I wrote a poem at you in my sleep but I forgot it instantly

there is always a you in the you I talk about 

spurts of months ago

acid wash

the act of being worn out

I dreamt I was to do the charleston in an auditorium of people but my dress was too long, and or I also was wearing pants beneath it (the long thin breaths in a bed beside me in real life) so I called, tiny voiced, Wait, and of course I'm dreaming of all of my bags and luggages, filled with things like ski pants, the hippest new threads for shredding the gnar-gnar on sale now in Hailey, Idaho. I parked my car next to the dancefloor and half an our of my changing into flouncy layered skirts I was asked to move it, I was skipped, relieved. I had sex with an obese black man who'd come from the Twin Cities to find me. some grandparents almost wouldn't let him in. analysis: I'm moving, don't know where I am have all of my things billowing from backpacks & car don't want to go skiing don't know black people lament for being missed don't know how to dance but want to be before a crowd

analrapist

therapist

it's overcast & so am I

at this internet cafe

fresh out of bed

fresh dirt sheets, chill out I'll wash them

we've jobs to do to end a vacation 

ants in the bedlam.

the real really happening

The new day, old songs. Is it easy to tell, now? Until tomorrow. If it has been at least two weeks, and untrustable they are to bring the truths to us. How truthful is enough. How much does one say to make another comfortable. How often does one say it before lying. How likely am I thoughtless of the others. How deep am I swimming in it. How much does he mean it. How real is really happening. 

Gravity, and the slides in my head through the night. I dreamt of charles last night again; it had been years since we've seen one another, and he lived in a bus or a plane where I peed on the carpet, then shrugged it off coffee spilt from the real gray cup from which I absolutely drank throughout the short night... here there was also a tiny espresso machine... and he familiar height & body of years and years and years. I kissed myself upon waking.

Hot to it. / Fall summer. a melancholy feeling

songs of yesteryear:


2007, 1 september

Hot black rooftop on A view. for miles the skyline, clear in a thin blue veil. perfect from afar. Lovely cloud puffs and delightful blue sky. This heat’s too perfect and lonely, it burns my legs just laying next to it.




2006, 1 september

Fall a feeling morning I dreamt being somewhere standing closely but not touching, or maybe touching but not kissing awoke so clear and real melancholy a summer.