. subtle destroyer of things, in the light he ruined so sweet like constant compote to be spread but unnecessary. do but float? beautiful natural surroundings healthy, and to eat and plant of the earth, and to walk of it and breathe it and sleep and love on it. mentally acute. excuse the length of recovery natural, but desperate, too; so romantic of the same, to eat the same sleep the same sleeps, shower & dress & everythought shared, and adventures never alone. books you like, or literature, or poems, scientific & spiritually intelligent. indoors, and I will refuse to stay indoors. never to speak of love or death indoors. invigorating in the ways of the physical: off on a bicycle, to traipse through forest & desert & wild soft voice in my ear! Chile & Argentina. in the southern hemisphere, I feel a pull. relax on semiotics, make it truer. of the future, As autumn approaches everyone’s making turns around. adventure together With backpacks on, headed out. Outside, in tents, in mountains, lakes, streams, rivers. In snow, in fields, beneath the sun. all the laughing And the sentiment.

Hot to it. / Fall summer. a melancholy feeling

songs of yesteryear:


2007, 1 september

Hot black rooftop on A view. for miles the skyline, clear in a thin blue veil. perfect from afar. Lovely cloud puffs and delightful blue sky. This heat’s too perfect and lonely, it burns my legs just laying next to it.




2006, 1 september

Fall a feeling morning I dreamt being somewhere standing closely but not touching, or maybe touching but not kissing awoke so clear and real melancholy a summer.

Perfect celebratory makes perfect shudder

song of yesteryear:

2008, 3 september

Perfect makes perfect,
timeless, countless, many of everythings
perfect to allow a count existent. Everything and more
a journal a diary, so shameless am I,
still I refuse to tell
and I won’t utter
it in so many
greedy grabbing words. I aspire to be
sludgeless to calm and to
whine not, to embrace, propose and accept, so
fully, so
fully, such an envelopment, mouthsfull, bodies
full,
over & over. just sharing an omelet,
endearing,
absurd. and definitely enmeshed.
Hope, no, hope is for clouds, The
sweet of his spray.
slowly pounding
nauseous but
strong, eyes
full of happiness & not heavy but
light &
full of
soft &
light,
bright and in the sky like a cloud then.
hope real and not to be wished.
suddenly a fact
then. and the future! from afar,
so delicious the thoughts in our brains,
excessiveness deems bring me back,
earthbound, to wander handholding towards
silhouetted saguaros. No one but the stars; I’ll let
only the ocean caress me and by the time the ocean is too
cold my heart,
drowsily.
Latenight eyes all
full of
light kissing like the
slowmotion, I shudder
celebratory.

an hour and years

songs of yesteryear :

2008, 27 august

An hour, a little under two, in a life what to remain. awake, Tucson time. underwearclad, we’ll never sleep, we’ll touch the sky, a perfect down blanket. freezing cold here. It is warm there. My heart will burst into flames and I can make a home from it, camping. Cuddle up to a fire. not smiling still smiling. Everyone looked at me impressed, all of them pleased at my pleasedness. like a gift just suddenly deserved. mustn’t be loquacious. Be laconic. Ooh, reticent, taciturn. to hear him talk for ever for once, his sweet pretty voice and the truths about him. I could hardly know. I awoke and hearts falling out and dying. fret about its immanent end, fret about its immanent end, I have the pleasure. excited beyond compare, thrilled oblivionward, obsessed capricious. I could have become so frustrated to destroy everything, letting it go, it all. I will give of myself openly. So much of everythings. In so soon, beautiful agate eyes, profile, face against smooth neck, eternal smile, arms around, one of the only two blissful people for miles and years.

bequieteth

be not afraid of feeling good,
be not afraid of getting told,
be not afraid of tiring old
be not afraid of trying alone

Mine own hairs stand on end, my own endless days lengthen. My letters excess them selves and superlative the ends of wordss, I am lying, just a body with only life at the wrists and on. So the fingers, bare hands. Fingernails doing the efforts for the restof me.

little consumptions

In late nights I inquire, in daytime I look about sideways at the overcast. In the night I look at the map of a day following, and I listen to the slide guitar drops of permanent rain. A spark of his eyes, the words, the touches, the rekindling she says. Remembering and the sun! o that broad sparkle. Everything like the trains, sometimes they awaken me. It was like a date, but we weren't/ didn't know to think to.

my waste is quieted

From the early morning I toss around, considering arise and a flow of me into day. The black & white animals surround, and I, limbs askew on tiny bed free, awake. I don't have obligation to the telephone, or to the doorbell. I have my own rose portals, portrayed through a door and the dog, I prey, won't sound a cry at the basic intrusions. They live all about, quiet as gnats, save when the fruit grows foul & the flies move, multiply. My sun shivers, my sound shivers in an isolated building's edge kind of way, like the glimpse of a glimmering skyscraper scrape against the blue back of a day. The backgound, and in it revs a distasteful engine. And mine own engine in it's revolutions per second, imploding high to headache heights. Piercing the sky. Mine own revolutions carrying me so. Bite me, we do.

back of the night, autumn most touchable

I likened the stars to views in kitchens and living rooms, the blue glows, the faces facing & talking, the movements before ovens and in cabinets, fiddling silently with a lightbulb, a lit lamp. The dark of grass, of a road, the impressiveness of a damp dwelling and an unlit garden. And over it the softness of an impending summer'send. Lovely how they change & grow. O, september.

ant, the velvet words

It was just the words come in me, those to make seen the real simple of a night. The common scent of flowers on the night breeze of a week-end, the ones smelling like butter or honey. Different bee breeds hover from these flowers & in again at daytime. The crickets, common sound of august, or maybe in oregon frogsounds are commonest. I'd like a test to differentiate. a frog whisper in one ear and the rustle of cricket wing violined against cricket wing; stridulating forgets the hot of a night. Spiders in stridulation, the velvet ant...

treading warm breath morning

just like a kiss the morning starts, without me. her furred feet warm against me, the darkness more night than day, is. the voice like dreamtime maker trading against my headwalls a subtle beat & throb melody. I'm falling past the night now. I don't pull on them, the hairs, and I can see nomore the big gold spider recently webbuilding above the sewing machine. funny should they choose the places used oftenest, or at least of late. just to dare us to keep working. much better than dust gathered. and let it, then, let them all build their intricate perfect villages throughout the subaru. the dog moans, is having a dream. the paw pressed on my leg still warmly twitches. she breathes, should I wake her? Is Dreaming Away, Ida. Let her dream, let the spiders watch & wait for still opportunity.

little rift in shortest summer

Can't I not help it, but the weather somehow took a dip in me. Like the last one left, I'm here in the hollow sounds & shapes. But with all sounds of the dogs who live here, too, and they don't want to be alone. They chase ghosts and feel sad about things, but I don't know it. And I don't think it's true. They hear rain in their bones hours before the first drops. I feel it in the texture of the air, and in the speed of my brain at work. I like all the colors of it, and how it makes a sort of round terrarium out of my house. with just two dogs & me in here. All the lush of the plants outside & drinking, and the cat too out there all wet maybe hiding greeneyed glaring from beneath the neighbor's parked car. In the real wet all there. I can't tell, but the rain just glanced off my skin, even as I moved in slowmotion. All the cars silenced by it. Every rush at pause.

on bees

They have little baskets behind their leg joints which hold pollen. They flit from the flowers and back to the hive where workers help them unload. If we were to live only on royal jelly, our lifespan would increase fifteenfold. Royal jelly is the food of the ultimos, the utmost. If we could only find out in the hearts where to live & how.

http://www.fao.org/docrep/w0076e/w0076e16.htm

but we are not queens, not a one of us.

on spiders, and the music of

One hundred years later. The spiders work quickly, the sound unparalleled. The ship ship slides of clawed paws on old wood floors, meanwhile. The song sound, the worthy companion & her shuffle. The spider's silent webbuilding. Across the drawing, through the air connecting candles. Down in extension of my hair. In my ear marrying music to brain. My own fur & spines distracting, my little copper spikes trailing, & I see them each as little faults mine only. I look for you all the time, o recognisers!

on ants

what was that song, unpretty, oh just as I there runs an ant up me, and the ants at the teahouse run & run interminably whilst the vibraphones tangle on, and their heads are bowed, the folks, unbeknownst to whom the ants run wild, as they trod in white refinement, sucking it up into their undoubtably porous little bodies. Their bodies actual, I find them now. the greedy metasomas sponging the sugar, making them everfast & radiant.

love to be present from birth, can we please

pretty little, 57 to 63


I’d love to be asleep with tired annoyance; circumlocution at one another in the same, matters the same. Finally, many a turquoise lake there seems. I nearly fell; he left the bed and I heard words where fewer would do. There are evergreens. He’ll never sleep with me; so I'm asleep after the shower.

In a deliberate attempt all around, we stood in the smoke, dressed for vagueness. The sky is a blue kitchen up north, and a blue evasive sun is roasting in the negative weather. Verbosity is tucked brightly off the deck. Beautifully I reeked in small shades; and over, played to never stop seeping from my orifices. Triangular squinting in the brightness.

When will I become a beautiful girl, and flesh & bone at the base, steadily adult? He tends, apologizes, saying through a thin cigarette in backyards that he might just love to meet someone spinal. To talk quietly in the back, to listen more and seeing more. I was happy to hear them.

Water like this sways exactly beautiful, as I had small water like a photo. Women all the time desire a chest for holding gestures, for kisses. They've been a lot more compendious, like this water. For years for him I felt awkwardly, formal, cold, green… and even tonight I need to be in my still, containing too. At least six hours since, presenting the essential facts, something invisible from her… an adventure was with me, I had fallen asleep. Something pretty out here, unlikely, and we watched in good spirits a comprehensive lake. Be prepared to have wanted the hour’s walk; concise did I come with you down.

Hard to make out, I felt slightly. Abridged, laconic. Even prepared to feel, or have sex, I’m unsure. Guilty, succinct. Paying attention. A vague face that I shouldn’t have, to unite in something already existent from his breath. This strange man’s disastrous concatenation, I wanted to prove disappointment. But how silently he sleeps! I had nothing of actions, opening a beer and talking. The disappointment, and how nice to have him to feel, conflagration … nods head sadly.

A view of my back in the morning, I suppose. Extensive, silent for an erection pressed badly to me; that destroys fifteen seconds. Outside, against my back. In my head a great talk about some rocky erotic man of land happened. Mountains in just the slightest.

A bottle of congenital need, too much time kissed and I slept in like a disease to know. Just bits align right, his bed and he, present from birth can we please.

new urchin

my own puppy orations. puppy font. and all the neighborhood abark. I notice, in a month or more, haven't yet written words to read. As if the 25th year hasn't mattered. Now, like an older kind of woman, just every year is another every year. As if nothing celebratory. As if nothing to matter kinder!

Oh, but her little hair and locked crimped underchin. A likeable little urchin.

events of hours hoped or wished down

pretty little, 53 to 55


The events of hours: by tomorrow I am chiaroscuro. I am whimpering, almost, with the night now and still, once again, of light and shade I'm made. I think as usual, hiding in time, an affect of silence.

Consistently a chicago coffeeshop, it’s contrasted light and moderately I attempt to hardly be here at all. Just a beautiful shadow created by furnished apartment. Choke back in the unnoticed French light falling unevenly. Preparing tears a mind never blue from two; I produce a clear cherubic direction. That adjoining abruptly, the life of me, all throwing soft light in. Seeing, difficult & dry. I’d like to wake on the table, leaving love hard and saying, knowing, thinking, goodbye at the rest of a room.

A dance around things, an epic poem, the East in chiaroscuro. To prepare then. Somehow, take me for some marked action mythology; have you found humor to recommend me? might a fire you are looking for?

Black must do to be breathing around. Velvet forms a part of female singing. I try singing it too, for me to keep most interested. The head knows all the words, I loudly need the feel. I never hoped or wished down.

modern underparted

And the sweet ones, all having names. I like the looks about, through a slotted glass a peach or salmon through the pines, the last of the fleshy sponge day. A true summer one. My own little sweet fleshy peach one with the dewy down sits in sitz, I'm with the water rush through pipe in ears, adjacently by rooms. The too many pungent flowers behind, still awaft though twilight somehow nonexists tonight. I like this luscious spring, the hot of sun fingers still presst against the uppers of arms and backs. All brown and ripe like insides of fruit themse.ves

too night

Just in through the beak strainers. The green water! awaits you. It, and all the leaves it holds. Bayleaf floats. They are, the ones fallen from the above, the half-shade maker. Liking the ducks, the subtler commandeer, and the orange beaked, unsure footed ones.

helloes, helloes springs

In like the hollow ones, in and outs. It not being right to do it, but it still, all same. I like the ideas more than the movements. The rank sniffs of here, the warm air coming in through the open window at me, making threats and promises about a there ahead. A there, a head.

My golden tea and the quiet call of birds, the twitters downstairs too. My own hands in my own dirt, but today I feel inclined, roombound. And apologize. He is, again, here, again. The call of a perch. The polite gusts, my polite fists gently clenched. In his gently clutched.

such the joys from out of its

Isn't until I've thought of it, thought it through, but how strange to have all the trees be pink! I'm liking the views of seeming fronds, seemingly leafed in pink as if not by fluffs. My fingers can barely contain the letters about it.

red-breasted nuthatch

Hath nut notch a breast hat. My little birds flit fast, like little bombs they dive seemly straight towards me. But not the window, and somehow stopping perfect at the little wooden house filled with black oil sunflower seeds. And their straight little nutcracking beaks hold the shells of one or two. The female is so full with eggs by now she barely can find food to feed. Her man goes around for two and brings back for her, the darling. I like a little high peeping he makes to wake me. Even before I have glasses on early I watch him around.

fullness

The total amors, one hundred! The pretty little hundred amors. I like the thursday, the fridays, the claps of hands rhythmically and can't tell is it raining still or no. Not and not ever, always moving. But the heats and the tiny dots and patterns in. The reds, the browns, the blues. and my own cloths surrounding, the purples and browns of me all texured.

Hundreds of little amors, I kiss at you days go by.

who did she do she

I'm night and day; I think in sounds and sniffs of the serenest cedar, of sweetgrass curls fondling the upsidedown memory breeze. This is morning afternoon now, like night awhile back and me, we just needed to unwind. Unwind around each other then, in the afterwork of uncertain surprise... suspicious sure pies.

I have the legs of a maple-sugared mile, I have the smile of a dove gone black in a newmoon fly-away. But that doesn't stop me from sitting all still all smothered to relax here and just feel like, coat or no coat, the change-purse accounting, my finders dried a counting. I want to court you, but will you let me softly rub you down?

I like this tune, it sings some back room memory like from the wood word of remembers. i like this beer, it tastes expensive. i like this, all of these letters, and I like it specially your recalling the rivers and the decades gone away, like I'm never a part of. Never apart from. and how many?

Slender is the night; stands sideways, blows away. I can see right through it. The music trusts me enough to let me injest it, breathe it. The smells of all the cedars sweetgrasses & sages I crave, and do have! captured in my won rural city! my own rural metropolis. The irony I call like buying the perfect scent. can you believe I fall for it

which is why I can suggest my own paying out of pocket, and pocket-less, it's relating. All the nights and days.

longer sounded, long for him.

Longer sounded, upheaval give us this. My flesh for him, I need badly disaster. And forgive a rib as well. My head, I met calamity; forgive a breast with me.

Long sounded, upheave give us this. Forgive a rib, my head, I met calamity; forgive a breast with me. I call fast disaster. My flesh for him.

a large hallow, barely, bare

A large hallow, kissing might slightly scale thy name.
Gently just love guilty and violent come unpredictably.
And seeing beautiful strange in the natural world, earth hovering, over-time.
Feel guilty sudden violent heaven touched barely.

A large hollow kiss might slight scale thy name.
Gentle just love guilt and violent come unpredictable.
And see beautiful strange in the natural world, earth hover, over-time.
Feel guilt sudden violent heaven touched bare.

A large hallowed kissing might slightly scale thy names.
Gently just love guilty, and violent come unpredicting.
And seeing beautiful strange in the natural world, earth hovering, over-time.
Feel guilty sudden violent heavens touched bare.

Large hallowed kiss might slight scale thy names.
Gently just love guilty and violent come unpredicting.
And seeing beautiful strange in the natural world, earth hovering over-time.
And feel guilt sudden violent, heavens touched bare.

champagne tragedy temptation of sighs

pretty little, 49 to 52

A large hallowed kissing might slightly scale thy name. Gently just love guilty and violent come unpredictably. And seeing beautiful, strange in the natural world, earth hovering over time. Feel guilty sudden violent heaven touched barely.

Longer sounded, upheaval give us this. My flesh for him, I need badly disaster. And forgive a rib as well. My head, I met calamity; forgive a breast with me.

Champagne tragedy temptation of sighs we watched, slept in devastation and the power, his hand on the crow. To kiss him, the wonderful upheaval and the glory. I thought he wanted desire, convulsion, apocalypse for ever and ever. Bored, he said he was unsure to kiss excessive. A raspy tired, my face away a bit, teary eyed discharge, unintelligible voice. I was talking from his breath, thinking about the nose or throat whimpering. Into it, (I wanted it) but how silently I found cerise, almost, tonight… He sleeps attractive, moderate to deep, I remember if I try. How nice to have him still, red at an adventure. Touch my back repulsed early now.

An unlikely morning, an idea used typically I think. Feel pressed against, kissing for pleasure I remember, vague and erotic. But my love trips, chicanery was already existent just the slightest. Feel trickery, I was very young; disappointment kissed me so strongly that I will forever achieve beneath. Disappointment is a good kisser. And I remain true to purpose; deception begins. Receive sex sad and lonely and artful to eat.

true I had fallen asleep

pretty little, 45 to 48

True I had the corner of the mouth, a resemblance adamant, expensive. I feel between about my making nonmetrical. I think your flattered excitement looks like morning, like the hymns I love most. And nausea beats, it could be for her. Sleep chants used, something about you in my little chest. Remind me uncomfortably, a song I say. Just kiss the corner of one another to oblige.

The poem, around my mouth it disturbs. I open my eyes in hymn, large and delicate. So constantly around sleep. To praise ornate, with a white lace displaying of one another. My only thought is of you and porcelain. Spontaneity makes mentionings, appears a strange man in my canticle. His size varies from tiny confident, only just remembered that I was, too. I can't help but to cantillate, to chant large constantly for us. He tried to intone the crystal truth that I’ve mentioned to him so. His arm around me, we capered; champagne could never be much. I declined with a tired dance, the flute crowding him. A year he left in a lively, delicate display. Undoubtedly I heard playful plays softly, a dry sense for which I never think. The shower is formal, old-fashioned, which I like but don’t look for.

When he came back, he was a person placed. Neatly was he in the high-pitched laughter on  a street. I’m sure dressed, tending to lapse. Last night seeing him again, blue objections still bouncing in bed. An effect tucked in. I reeked of carapace; my skeleton, rotting rotting away. I’m getting boring, of course. Insouciance seeping from my protective lounge, from my colorless ages and orifices. And flesh, decorative or disgusting, emerald eyes that always matter.

Meet someone in a half shell, buxom, buxom… cute but asleep. After an hour I was light, automatic and ruby, nearly colorless. Up north to hear this, my decorated hair pearlescent. in the negative weather so beautiful, desire supporting the skin. Minutes I knew to never stop time. Coffin of amethysts it wasn’t to see. Awkwardly distinguished she sang, and as usual I, beautiful in my still funeral, will slowly think had fallen asleep.

humor in the warm, of a church

prettylittle, 41 to 44

Humor in the warm, continuously rejected. Cachexia after we met. Black frigid, I told him that I am. Medicine, I took you, I try to sleep in love weakness where I wouldn’t let you. Singing it in that I don’t want wasting. For loudly I am to kiss of the body, your cry for that. Due to tradition, I have to remain composed but am I? Severe typically before I enter, interested I feel and illness I remember. I turn as though I’m not going to be, ever been. Cachinnating, I knew the spinning unlikely.

Love before laughing always lights. Longer exist just once loudly to open the door, long hair and remember simply. You kiss me immoderately. For me, smoke tantalizing as he. After a single anywhere I’d love undeniable unknowns. Champagne, I got masted sailing awkward. To be in the gorgeousness abounding, another vessel used still same. Constantly a perfect grammar dropped.

The Mediterranean Sea manages to sleep with me. Indiscretion off at calumny. Let’s go, roasted lovable. I told him malicious, I’m starving off little. He insisted misrepresentation. Finally I become cat, that he would bell.

Stomps up the stairs, sway exactly slept. Sleep on especially, excessively. Stops within the arms of the couch and freestanding. Up from the couch to take a photo of us, his slender body. I can’t help but to see that I should sleep from the body, and kisses such in his bed of a church.

domain

easy magma bedroom. how does this appeal to you? do we fit right in, and how long until I receive a paycheck? questions

meritorious

On a dreary subcontinent, watching postcards of later flipped through hands. I have the type of nails that one could look at once. Just my thumb, mostly, with its perfect arc of it. And the chopped bits dis-skincolored. I take a like to the crisp clip sound skin against calcium. Really lovely.

purple find me

pretty little, 33 to 40

An array of purple comments to which I replied, domineering: "I only had an instant."  I couldn’t know avarice. Between the tap tap tap of fingers I’m on him. "I adore you," I say. He sat for wealth of my finger rubbing against his. You, he, she & I, the four of us there. She replied that I held the most interesting avoirdupois on his shoulder. A weight to keep him sitting. His hands rested still, beautifully (before I interrupted), yet bacchanalian. I could tell by a glance, the shaky intoxicated movements of knuckles, metacarpophalangeal joints. She held herself in the doorway and uttered. His turning around to greet unimpressed, and her walking through the door... his response was characterized by you. And my ass, I guess. He brought me to drunken revelry, so I’m gently feeling. It's wearing off now, and riotously. The backs of his upper thighs already in view, he's standing. Defense with wide-open eyes. He barely lets felt how I’ll feel.

I showed him my city, looking serious... a sigh, not a smile. Though I no longer speak, he is especially serious. For miles open-eyed. Uncomfortably speak to us, tower above, shocked. Kissing unacceptably my drawbridge. I was, and he looks beautiful now. This makes me feel particular. So I was, in the up-close dark. Communicating uncomfortable, and at a southern meeting, too. I try my idea, I stopped being pleasant. Bedlam, it would actually happen.

To kiss all over, to have our presence, to have uproar. I went to his face, sex and confusion. A big hotel with themed rooms. It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing because really she just wanted nervously. Recall, surround rooms for doing, happening here. I try, and I thought he might have said bemused things; for instance there was something: he’s perfect to scare. Puzzled, a room called out to him. Now I’m angry, the boy confused. Another pulled his penis satisfied and he then went on, bewildered. One for free, probably to accuse me absent. Abstracted orgies, and a room, it’s ash-grey. I think he was claiming distrait, faraway and relaxing. Cotton restraint right. Being evil and preoccupied, that one had quotations around it and pushes my wish.

Macabre when I was bibulous marked. Everyone knew that all aside. As usual he’d remain only reacting. Given to the consumption of the rooms. Someone attempts to enter me completely; unsatisfied, his hand squeezing of alcoholic drink, readily absorbing for intercourse. I climbed an abrupt. Suppose my special thigh.

Fluids up the manner, I allow it for moments so. I wish I would, I told him so, and that I was assuming moisture: absorptive, round as if to say, at least he squoze my thigh. Assimilative staircase as he does, and I say sickens. It meant biddable couples walked up and down, and he, I hope he hasn’t tainted, that he’d like to. Obedient, past me, all women says he has perfection. I was amenable to the top, then he says the sky once more. Have sex with me, a statement compliant. Docile, behind a wall to wait tired as seems the habit of late. He didn’t deny or agree. He apologized, submissive. I was and he says he doesn’t care. White and perfect claiming. Supple, you remember, suppose air below.

Only meant it, the division I used to know. Of course ideal music in my presence. Something into two. So I went shocked and willing. Hot dry air fingers the truth. Branches, or parts relaxing. Spontaneously into his, nearly bloodied. Uninterested in consequence, radiation, two women had me. They and the official, and I’d like only to offshoot. In one room from either side I’m afraid I must speak with nonsense. Any I’ve seen, laying in between, looking never and to not talk.

This mattress on the floor, a window, another I accepted. A person and I sat at the sky, little, last. His apology, and a man who behaves around. A lot lighter and lighter as night I was handed. We left then, taking dishonorable for the seconds pass.

A pomegranate, a lovely blithe showing into events of the night. An apple couldn’t readily have made me casual. And then I as usual found and asked. How old he was, cheerful, naked. Consistently in role I replied, indifference considered and covering myself. The shower, now I’m devouring badly, callous. I told him as I dress life depends on lying convivial. He couldn’t, and while last night I was, he drunkenly began mirthful relaxing, and I attempt adorable.

When I went, vigor always tears fairly & perfect. I wanted to stay for my vivacity, actually pulling successful. In the night forever he aged me of style. Back and forth between us while I produce, nasty tongued. Smelled of sweet bromide still abruptly. Days ago turned sour, trite and cold. Down to the evening spilled unoriginal, broken hard and saying moving. Dancing typically, sighs, and I’m not nearly falling intended. Loudly I’m smoke and anxious about arriving. Ask me to soothe visibly, try to find me.

have an adverb, thoughtless

pretty little, 22 to 26


I wouldn’t have an adverb, specialized or mysterious like a miniature graveyard. I think I should try a second look to any adjective; there is no knowledge interrupting. New York, if passing unwittingly on the street, I am a guest. Language pulled over back east. Many pretty people shame information without saying a word.

I worked easily again. The average person walked across the street for a few months, fluently. And sometimes I’m sitting once again, resembling architecture. We walked in and simultaneously. I don’t know this little technique of holding our breaths. His intelligent nervous additions were messy; the scientific systematization of we, holding our breaths. Attractive imitations of leaving, contemplating whether knowledge were friends. Awkward or not, money that is owed scared him in the mood. Gun supported, we were scared and it was midnight. We both tend for tea. Ascetic, we held listening to share. I shall have to find another, characterized by hands and self.

Stemming from nowhere then, or perhaps suggesting. Walked up to one midnight, possibly his love. I’ll have to practice tiny in Tucson, squeezing triangulations for a bit while I boil of severe self-discipline. And a lime, do you think I shall. Abstention from all, they had a gin & tonic at a party, but asked in a charming way, perhaps of indulgence, was midnight deliberate? Last night I, typically the only one who knows a smoky house filled casual, comfortable, went to my reasons. We should be ready, sitting alone adorable and dark, brooding, austere, abstemious. I remember that, drinking a gin & tonic, confused because not sure if it was. Writing in her notebook, “…he’s ascetic. He once studied for the priesthood.” Did midnight, as honest as it was good, a sapling which is uprooted, have an abortion? Boise, charming as I remembered, is the right size accidentally.

Wearing white, deliberate, by the window. Walking over, the vintage casual girls in the Indian subcontinent where it hits midnight. Adorable brown hair that was cut monastic with a soft pfffat. I think I still loved every second, just the boys were unremarkable and religious. My mom had the most beautiful thing. Like when, watching the others asperity, an abortion is always intently around me. Rigor, severity, a roughness of his left arm. You must find renaissance still, alone. Unevenness gently over, when everything looks the same. Life, there wasn’t one, a tiny shoulder under a bland, overcast sky. Candlelight and orange could call up roughness of manner. I don’t remember bleakness. Not even head cast downward somewhere, and I most definitely wouldn’t be hugging temper, harshness. I was not positive, with fallow-sepia-fulvous colored eyes.

I wondered why he spoke again. Can you feel me. And he said then, I could, but this time with less asperity. Please stop talking, I’m in a beautiless world, and you want to talk, find me intriguing. The reputation, it’s really how it is for now. You want to talk about integrity, we can’t hear. I do look for and I was so tempted to get something, someone. Sorry symbolic gestures as my heart exclaims inside, and asphodel over here. The first dark morning, thoughtless, as it was.

trues

My feet are cold whilst I sit sipping creme de la earl grey. It's brown woven inside-shoes, and a dark redbrown drink in a tall jar. I use a cat to pour the milk, and from where I stay at table a dreary california kitchen, 1954, soaked all portlandy, and I wonder a clear mind shouldn't be far off. Nutbutters, cashmachines, and the sings of birds of an overcast morn.

twitch and turn

yell, hello through a sunset pink towards cloud. It, a foreground to a yell, a pale dust blue infinity. The yell a hello, the cloud a wisp wandering waywards, still (not at all), but temporary. (These eternities seem never temporary). With the words read before, thoughts before still (no never), just moving timewards. Like a moment of pink cloudwisp and a backdrop of sky. Spied before, bits just the same though this time all just to never be repeated. Once and once again. Once and against, this same old different infinite sky.

This time my view edged with pinetrees, like the pines are lash edges of my eyes. Like a screen around a vision. Like a little curtain underneath.

And the cat, all precious, and the weathervein, and my own veins pink blooded and my selfmade weather inside all edged coniferous. My coneforest looks out through twin eyes. Embolded and southbound western wed, sunset engaged and all matrimonious in twilight expectation.

oregon

I am a bit, a lot. I am often, and it an obvious lightsource. This is somewhere before never been, at least records of, nonexistent. In a lush green, in an overcast still lit somehow. I remember many things before, and februaries before this. Because all of this. A chirp, a subtle stare from a dog on the floor. The run of water makes the bird cry. Dressed blue in tiny feathers. Just the little bell tinkle too as it quakes cage encased.

A sweet heart next, bodies warm in proximity. A twelve green stairway, slopes and peelings from ages gone. Bygone, gone by, the scent of a strong tea in me, the feeling of many, a breath through the nostrils and in the throat the right of which is sour, sore. Pour a rightside hot down with liquid to burn & scrape making soft clean health around. Health abound. Many little rosemary fronds for my forward, I know it.

Not could never belovelost and lorn.

just now and true

And oh so real! It is foggy out but this reflects not on me. The tunings of guitars and I can form sentences to-day. To-morrow in the world to be out. Something like a cloud floats through the rooms, from the strummings of boy to boy. To see I sit and wait, and the breath comes in my lungs with occasional clarity, bouts of unnoticed breathings. Orange juegos but not in fruits but colores. Reminds of life in the pits of sic-beds. The water turned on morningtimes, whence a forward is looked to and I languish in a pretty near-end of the soft and subtlelest January yet.

Mediterranean stairs

pretty little, 27 to 29




Mediterranean, sighs the year. Just you and I considered momentarily in the reaches. Bedroom  me, and us being together, the prospect of family. It’s broken in half. In your underwear forever, I thought today, but then decided against it, knowing linear leaves him, even. How my elongate clusters of white look like his arms draped. Interesting. Dislike me pink, broken over my hip. And later...

Yellow flowers from upstairs, of my lifestyle. I drank greek poetry, and mythology calls masculinity in french, has the flowers of Hades. Dinner I wanted him to be, and new. Nothing to do, dead, still. Staring, relieved, actresses with india & sacred to Persephone. I hope you never die triangular. My lone french poetry, rest: I do, because to think further. To my good fortune, the daffodil rolled underneath me. I’d sink further.

I was approached by assuagement; with this I’d wonder even more. The kind of delicious and english intensity you remember. Think about that tantalizing possibility, thinning distress. Back to the second, impossibility cut short. Pacification with the tiny subject. To be with someone black-rimmed quiet and we had things like this, like falling in love. For now a red appeasement and we are going to take fear for a future. We with a white relief still, still, for seconds, either be friends or out to be the reversal. Remember many, many interminable seconds; we will fall in love, sensitive and mysterious. The strangest I’ll be. Nowhere with each other, emotional but relating around, unplanted. I won’t know where to look for you and I. Hiding behind something ancient from the grass.

I ask for a general rule, rules and ancestral footsteps. You try and should, oftentimes, to make amends. A door opens and a few steps are taken, not to begone for that long. Be abode by me. It seems that people have territorial borders, from the top of the stairs.

pretty again, little again

pretty little, one


I remember now… I am not asleep and I am not aching; I am aberrant in my sitting tiny at the table. A white fog sits rightly back with me and, departing from accepted standards, we both exist meanwhile, cramped in an apartment. Anxious we seem overall; but inside we're something amazing, deviant, abnormal. There are doilies everywhere, conifers in the backyard… Maybe now to listen: it's atypical, anomalous, and we're talking over the television, over the whir of the ceiling fan.

Hill-less, the fog notes, sidelong glancing out the window.

The sunset is careless, without any sense of only four hours of red. The unpleasant brown cat is perched sometimes of sleep. We're entranced by France as a tiny situation. The time left until awakening is a sterile state delicately centered on yesterday. A clean bed is an ornately crocheted doily. One of those, feeling it surely isn’t.

Maximum homemade from pale blue days. Feeling like to die until I can find a way solemnly, turning pages, to be done for. Wondering softly, electricity. Wondering how, a belief about anything else ever. Today once more I’ll wake up, claim this voice that’s arisen. Grip on my doing & why.

In the morning, annul sarcastically important points: A grand way to meet those beautiful acidulous nonexistents.


Sleeping in any year, any day,
girls or women sharp-tasting or sour;
good to sound with someone
starts nice
I should say
pleasantly
In aqua remarks.

Even with the sounds around.

Then begins congested as
though the throat turned-up,
tone bitter, cutting
telephone rings
and the bedclothes beginning
to ache, orange-freckled and
bitter at caller.

Never is it pure
and shoulders

Typically
perfect beneficial, most simple…
tall of speech opportunity, just miss
(I don’t) a wide, skeletal
poem possibility.
treasured find
a body bag smile and a
danish accent.
Word and future.
sleep and soon, I’ll not know finally.
Puzzle shaking, annoyed
rye for a reason,
from Paris with the shaved composition in which possibility embraces
that there’s someone else.
Plenty inspirational.
Certain letters in each line might stir
something from within.

I miss someone. I wish eyebrows.
Form a word still looking when I’m sleeping.
reason could explain the latter,
or words at alone sometimes… this!
Oh, is my favorite, acuity. So there you have
but who, really. I just wish it could
(with uncertain English)
(and sharpness or keenness of thought),
this one example.

I want to be there
I know your name,
a shy sweet vision
on hearing.
Who is taken with me
because I read it,
from quality.

An enlarged mass of absurd.
I will and do fall.
a highly possible in love with urgent you,
layered, often obstructing
breathing, liking
to you. frequency paid
for one atop the other.
Through passages,

Ah but a memory.
(I am unafraid of french,)
It’s possible we could move in
together, being
characteristically pinched.
falling into that
particular abyss.
Flight as my dreams can,
in the features and the looks.

I am afraid that I’ll fall, matching true.
to make this seem
worth the while, in and not,
too beautiful a boy. Drowsily
I contemplate my own
quality, using words like Again & Again.

the little windows, little tables

The little blowing horn. I answered the phone and there was a voice I missed, I wrote down in letters some type and a word traveled over. Always travel led wrong. Always a misspelling, but misgivings. And the counting down gets drastic when shoveling.

A solemn horn blown, like a canada goose flown. An upwash, a downwash, a flight formed. A skein, a hair catching wind. To pretend you know so much is all tempts, the quick showers of delight flash over like a cloud gone by the sun.

brilliants

It's the next day, a next door and the clang from it. Us and we, we're separated just by a little space set up, and an unknown cry-out from who-knows, and how was it made, and strummed, and loved, and was it a lot.

O, your little face of different colors. Your little eyes of colored glasses made from suns, planets. The strange cries of pangs, the pains, the twangs of metal strings all differentshaped, blues & notes and sounds abound.

a quiet blanket around a quiet shoulders

Some if on an evening wait, and look up and to see in the surprise of a crystal solid darkness through an ice a star alit, about only millions if not trillions of miles from the eye. But through just such a dark quiet cold, wondering here, just further west for a body to live than ever, if such descriptions surprise, even... in a winter a wind expects me when I leave a house. On januaries it blows an ice arm over to clothesline a whip at me. I slap it until my hand is froze, thick with red, and slap sommore until it's thawed. a little chunk of wind warmed.

And so surprises saved for spring.

exits

14 January 2008

radical monotonous afternoon, & could Thinking just good so good to get so good infact self and I, casually enjoying. even exists. regrettable against attempting of positions… oftentimes classical just this moment.

she had her eyes over hid

As if to forgetten! A release at least. In slomotion movements, even the eye can't catch one, all of the above and before's movement like just rustlings, and all the silences, and all the short quiets familiar.

Smells of kitchen smells, like no wonders. Some dark eyes overshouldered. Eyes with coats with tiny sweaters, bear sting told types just berries picked earlier in dreamsummer. you remember

fortunately, placed

cat
cat cat
cat cat cat

cat cat cat cat cat cat
cat cat cat
cat

salad cats, making the salads
perma salad
perma cat
permablogs
making the storysat
storysat
making the piece one

o cry out, a suns!

Los suns multiples. The arrogant whitewash and the shadow trying for harsh. But a soft trickle through a tree. Outside there, and across, though the cars go by so to see it I still a park, a lot, and many too. The greens of the lawn and all the things to take with, the scent, the steady rush hush purr of sizzle stove things like onion to like and garlic to push into oil, make a stir up a sense.

Oily branches dipped to sky, little arms little ripples little brown wove to a softer antiquated blue. of a powder blue, of a sky not to become paired to! Nothing be compare. just the two the boths and the forever seconds twined like of brown thick. The park sits still, the windows still, the cat on fence, still, and through one opened up to me. To us appear, to us, a pair. To a rightly paired pairadice. A little us stand captivated, the chop of hunger smell through to deeply make smiles forth.

paint scrapes by

is it a blow of a leaf, side, a machine a little tiller up a lawn hill. A wet spray of the old much from under, the under-muck of leaves smashed to the wet temps a fine grind is made. In an adjective I relate an unsullied day, for a day like a day like a day I can tell. Air moving still, still as in water bits smaller than can we see them held silent in the airs around us. Not a wind to blow. only tube machine make a wind that so blows sidewalks clean. realized dust for water almost, hung in the airs. Walking through them a face becomes damp. Damp enough can't not even to be touched. Dry is soft awhile whilst wet is life.