today is for the mouths conjoined

Today is the difference. Recrudescence. The beginning and the making new. Early yet, wet hair in lavender, leaving lavender sprigs behind the ear as a note. The warmth of a house, the windows shut up unlikely, unlike I, usually, tend to be, or to want.

It is enough, to want. I won't try a thing, and the omittances will remain things of doing, will remain the regular occurrences. The ways in which to do it, to make it. What I am making? a promise at myself, selfsame promise made of months. to read, to drink in the words, to eat & ingest the thoughts about them. And distractions weigh heavy, for to sit elsewhere than this bed on this morning is to say, too much is doing. I want not but to drink & eat & swallow & savor your words and notices, and to share and feed it in conjoined mouths.

because I am, where are you, too

And for you all. I know how you feel, the sums of you, like me. I require no addition. I refuse to upsell. I refuse the heart's upswell. It's swollen enough. It is full with lightening and smoke and the jam of some fruit going bad fast. The gel of my own enormity. The poems for all, the abrasive truth of them all, the disquieting arguments within a self, my drunken glory, in drunken revelry. Wanting a walk through the leaves, so many still covering the streets and street-scenes, marking october, punctuating my own private october happily. Wanting the walk through this litter all red and gold and old, crumpled, to see a recognizable face, and have you read me, yet? will you recognize me when you do? will we converse, is it possible... have you ever heard of it. The rustle, the slight birdsound at night, the wicked idaho shadows on garages and blue of earlynighttime sky. I am in love.

no beauty, all the beauty

songs of yesteryear

Thursday 25 October 2007: 8:16 pm

heartbeats (not yours but mine)

Oh! Tortured lovebliss. But it isn’t mine… I’m cautious, I swear, and eternally.

I haven’t mentioned him because I haven’t mentioned anything. He’s my neighbor, a combination of one and another but mostly more and more he’s just he. The records are familiar. The 4 track, the guitar, the hair, the nose, the everythings, parts of a demeanor. I have a few friends now at 64 & 66 Grove St. There are many others here: A man (in height and wranglers) dreamboar; another, a model, who shares my birthday and is my brother & not mysteriously… And the newest. We hung out and I smiled over and over because they’re all great. They sip whiskey and smoke. And the energy is always up, there is always dancing and the birds sing and there is always music in the air.

Last weekend they had a party. I arrived and was stuck to him the entire night, up until 4:30 or so when we retired to his lofted bed in the closet for final. Steve Reich on the tape player on repeat, and suddenly just a foot touching mine. And then the all too familiar fucking with our hands, and I find him so beautiful we finally kiss one another but somehow by accident. No making out, I refrain…

obvious tryings to get out of it

(songs of yesteryear)

wednesday 25 october 2006

Look here. It’s obvious, all the same. A journal entry is a story is a dialog is a poem. A poem is a garbage can for the brain. And yet, when I sit down here to the blank slate, I have nothing, nothing comes to mind. Gargling gerbils is all I can do. What about abstract expressionism? no, not the movement, but you sitting here, defending yourself, making excuses? Hey, what’s with the bitter attack?

I hate it but really I love to think about these things. When I ride my bike home from work sometimes I pretend I'm showing you around. "Quickly, turn here, yes, see that? That's the beautiful cement factory. Isn't it rugged? Isn't it romantic? I climbed to the top with someone I was in love with a few years ago. Watch out for the bridge; when it's wet your wheels will slip around. We should try not to go down that street. It's full of potholes and there's a trash dump there, too, and sometimes the smell is too much. That place is nice... I'll take you there for coffee later... I know it's a long way, but we're almost there..." And then the ride goes by really fast.

I recently began corresponding with a boy I met in my home town during the first winter when I returned from college. We were together only for six days, and we fell in love. We drove in my father's car up to the foothills. We parked in a scary suburb that's miles and miles up, it feels like a strange, perfect town in the middle of nowhere… a train set. An old-fashioned gas station with pumps that don’t work. A red fire station. Perfect lawns. Tiny, sporadic trees. We parked and drank beer and listened to Built to Spill and I kissed him- it was his first kiss- and then when I left a few days later, hours before I went to the airport to come back to Chicago, we had sex…  orgasms, though it was his first time… We talked on the telephone over the next couple of months… he thought he could get a scholarship to the university of chicago, because he shared the name of one of the main college founders... they said no... we stopped talking, and have only just begun communcations again… But now, since writing, I’m taking him on those bike rides with me, I’m remembering the details, the ways in which we fell... And I love these as I hate them; they’re ridiculous and ill-timed, but I know that I have to have these secrets, and that’s why I am thinking about it all again for the first time in three years. And I'm feeling thoroughly there.

I just got a job at a lingerie store. The bras cost $150. It’s called Trousseau. Ha ha ha. We’ll see…

I hope you’re well, and I thought about you on the 16th of October. You & I, blushing on wooden stools after you guessed my birthday…

I’m afraid, very afraid… but only in the surreal way. In ways where there’s no worry. Of the unreal, impossible.. but this music is no good, here, to describe it at all, and then I think, people actually made this art that is affecting me so, and people are still doing it. and it can be done. I’m thinking these things with a dry enough throat and alone in this dark house, but it isn’t very cold outside, so I’m not afraid for that, and I wish I was more beautiful, same as always, thinner face, better in red lipstick, hair bigger and fuller. And I think, do I really want to go and...? Do I really want to go outside? Aren’t I afraid a little of outside? Yes, a little. Unfortunately… it’s nagging at me, to do that, so I think I will.

Monday 8 October 2007: 10:03 am

My bedroom smells like camping and there’s nothing to do about it.

song for the dogs and denver

she is wiping her cool breath on me! she drops her leaves there, so I can foot them when I walk. is it the northside of chicago here? is it boise to the north? is it highschool, is it being 26, still? is it twins, the same person, the signs, the only children, the histories, the halved lives? is she later on in gone months, or is she samewise when before she existed? not missing the spiders of oregon (though don't I still love them?) is it being unemployed, is it the fish in the street, is it the p-i-z-z-a... the caffeine craze, the early mornings & kitchen floors. the sound of my sweet dog as she growls and snaps at the innocents, wanting to caress her iridescent fur... is it timed, now, after it's stopped and it's beginning to grow again? and as my health itself flourishes upwards with a dramatic flourish of the heart.