confidence mustard

christmas 2013

I did the same thing they do, how many years, teens in the street, thin merino wool caps and northface jackets, shiny pillow coats filled with weightless goosefur. gray earlynight light, bald trees and trees few in leaves, silhouetted always, for daily we're twilighting. the dog moans, the house is empty save for us. all of the windows seem uncurtained, meaning there are curtains but they're heavy, and folded or shoved away, impossible curtains. I'm leaving Idaho in the morning.

when I die bury me in the liquor store

I'm sitting on Luke's stoop listening to Nickey's birthday track, it's pretty loud. Drinking an Outlaw IPA not because I'm crazy about it, but it's a pretty good IPA and I taste IPAs all day sometimes, but because it's from Garden City, and made by an acquaintance from highschool, I never had a crush on him, but I guess I'm trying to be pre-nostalgic for Idaho because I truly am leaving it tomorrow. This song doesn't make me nostalgic, just makes me think of Nickey but I'm taking her with me. I mean she's taking me with her. We're taking each other with each other. I'm going to Dad's for a final Dad dinner, and I'll maybe sell the dogcrate for $50. I made $55 selling my synthesizer to Britt. I was going to sell it to another exboyfriend, but I like Britt better. Maybe it's because he was never my exboyfriend. I think I like the music he makes more. No I know. A giant man in a BSU tee walked by with a golden on a leash. The golden was wetfurred, and peed on the tree in front of Luke's cute yellow house. Ida didn't chase it. But I was gripping her by her aqua bandanna. It's not too grubby for a bandanna. For a dog bandanna. Or even a girl bandanna. I said goodbye to Brittany. To Chad, to Gray, to John Shinn. I wanted to say goodbye to John Shinn again. I've said enough goodbyes. Everyone's like, Why aren't you gone yet. And we're like, We know. Because we've got to pack the car up, and I've got to clean my little messes I've messed Luke's cute yellow house with. But then, maybe I won't. Maybe it will become real to us. Maybe I'm more excited than they are. Maybe later I'll write long words about long skins to miss. Long bodies pulled tightly down over a butter yellow bedsheet, long feet dangling. Can you dangle straight. I have hours left of goodbyes, I know. I will be saying goodbye forever, I know.

I'm not in love with you

I am not in love with those who don't love patterns
with those who don't love onions
with those who don't smile
with those who call themselves boring
with those who don't want to come
with those who litter
with those who don't think I'm sort of beautiful
with those who won't constant clutch at my bod
with liars
with those who don't cry
with those who don't ask all of the questions
with those who write as badly as I
with those who drink from to-go cups
with those who don't love my dog
with those who don't love language
with those who don't get drunk on words
with those who drink too much, too often
with those who say, I don't care
with those who mutter, I don't know
with those who deoderize
with those who make excuses
with those who hide
with those who deny
with those who don't give it
with those untouchables
with those who don't hurt honest
with those who won't ride with me
with those who don't sleep outside
with those who watch me & aren't okay with it all
with those who
  just can't hang

I'mportant

I threw a mango in the bushes

I threw the ball for the dog a couple of times

do any of your sentences not have I in them? 

matty said that the other day when I was wearing those skates

I was talking about the cabin getting torn down

I was wearing those socal shades, they broke the next day I think?

I said fuck off, I think

I went around to the side of the house and sat down and started crying

I had friends pulling up from different cars, 

I stopped crying, but my shades were off

I told them about the cabin

for some reason, I apologized for crying

I got hugged

I laid next to matty later on the beach

he & I looked up at the sky

like we were on a dock

like we were 

and I were

I

I

I

I

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

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.

Dear diary, the sun is shiny through me, from windows... oh! the moan from my right! A matutional cry-out? Whence! Alak. Ohhhhhhhhhh kay. so Here, drinking coffee, thinking about the jobs, the jobs, the jobs, the collie dog. And My mind wasn't made for such stuffs.

poem(s) about black

from crepuscular orations

The buildings were lit, black silhouetted, with little squares of yellow light,
purple, black, and gray
black rosy-finch
black tern
in black bathing suit,
in black silk bathing dress.
And the black silk cardigan from five summers ago.
white kneesocks and tall black boots
and black silk cardigan.
black belts with southwestern emblems.
Watching a black gay & lesbian comedy,
thick sideburns, black frames, eyebrows canted.
Long curly hair, dark, not black, almost a deep, deep purple...
There is a man with a black security tshirt.
in a holey black tshirt smoking a cigarette.
outlined in detail through the thick, black cotton.
all the auburn and black...
Now I have the black dog and the black and white fluffy dog piled with one another on the porch sofa.
Navy tights (black?)
my black & white dog,
the brown and black dogs
run through blackberries and snakes.
With our black,
black dog.
With the salty dogs, and black.

from momentos preciosas

Sleeps in a black & white curl.
I can just see her black & white prance  
and her black leather couches
and black leather couches.
Black magic.
Blackness symbolizes
death wears black.
a black hoodie zippered dress.

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!

things we know about me:

I am 26 and a half today; it means that at every moment I come closer to being 27. 

Really, at every moment I come closer to being 28, and 31, and 46.

I have a dog. She was dirty, but then it snowed & she ran in it, and suddenly she's crystal clean.

I usually call Fat Tire Flat Tire but it's often the only beer in my mother's refrigerator. I unpacked it from her luggage; she moved the beer from california in august.

I am no longer sick.

I can wear pants, if I like.

I'm wearing these pants I got & wore everyday in london. I am wearing wool tights underneath.

There is snow & blue sky outside, and it reminds me of chicago at its wintry best. The crunch beneath my bootheels satisfies.

I am not hungry.

I am aware of my jobs.

I am ready to play pool & to drink pitchers. 

I am ready to wake up in different places, like colorado, and a tropical island, and new york.

I will paint my room the colors of the painted desert, once I have a room to paint. 

My fingernails are way, way too long.

I hold no grudges.

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.

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

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.

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.