optimism

the haha you!
the edit you
there's always the you to write about, a sort-of you
the all-sorts-of remember
mes
I think back
in a few months ago
or 6 months ago
I was trying to see the pain end
trying to date that end
telling things, to picture it happening
like Molly, you won't live here forever
in a deep sadabandon place
you'll find the surface
you'll move in with your blood
get comfy together, you'll get comfy
together
swim up in it, bubbles coming from a nose
for my mouth
how I shout, mouth
to suck
being a stop-now
suck it out, stop being a shop mouth
a sob cave-maker
let your burbling oxygen bubbles rest
let your breath turn into flowers again
photosynthesize
on the horizon
oh haha you
oh, 6 months later you
oh where it came, from where I am again
the dissolve of flowers in a vase
the burning of your name on a hill
my abundant cusses
I've almost forgotten them
empty hole empty house
no more radiant crevasse
full of sinew & thread
the prettiest sky
the prettiest scab
peel me off
smile laceration me
the pink soft of a nomore scar.
  the teen is    dead

dear diary

where am I?
it's night the bugs are silent
but this: go about my legs
scheduling, sucking at my blood
well, turn around slowly, fat body
move about, checking
for degree of lost
for debris I've lost
I slap
bet you squash it, you
everyone else talks about how
the winter is coming for them
but no winter comes for me
I'm bare legged, short skirt-did
I'm sheeny, I'm shy
I'm processing ponds
little pools of poem in my head
my arm stay open
my legs spread
I'm a constant in this pool
I'm a constant sweat
it gets dark early
that's the only way to tell
there's a change
can see more stars than you think I can see more stars than you think.
you'd be surprised at the recognizable constellations I see
the same as they're at home, or whatever
its all open late
arms all open late groping
groping at the full night the full  night
my warm wet me
where am I?
I'm a big open wet glad sack
and I got all
that I smile
and I schedule
and schedule
and scuttle
and sad, at it all
but really not
at all

sexy

guessing what comes out? melancholy & sanguine.
sometimes sacred. mercurial baby
  bet on that rocket
  rock me asleep, stone me
    to death. print me with letters
      talk me out of it, talk me into it
close me up
  close up beside me
     close into me
      close, into me
maybe it's the weather
maybe I make the worst weather
  tengo mal tiempo
I wish I had allof the world's balloons to ride
  back to last August or July or someplace
    to some preplace
      when I was just a kid in the sun
         with a different kind of weather
I'm sorry I've been a wrath
  I hope I am honest
  I hope I am a trustful
bc I can sleep through the nights, now
  I do things before bed
  I draw those flowers
  I let Kafka in my ears
& my melancholy blood
  it is a pretty lot still, me
    I mean, I could be a graduate with this mind of mine
  I could muster the strength of many men up in here
  I could rally
    my virility
       I could smoothe her hair
          caress her down
  make less lonely how-it-is
I wonder if I'll get fired for taking all of these breaks
  but I'm trying to get true broke, see
    bc I've heard that sometimes you need to break it
  to snap back into place
       

brand new balcony

let's get marrowed

dreams not talk, but I have that fresh air

 a fan blowing around you

I dyed the pillowcase blue

it's so pretty now, it looks like cloud springsky behind those little blue flowers

it's funny my immediate intentions were

 to send the pillow in the post immediately

 to pillow you

 but I got greedy

 and wanted to roast in the gone-scent

it's funny, I wish I would have 

 a non-pillow

but I've the bedding to change

because we're never rollin in the club, here

closed ∞

  get yer coats on, take the shit out of me

  the balcony closed even to girls, now.

over the winter the sparkleporch, attached directly to the cougar den which is the vip lounge of gayulz club 

  closed to men

  not because we're inherently sexist, here at gayulz

  but because boys in the balcony ruin it

  make it dangerous

  it just took two bigbodied slams to unhinge the thing

  and it became girls only.

it's like the balcony of the club parked in front of Kyle's

  balcony party

  girls in the back

  like six chicks deep

  could.

I like memory

  it's like a bite

  or sometimes a cut or a bruise or a break

  then a veil

  and a thin little blood vessel

  or a juicy foods

but I'm digesting at every turn

and ingesting them all to marrow me

hardening the arteries of my softbod

the uncut fruits of our little labor

sucker

I'm a fad

I'm a goosewhite

walk on the ice, little webbers

  rubber sticks rubber suctions

they swish the cold out, could

I'm a variable

I'm a water

    Molly Stoddard, you're my hero

 you're my baby

I am a graduate

magma cum laude

I'm a suckee

I get sucked out like you wouldn't think

 the empty water, a wash

 flash flood, freeze me

walk on me

   congratulations

I have hair for centuries

 to comb,

  to braid on the beach

   to look at under nightlit light

those veins musthave gushed

I'vent straw teeth

I'vent suckers on

I'vent reasons to dig

I'vent bloodlust thrustin

I've my own blood for guzzling

& mine's with the white fighters

& the murdering connivers

birdhouse bodies nesting

  near the ground of me

  settle in

  get your young down

  fluff in 4 life

I'm no cannibal, I'm a husky eye-ear-mouth haver

I'm no ear-mouth-haver

I'm a husk lover

I'm a fillyou-upper

I'm a 

let me in

  I'm a toogood

of

an idea

       to let you have

bloodgoblets

coward blood

brave blood

I have enough for the world

I am such a woman 

blood maker

I get all the closest girls to orbit me

because I'm the sun in this fucking universe

so when I say bleed, we gush 

and we gush

and we gush 

and we gush

plug

I've got a meal in me now, it feels pretty weird

it also doesn't feel like april should end today but it will

because I think it's my favorite month. 

it's the early early mornings, and the sick smell of blossoms, 

and the promise of may

which is historically my favorite times

& I guess still should be. I am waking up, now

I can feel the blood back in my legs, the bones replacing the gelatin sog

& the sinews hardening, or maybe it's just the poison leaving my system

and I was supposed to be there, a friend

but I have only been friends with myself

keeping a mirror as a pet

making promises to the past.

but I'm sitting up, now

& looking at my face again, and it isn't as bad as I thought

and my smoke hair

is coiling like silk on the end of april

and my breath is sweeter than the sick blossoms

even with dying flowers

finally

like a motto from a tea bag I used to carry around with me to

always do the most beautiful thing.

so I'll try before I die & long before the great byebye

vengeless & celebratory is me

lemon bag

When I was last there,
inside sad cave london room, with the rooks on the roofs
Why isn't rooves the plural, by the way?

When I was locked in that room I started drawing with a tiny paintbrush & india ink
pictures of the Olsen twins
and I'd find their photos
attached to the livejournals
of anorexic teens.
this is where I learned the term
 thinspiration
(an expression not found by the iPad)
and I looked at selfies of knobby spines
and clavicles sharp enough to cut cheese
and I read advice from pro-anas
to struggling anas-in-waiting
about how to get skinny
and someone wrote about drinking lemonade made with maple syrup
and I thought, damn that sounds good.


When I couldn't eat I knew I had to put something in me
my body was 21 years old
it was young
but it was a bag
there was nothing left in it
I was shriveling away
And I remember looking into the mirror once while I took a shower
because my housemate thought it sexy to watch oneself bathe
and I had grown so little
like a teen
like a teen with a blog
who could advise other teens
on how to let their skin tighten around their sad little bones
But I didn't like the girl I saw, that shivering little teen
because she wore her devastations like foodservice film
clinging to whatever was leftovers

So I drank that lemonade, like what else could I do? I drank it every day, all day. I drank it so much my urine was lemons, my shit was maple blood. Tapped, juiced. And my organs drifted out through the  holes left,
and I had all of the energy
of all of the suns,
and I was thinspiring the universe to bony tears

based on the hit song AMAZING GRACE

kids keep naming their kids Gracie, or Gracey, or Gracee, and I wonder, so are these kids naming their kids Grace & making it easier on them 

to deal with such a supreme sort of name

by childishing it & making it easier on the come-out?

Because the ee-affixes 

are sweeter sounding on the tongue.

Because I'm thinking, in my mind (it's where I think)

as this kid's giving birth in the hospital

or in her bathtub

is she moaning out about how graceful it all is

how this parasite's been inside living off of her for most of the gregorian year

a creature pushing out uncontrollably

about ready to kill her, & finally

that it's filled with blood & skin & miniorgans

and all so grace-filled?

with its little closed-eye expression

& toothless scream-out,

that she, that it be the grace of god?

Gross.

There was a girl in jr high with me named Grace

(& we called her Gross, pretty mean)

and she had posters of nsync on every inch of her room

so you had no idea where the walls were.

I never was inside her room

or in her house

but we were neighbors so when she had her lights on at night

I couldn't believe it.

I mean, nsync is good

but really?

Maybe Gracie in her little stupid babybrain

knows totally that she's just got to get out of there

she's gestated

she's turning

she's got limbs, & little healthful graceful organs

& a little angelic face, so they say when she comes out & they rub her down in soft towels

& stick the baster in her nose

& blow out her kid mom's fluids

so she can stop breathing what she has been

& come out & do it like a human being.

Maybe Gracie in her little, insignificant mind

with her eyes already open,

& seeing better than I can 

or you can

looking about, speechless, graceless,

is thinking 

hey

I got out of there

& it was a prison

& I am a free man

& I will tattoo the world with my fullness

& I am eager to devour it

with the windows open

with the blinds shattered,

that Curtain City is closed until death

which is way, way too graceful & far away

things we talked about

eyes, colors, nausea, autumn, showers, blood, being Irish, come, stubble, being Turkish, being Canadian, lying, misuse, anxiety, border collies, language, love, fear, drinks, smoking, hands, feet, newness, comfort, guilt

just a couple of times

ooh dusk

Months. I found two welcome-home pinecones on the patio. Brown and yellow beds everywhere. I can't kid it, there is piano, the music of one I think, and it's one of those songs I've long chided myself for keeping around. Surprises happen all over. Can't draw the shades completely! The autumn is out there. Watch her come and go. I've got to use the heavy woolen hooded coat. The one I'd dreamt about, but in plum. And then the voices! 

My friends are listening to poetry tonight. Some of us admit not to be. I'm having hard enough time keeping myself company! Like an argued room with distant relatives, we talk. Make faces. Feel the rush through. Little waterslides of blood. Maybe it's because who would read this, anymore. It's like an end to it all (oh, no, I've unpacked all of the grocery baskets and suitcases! one was filled with costumes, and just in time for halloween), or rather I will somehow find something better to do, a waste making sense. Where is everyone?

the punishment of, oh, the knowing of your eternity (thanks for obsessively keeping track, girl)

on love before, 3 august 2008, in brooklyn ny

In and out of bursting in and out of flames. Hiccups, and contractions, and a need to drink water, but I have wine now. And a room which has never been more perfect. And flat tires continuous, almost daily, without a doubt weekly. Because of these roads, these pieces of glass and trash and everything. A siren chirps. They party all over the streets. I don’t like that my tire is flat and I can’t walk my bike the two miles home, that instead I have to pay a car to take me, and paying is what I’m doing, whereas before it was silly to think about not paying, paying paying what, let me pay, who cares. And it’s like that still, the everyotherday kind, of devastation at least it isn’t constant. It’s beautiful to think of him like this. It also helps to devastate my state, in particular a new york state, at why shouldn’t I walk alone at midnight home, where someplace else I could, and could easily & should gladly, maybe not minding so much. It’s just the feeling I want, to be in love and the rest seems excessive, like the trash, the city, the pressure, the job of boring useless. Wow! Did I just scream that? Okay then bye bye. It’s just getting me & has been since we met that I could be close to someone again, so inevitably close. And of course so all I want at this moment, and how long it’s been since, and SO LONG it’s been, and yes I am ready, have been since the day charlie & I broke up. Really have. It seems better, more intelligent, all the wiser for a body to say things to self & others like, oh I’m just not ready to be close to someone again… so I’ve adopted that (subtly, and in a lie) by saying it aloud & to myself, and even at times knowing I’m not great or interesting enough at this particular point in my life. But let me interrupt: why then is it so easy for me to be endlessly interesting to him, and for me to want to listen to him for upwards of eternity, and for me to feel in every bone the truth that what I say & do & feel and all the ways in which I respond & act are right and True and completely unnecessary to justify or explain or support. They are little enigmas on their own, and even I don’t feel selfconscious, when he tells me he thinks I’m brilliant I know it is because I am. I want to say no, I’m a genius- which I am. Bright & lit up. Radiant. Omygod I am such an asshole, it’s about time I smoked that last one and went dark.

But first: I wanted to gush; how about the women with huge gigantic bosoms wearing tshirts like JUICY printed across them in three feet of block lettering, oh wow, and gushing, like I do. I go in & out, back & forth with him there, yeah, he’s a boy but must be dumbly romantic like I or else this wouldn’t work out so well. And I trust the fuck out of him, can you imagine? Is it because I know he thinks I’m brilliant, maybe, but not because I’m afar like I worry I might find him, appealing in such an impossible way, and I don’t need to know the mileage to know an approximate latitude, a latallure he has to me, so far down in heaven country where my heart thrives like a succulent, sits baking in a sun so close and thriving, fleshy, on all the blood love lust fluffing out its puffy tufted paws. My heart is a simple succulent, so simple in fact it’s just the leaf of one, nevermind the plant; what I’m looking for here is the whole rest of me, a stalk & a root stuck down into the dry rocksoil. My damn little affable heart in all its bliss stuck into the Arizona dirt, forever.

I once when a child made fun of people who wanted to live in Arizona like they were afeared of the cold, but look at a strong creature tucked beneath a prickly pear and we’ll attempt to uncover a coward.

I want to gush at the productions I’ve had, contractions too. It has been: Only about 15 days since my last sexual encounter with anyone. I happened to find my vibrator today after it had been mysteriously missing for decades. We went at it for about 7 minutes, afterwhich I groped at the sky and mouthed questions. I love him a little bit. He is better than anything I have else. And that is the worrisome. That I could possibly tear my own existence to shreds for some fantasm I’ve producted from years, birthed again anew & from pieces of my own flesh memory.

I still look forward to it, yes.

3:18 am

Dear diary, I am obviously not speaking or gesturing with a wineglass to his child’s portrait in a photocopy stuck to my wall. I am glad. Ovenmouthed, glad. I understand that Tucson could very well mean instrumentals and recordings. As long as I have A. Beard and someone who has instruments and happens a musician to be, a pretty future holds. In a climate such as, nonetheless, healthful habitat all hot and hearts helped.

I am tired. I poured another wine, and fancied what if I could (and I could) make a disc for him what would it be. A poem from titles, nonelse, happenably unwritten by me.

12:57

The desert landscape is associated with a pain one might choose

I read this just a minute ago on Ron Silliman’s bog. He’s talking about a poem called “It seemed a similar choice although in an adjacent register” by Martha Ronk.

Today I’m less than joyfilled, a lot I’m sure having to do with my sleeping a lot later than planned, maybe the whispers of a hangover (fucked up upon going to sleep last night but happy, I felt happy) and again having that crisis of, what the fuck am I doing again? Wanting to abandon NY right away… but the desert? What the hell am I going to do in the desert? Live in a hot, dusty apartment, have a succulent garden, spend time with the desert, look at sunsets, be happy, be in love…

So completely unlike what I’m doing here. I wish I had chosen something else. Well I still can, news for you.

poem(s) for breathing

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating.
my breath hasn't come in gasps,
and then I am up and breathing again for a moment;
I am no longer breathing in hefts.
his shallow breaths,
guilty breath
is like a breath
the true breath I utter is not to be used
sighing, breathing,
I'm breathing him in as much as I can.
and his breath, too smells good somehow,
I'm breathing little smoky breaths into the pillow.
my breath was caught,
combining to form words of thick breath,
the sound of my breath echoing over a postcard.
every breath I breathe a worse one.
aubergine hair and scented breath & shoulders & neck...
Then we breathed in our cigarettes, wide-eyed.
He began to emit short breaths and low moans.
in the same breath.
and his breath I disliked,
breathing into my neck,
just breathing, slowly, slowly, slowly.
and he's nearly breathless.
Now we can all breathe sighs of relief!
His breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
That burning heartchoke and breaths of slight ecstatic jubilation.

from momentos preciosas

and he chuckled and breathed like a maniac and he understood. 

poem(s) for blood

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating
with a bloody, old face...
Blood.
Excited pain and blood to dry in my shoes.
bloody mary
containing all of my blood,
I wonder if my blood is okay.
Blood spraying
spicy bloody marys.
We drank the bloody marys
not to mention the two bloody marys
needing a sweater for the bloody mary
but it's just a bloody hemmorhoid.

from momentos preciosas

And my blood, lungs, full with it.
bloodstain on your majesty
bloodseed of your majesty

hello, beautiful

Why? Because my blood is thick. I have all these tortured organs, I know it. I make them whipped. They ache, but with smiles across them. My sweet little heart getting big on itself. Making hard itself. That tumescent little thing. My mouths filled with apologies which fall out and disappear on a breeze. No one will hear! not even my own opened ears. My filthy fingers reaching for yours. Your cups in mine. Mine own overflowing. The quiet cold, my heartattack building, the mossy breeches of the nailed fingers, traipsing, traipsing toward yours. Yonder fingers tracing over mine mossy knuckles. But this is love, no? shall we argue? Nothing in me is for an argument. I give up, relentless, restless, accepting, open, whole, heartedly, whole. The whole hole filled with heartblood, gushing, retracting, sucking itself off. Never relenting, never detumescing. The various plaids of my outershells, my chitinous fibres. My camouflage, our matching stripes and shades. I will be there, you know it. I will scrape you off, when you need it. I will sing when you like me, I will look when your eyes are away. And still keep it when they turn back towards, inevitably. Do you still read me now?

this year already better than last; an example

Saturday 2 January 2010

I am nervous. The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb. I have the dog panting at my side, the guitarmusic panting in rhythm, my own breath beating, the blood beating. I have been watching too much show, but today, but yesterday was my last day alone. Jon is back, invisible but with traces; the rabbit is gone, the kitchen is clean. And he is going to return from Arizona. I have to pick him up at the airport at 10:30 pm. I am about to have an attack. My fingers can’t find the letters, I can’t find a way to be. I do not want to see him and I feel certain of that, but then I do not want to see anyone at all in my house. I want my own little place, which has no one. I love the dog & cat. But I would rather give them up for my aloneness. I cried without tears, it was raining so I don’t know if it’s true, on the walk from the bar in between friends & acquaintances & coworkers; we left the bar on new years and I wondered, is new years over yet. And I could only think no, I don’t want to keep up like this, I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to deal with anything. Like being a human. I don’t want to look at him and listen to how much he missed me because I missed him, yes, on new years when we’re having a party it would have been nice to have him. I missed Kari but was mad, annoyed at her not being there; but who can I tell this to, I am no writer, after reading writing makes less sense, why do I think I could. If my only method of escape is this? how? I can’t write, I can’t put the letters together, nothing is honest, even, save for automatic spell checker. If I am to escape, just constantly for myself. From myself. I just need a break from being me. From the internet distractions, the sounds, my visions haven’t been. My tears haven’t flowed, my breath hasn’t come in gasps, I am not of passion anymore, and he will see this when he arrives. I want to trick myself, to say well now that he’s here I will be so happy! Finally the emptiness isn’t! But when he comes, I will have to be here, too. I don’t think there’s any way to live here. I want to be alone. Without roommates. If I really do go to college one day, in new york like I think, well I’ll have to be damned prepared. Also, I will be ready to be around others. I’ll have to be. So alone in new york. So alone but never far enough. Here the expanses can be great… and still so lonely. I liked the big dark house, empty but for us. I liked not thinking about anyone coming home, or complaining inside about my lackings. I like not thinking about anyone. But I hate not thinking. I numbed myself around, and am, just to avoid the true honest thoughts. I don’t miss Adán, he is a distraction from the real empty pain I feel when I’m alone, the pain which leads me to search frantically for something real to devour, and I am numb and searchless now. I can’t see anything. I am blinded bored.

8:42

It is restless. The struggle over I over it. My mouth is dry as can be, there are songs coming out (songs coming out of me) and the programmed static is like rain on a tin, and the things which jar and strangle. F pyramids. F hillary.

I was struggling okay all these things I have to articulate, and do I hear sounds of voices. Ah, the bright lights. I am panicking, learning forcing to force by means of love. The soundtrack of the night playing, of course, the important role. The progression of moment through music. Of feeling and the tinkle in the lobe of a basedrum.

            I suddenly relaxed. After hanging up all my favorite dresses (duresses) aloud saying, “I must throw all these away!” suddenly so jovial! Ah, the mere trash! I have to stop watching that trash, any trash. My trash, my treasure. Why does my heart explode my body? The theories, I see!

The height of the night, the eggs of sweet little salmon

passed around to us on loose baguettes. I used to know

the finnish word for baguette. If only.

Reluctant relaxants. Cigarette in the yard.

Unpaired socks are called loose ends. For right now

they sit on the feathered nest made for all of us. I

have never laid there.

hearts and bones……..hearts and bones………hearts and bones

The timing will tell a story if remembered. This is about the arc of a love affair. I haven’t a story to tell. My life, as I already described, is a numb skull.

But the dog is perfect

so the fleas too, are perfect.

“Why won’t you love me for who I am where I am”

this is a story! It is true, I dare it!

If gayle could only have married paul simon

would she then be called gayle simon?

They would have looked lovely

in pictures together.

Then to be called gayle marie, of course.

No, I do not think it’s the time to try to write a poem about my mother. For she isn’t really my mother, except maybe once, or for a time, but then only because I felt like mother is this faraway, unobtainable being, who can’t care for you or protect you but who wields absolute power. Is there a better phrase. Absolute, without a doubt, oh, doubtless. Incontrovertible control. Yew

She was my mom, of course. Molly’s mom. This is a replication of the cabin. I could try for an upper upper situation.

The soft faraway look of the dog, eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently, and the pink earlymorning at far rockaway some hog july summer relate in an instant, stirring a spark up. But I was so desperate for those occurrences. Something in me has since died. And I am wont to bring it back.

Alas, at this fair hour I anxiously await the welcoming home of my beloved. I am aching inside, tiny dagger-stuck innards. The whistle of a train!

hello, beetle (hello, hello)

how are you today? are you walking on my sleepingbag? Well! And is that man outside chopping away the palm to rid of it a wasp's nest? How many angry wasps, now? At least he felt badly about it. I had to put on some shoes for his benefit. Wishing I wasn't the only one, now. Where are you? How is that voice of yours? Mine is low and cathartic. Which isn't a problem. Imagining summer squashes cooked in butter. Imagining you & I, in butter. My bruised arm, permission to leave the desert. How is summer anywhere? Is it turned to fall, yet? Where are my cousins & friends? Should I go ahead and look for them? Where's my sweet dog? Is she wondering after me? What about the rush of a train just going by? The fear of the rails beneath, the seismic moans into me? The wet earth? The hard, brown clay? My own moon away? And the pools, the soft rocks and the blisters caused only by shoes. Shoeless, maybe a wasp underfoot could be, or a snake, or a tarantula ant. The little bloods of fire ant. My body wants me to fill it. I feel the same. I suppose rescue is the only word. But I need nothing, just a cloud to float me away. The night is warm but the day is here, & earthly pungent.

millions of wild forevers

for #28

million, forevers

desert skin, ocean eyes, but

Hearts can't hold time.

for #13

your wild dog ways, the

desperation thrive.

smell in mint inspiration

for #11

forever the first

the red awake of Being

entangled to death

for #3

and so you were thick

like an adult in me, blood

and pink on the floor

Ha

17: cedar shadow, waxwing warts

To lay in the moss, a cedar waxwing floating soundless back & forth over my body. A bed of goldspeck lichens, the tundra, cushioning me like alcohol. In the corners of my eyes loop-lichens play their paths, winding around their yellow-cored families. The dog-lichens chase them across the pale-bellied daisy; mount atlas rising in a distance through the fog. I feel a pinch and then the calm blood from the wound of a snapdragon, its wild dog-mouth bared but toothless. Meaning no harm. I take a bite from the devil's fig and share the rest with a goose lounging nearby in the snow. The world was covered with a fine spray of dot lichens, their frosty-rimmed thalli pricking the light. The roving morning and dot lichens now in shadow; a cascade of soft warts across my sleeping skin.

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!