We don't know when it happens but it happens

Make yourself a pad to be in

I'm reclined

That's not true, I'm upright on the stoop

2:21 am, December 5, 66 degrees Fahrenheit 

The Full Frost Moon in Gemini approaching

Which is haha funny

The full part? The Gemini part

The FROST part

I just got a little shiver there

The wind in the pecan tree

My anger leaving in the fronds of the pecan tree

Repeating the pecan tree for emphasis

I will apologize and I am sorry, I know

I'm on some dumb planet

Orbiting this dumb sun

No signs

No blurry constellation hatching

No frost on these fronds

Just the haha of my fogged-on world

Barefoot on the stoop like summer

Gases consuming around me

My own system of farts

I am sorry!

Who Me in the South

Who Me, bathed in pecans

Ovular orbs

Cascading about

Keeping the moisture out from my meats

So tender

O little triumph of stars

O, the twin

O, my mes. Apologetic Mes.

even if I try. even if I wanted toooooo

I'm sitting on the yellow house's stoop, again. This for the last time, maybe. It's an immanent tomorrow. Tomorrow is a better day to leave. The neighbor, not at pukeneighbor's house but at squat brick house, is listening to something punk or something, he wears a black tshirt when he smokes and looks at his phone, there's a tv inside, the neighbors watch it with the door open. He isn't doing much on a late Tuesday. Is it Tuesday? What day is it, Kyle asked some guys who came in to his restaurant tonight. I think he had some lines lined up, he probably knew the day. Kyle's good at being a waiter. I like the words waiter and waitress better than I like server. I like to sex things. None of that is particularly true. I'm drinking a watermelon beer again, we got them for the road. The car is packed. Save for the soda maker. We don't even know for certain that it works, but. What if it does? I'm going to make us sodas when we get to Louisiana, and Thousand Island dressing. I think I could make delicious Thousand Island. I like the name. Sometimes kids only want Thousand Island dressing. None of this is actually on my mind. Today a vase fell a couple of feet from the bookcase and onto the carpet in Luke's room. He hollered for a second, and later, on the log at Brody Beach, he surprise-gripped my sun arm and warned me that there is broken glass, to be careful. I thought it was funny because the thing broke, and also because he didn't pick up the glass, and also because he was being careful at me. The vacuum has been in his room for a month at least, a bunch of ants came in and we got the vacuum and had a great time sucking the ants up. So I had a pretty great time sucking the glass up. So he won't cut his foot later, thinking of me. And the little pieces I'll try not to leave behind. I'm sitting on his stoop sort of listening for his skateboard wheels on the sidewalk. He might be surprised that the car is packed. That I said goodbye again to John Shinn, and to Bri, and to Kyle, and Kari and my dad and to Britta, the last. No one is crying, which is a good sign. But smell makes me cry. The picking up of a handsome plaid shirt with sweetsmelling collar makes me lurch a little. But I'm more more more than ever, and it's ready in me. I wish I could write sweet notes for all over the cute yellow house. Maybe butter yellow is a forever reminder of the Summer of 2013. It has been a good one, thanks to many, and to one. I am glad it's true. All of the hugging is out, I've got it in. I've got a shower, I've got a salad for the morning. I've got an ear to the sky & an ear to the heart. I've shaken off the butter sheets with the black ink constellation. I've sucked up the glass. I've got me wrapped up. I've got me winding away, I think I think I do, now.

flirt journey

  I want to
overwhelm your mountains
  hey, girl
  I am a dripper of coins
a pouch for you, stain your sheets with copper and nickel
stick to your summer fur
rub me behind the earfolds, makeawish
  sit around outside in dark dark silent summer
  or lay on your stone, on your back, shirt pulled up
   pale stomach
   constellation-lit
  my constellated torso
and
  longlegs
crossed at the ankles
  be my best friend at nighttime
    urge me coquette
   try for me to call you through a flirt, a longdistance wink at-me
   so I can fold my wings
   under my down spots
    in my own bod
     to wihdraw from your touch-words
    the threat of
    the hum of
  your mellifluous murmurs
it might be on the way, or a thousand miles out of
  on the way
    the pacific, almost reaches
    or canada, it nearly touches me
  get me in your forest climate,
    I want into your urging dense
      your fat ancient wood
    making me a small thing,
       an occasional thing
    my spot body for your moss
  to cling to
      give my suctions little flirts to grip
    and temporary promises to sigh about