what can't I say?

when I have all of the words? your songs make me butterfly in all of the tips of me. the rush of paper wings in veins. I am so in love, all of the time, & with everything. here I sit, in unionbay tee, with hat & frenched braid through the hole, listening to a song that MIGHT make you happy, MIGHT make you cry, and we both be nostalgic. & still we never, ever, ever meet. I have the regular liquors, the cocktail, the bourbon, the herbs from your crying garden. stay here! you wail, shirt longer than your shorts. but of course, I have to go now. but why? you cry out, as I pull those plump little cherry tomatoes from their vines. bye    bye

o god, o no

things we talk about 

sex, quesadillas, nostalgia, shirts, buttons, sweat, hair, sandwiches, swimming, drinking, dogs, smoking, love, breakingup, drugz, shoulders, legs, popmusic, lust, depression, beards, loneliness, julia roberts, sleeping, comfort, salad, tuna melts, football, stars, family, shoes, feet, eyes, bazooka joes

when i am 28

mine sky is falling

...it will end, but not this second. they remain! & I thought all day, what next will I do? I'll have to start to try. It'll start to try on me. all the anxiety at where will you go & are you gone? & then the popmusic station plays the right track, and I am right on track towards home, and then I see the familiar whip and finally I let a tear fall, in thankyou, in why oh why. & the smiling faces of my familiars, my little sweets still here. How lucky to have it still. I won't be worried anxious again until tomorrow, it means. one more night of longhair, of beards, of feasts. of warm thick shoulders. no one ever reads me, & if you did I'd tell you the same, anyhow. just glad you get to be together, again. to have your thick shoulders to hold with one another, again. & how I wish I could be sandwiched between all of the world's thick shoulders and locks and beautiful, varicolored beards.

until tomorrow, & the crash of the smokyblue idaho sky on mine wet old face.

I'm popular

I have about five friends, and they're all absolutely stunning
they dress in the old tie-dyed dregs of the cabin
and they get slammed
by each other
("is that where I got this bruise?")
bologna? clamsauce?
these days on constant repeat>>

on watching the bodies move, live

I ask So Many Questions! it's true. but right now I haven't any questions, I've the goldens here, Gayle's goldens, & i am wearing the pink flowers dress that is worn for sex, for going to work, for sleeping, for swimming, for switching into metal outfits, for sunning & drying nice slow in summer. the kids are all watching tv, because football is on. I can't watch it right now, and am so tired, so tired once more. the summer is a blanket and it smothers and floors me. my eye are always dried-up little beads. my skin is the color of worn white girl skins/. with freckles. "ooh a bears game is on" cries a child. I let the child eat chips. the children bought & paid for the chips. the fridge is full with beers, with rolling rocks & pabst blue ribbons & of course the frightening necessary steel reserves. the chips fall across the glass table, and little riverbeds left marking from a thumb and greedy little pointer. some have hats. "kyle, stop" cries a tiny voice. "there's a fucking door, go outside and fart" it goes/. my mistake! impossible to repeat! the sideways braids on us, the girls out of us, allover the place. I want my new york song, but I only get it in an advertisment. Atdvertizmunt.

did I do that?

I amn't burned. I heard you like your titles but didn't always. I heard you listed them off. I didn't see this, I heard it, & not from me but from others who also watch for what you do, and hope for me. There isn't anymore sun/son, they are long missing. But right now, in my stomach clench from all of the iced coffee the world has known, there comes the new clench, the clench of orange-peel tofu, and who could care about it. I am almost a vomit goddess. But why lie?

I'd die for her & she'd live for me

I did my best twenty hours ago. "Travis?" calls the lady in palepink tshirt, arms akimbo. "Yeah MOM" Travis the teen calls across. "We're leaving." Where do the tourists come from? I am afraid when people visit Boise. It makes nothing from them, to visit. Nothing for me. There is a woman sitting behind me on a booth. She is making sounds while she knits, something like a choke, a giggle, a sob. I don't understand but it gives me chills on the back, and I feel like I do. My dog puts her head in her bag; I have a bag, too. The reusable kind from winco. We are both ladies of the bag. I will stop everything now, you've said it. What I've already said in a sob, a giggle, & a choke. You are something, and I don't want you. Most of you are.

There is the one from last night. With the hairline's always been the same. You were eleven when I was born. What were you doing when you were eleven? you were wearing zippered pants, breakdancing. Smoking weed at the end of the culdesac. Taking acid. You had thin white-blond hair, you began to grow it out long. It takes you longer. I'm too there You know how to do it. Your bed smells nice. Your neck smells better than ever. My shoulders have it all over them. I defined metathesis for you. But I had to tell you again the next day. We drank ranier with ice cubes out of seahorse-adorned plastic cups. You want to ravage. I am thinking about you, about everyone else. You look like keifer sutherland, and I've always hated 24 even though I'd stay up all night to watch it. 

There is the one from nights & nights before. That one is faded away. That one knows everything, with another sweetsmelling beard. No heart on. Nothing left for it. The months have changed, haven't they? What more can we do?

There is one who hasn't ever been, and I will quit for you. But that is the only thing I can do, do for you. I am going to drive, but it won't be for you. You needn't worry. I won't ever hate anyone, unless first I love them. So instead I fade myself off & disregard. This has been weeks, week, any-number-of-them. & I'm getting number than them. 

Everything is so sad. 

not

Compliments Received In The Last 24hours:

even though it isn't it, you're still a really cool gal

you look like... whatsername... dana scully

I do take comfort in you

yeah, I knew your ass would be perfect

yeah, you knew it

yeah you knew it

yeahyou knew it

who cares, I'm goin to feed my meter & move into a new room in ONE WHOLE ENTIRE WEEK

I went home to the other old tiny home, and there was he with wildflowers he'd picked and fruit from the stand, and I was handed a glass of freshmade juice in the tiny mexican cup from chicago, and in it there were jalapenos & tomatoes & kales and my stomach just creamed confusion & he said, here I will put them in a vase for you. I try to explain this sometimes to you (of the other yous) and you couldn't care less. & how could I blame you?

old relevant

I don’t even need to kiss. But I do anyway? & I showed late to a dark lawn with a poet reading from the scrolling light of a smartfone. I was quiet, in ambience. eyecontact unwavering. And sitting next to me, introduced, and lovely because from us the conversation then readily flowed. In the grass with jars & cups of wine, like oldest friends sharing knowings all together too easy. Maybe it is easier with a boy. I haven’t met anyone like that who I’d like to just sit by and keep talking to; the girls I know in some sorts because of how easy it is for us to just be. But he it was like a lost brother of mine. Then breakfast, sleepless, and it was a depressing breakfast, in that the breakfast was depressed. Eggs in a weird isolated pile, a couple of biscuits that didn’t fit anywhere, some sad potatoes. We only go places for geriatrics. And hopefully will. It is exciting and we can’t be. We are a secret, a secret shared with bars & the heavens & some select northend streets. Our bicycle seats & our diaries. He asks me questions. No, he just listens. We can’t talk anymore about the good that feels, or the beauty of faces. I can’t think about the feeling of a hand pressed hard against a low-back, or the clench of small arms. Golden beard, Nordic eyes. But our smiles! the best, contagious. Not for those long distances and uninvolved. I got through a day of clenching my lust-carved jaws, of hiding my heartattack chest. And just the saying of the bare-minimal, just that I like it, I want to be best friends, I want to. I have blood-filled veins, after all, and a heart that shakes and pounds, and legs which want to wrap around, and a mouth that kisses with all of itself. I am not there, there, there. I am older now, smarter. I am not in love, I am in love. I am in love with every second, sometimes. Since Sunday night. I am in love with time elapsing, with an everpresent future, with the thoughts that a body feels! The movement, the passions, the lust embrace that I KNOW isn’t gone, has just been hibernating, has not been there, at all, real. It might not be he; he I like so much and feel so connected to, really, like everything is just there and so honest & obvious.

It’s 28 or never baby.

bash

I am mad because it isn't about me

the turns you take, aren ot to find me

and out of All of the whips to take, yours is the kind I like most

and 

and 

and I won t pretend, anything

and sometimes I say, I won t pretend anything

and sometimes, sometimes, I don t 

but, also! also! I won t promise

because promises, promises, promises! something I got to know earlier! hello, promise, hello my little sweet, like the icecream you want me to, oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh 

just take yer top off!

sorry, sorry, I got another call. hold on...

okay, hey sorrrry! o god, are youstill there? bushes

hmmm bushes,
o god irrelevant

but see, sometimes I stay at Gayle's, and I always throw the scraps of vegetables into her bushes

and this is my mother, of course

Gayle. & how I'd destroy her.

It isn't late enough, I've realized. so, apologies! once, I made someone fall in love with me through apologies! & through the promises, promises that we wouldn t. watch how we died back then? 

goodnight, & good for us. I won t try to promise,
I promise to not pretend anything
and I promise to promise to always fall in love with you when I will. & I don t mean iff

bedtime

It's true, even though I say no, that I am hurrying around and it really doesn't look good. I always tell myself about patience, but I am so heavily off the edge that waiting for anything seems like a deathpush. I just took a shower and how unfortunate to bathe off the Payette from my hair & skin, and all are looking red & pale & curled & summery and also, I make all of these promises, and I have to keep them

to never tell them about you

to never tell you about me

to never talk more than I ought to

to never say a thing

& so unfortunate to be back, because there, I can remain resolutionless... but now I am naked, & under sheets, & with a fan blowing over me, and no one to joke with

for me

I was drunk last night-

 this one’s for me. do you ever think about it?

do you ever think about it?

do you ever think about it?

Sometimes I think I know everything,

sometimes it’s later at night, during the time a moon normally shows,

especially when on nights before so strong a moon shone,

and sometimes, too, it’s distracting when everyone else can say it earlier than I, and

who cares? the smell is there, and I have the olfactory moments in me thick & true,

and by the by telling you that I am here in the woods, with a laptop

which somehow seems perfect

because I am no earth mother

I am a Typist

and the delete key, the letters lit up, are the tools that keep em going

when I could just sleepingbag out right now on a T on a lake, waves lapping

lapping lapping sloshing, all night long

Instead, I am here, soberest, knowing. You know, I know.

But sober enough to know that you don’t really know.

I see better with my eyes closed,

with my head sort of

with my heart an open hand. if that would near it, what I try to say

OH

and fail to say.

Sorry if you don’t, because I always will. & so glad you don’t, so I’ll never have to.

My dog has these

these

these

these words are so unimportant to her!

o nevermind, the world won’t end before I remember what I was going to say.

you're so reasonable & I'm so maudlin

I'm a model. I moved to New York City to walk down the sidewalks in towering alexander mcqueens and nylons ripped at the knees. I'm so modeling right now, it's insane. EVEN under the thunderstorms, here in the city, right next to the piers where the concerts glow at night, and the summer-stench crawls from beneath chinatown drains, with the women whispering from staircases, the escapes from fires don't pull down, that never seem to work. The women here are talking bored about child support & doctor's bills, and I am wearing too much copper so rains like these move my skin off, they patina my bones and veins. But since I am so modelin' right now, I am all ribs and clavicles, and my jutting hip on which a trouser-waist sits hangs like a hanger, as I am. I'm a model, and I moved to New York City to stumble down the streets in the earlymorning dark, after salons in my prada pumps. I'm sooooo modeling, but then there is you & you are so able to reason. You aren't even here in New York City because you couldn't exist here, because the beach touches the asphalt and the flowers are spare and wispy, and my hair never ever tries to grow here because only the molds and bugs and beauties of the undergrowth underbenches underground can grow, and my one face melts into nothing with the splay of the city, the stupid subway stench in identical nostrils, and we all evaporate simultaneously. You can't be here, because no one is here, and you are so real, so reasonable. Those days (these, of summer here) are entire worlds, are lifetimes and the end never darkens, just turns to puce & salmons & body-odor vermilions, and the sun rises unobtrusively and casual is the steam from the jamaica bay fog. A man in a yellow convertible comes to me, hawaiaan shirted, and I begin to fall back into the walk I do.

talkaway the nighttime

do I know what to makeout of you? not even trying, but desperate to. I have the familiar glasses, the quench, and maybe the too-many mentionings, but I am still in one place, and you have left already. but my place is still on the warm, late-night pavement, and my heart still beats beneath a barefoot, but yours has wilted in the slightest in the clearest, and it has begun some slither towards away. even the foods I want don't exist. is it the overabundance, the apostrophes, the apostrophe's. I don't remember you like I should, only I could see perfectly in gesticulations, in caricature. this looks french. your beard in your bathroom, in your couch, in your shower making your hair in snakes, your sad mouth, your eyes looking because they do, right. I can answer that question even if we never speak anymore, still. did we argue into the morning? did we disappear into the morning?

tell me I'm right tell me I'm wrong tell me there's nobody else in the world & who could care? longhair, louisville, mymorningjacket is playing on tuesday

how many of us are there? & you do sometimes tell. but it's cryptic, it's deathly, it's in the ground for you already. but I amn't. & I will try to never will be. I will outlast the saddest-most, the fingers-through-my-hair-most. the ones with the eyecontact, the ones with the hands twice as big hands, long & thin ones too. tendrils in humidity. fine in the talking small. & I know not how to hideaway.

fuckturds of the world be gettin it ON

last day of july

& why? Where are you going this weekend? It isn't to where I be going, is it? The lady with the vermilion fro walks in, sandalled, with sparkle-gold bag. She drinks the beers on the half-off, and writes in the little spiral-bound. & I am up over here, tryn to get hung, and the buzzing happens, and it makes my stupid aggressive heart swallow in my throat