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.

chamberpot

sitting in the dark of the culdesac,
it's funny bc it's halfair of night summer birds and
desert flowers & perfect roses
but half also the foul sewage some nearby place, human waste afloat
we're human wastes wafting, too
long arm me
say, I'm sad that you're leaving
so I can say, No you aren't
how could you be?
how could you know I'll never like you enough
how could I teach you what dtf means
how could you insist again, thrust the acronym on me
tell me I'm a really cool girl, okay
let's go with that, it gets me places
impress people with my lightness? a quickness
I don't even notice it
it's 3:33 am, repeating
& if you hadn't danced like that,
I wouldn't have attempted such an acronym myself
I'm trying to acroname me, here
but the odors of the earlymorning on the foothills' roots
of the way things have always smelled there
and new miasmic winds from this recent development, the upturned earth, the toilets & bowls for our newrich filth,
are reminding me too much
of all of the world's beauties & disappointments
I've got an appointment with alone,
with the softbodied dog
with the blank page
& by the time I'm in bed, staring at it
I've forgotten the inside letter I've composed to you
bc of course I still unreadily compose them
(you know).
I am not sad I'm leaving,
your long limbs longer
just longing at my acronyms
I'm just sad to still
be here, in the fresh in the gross
composing at an invisible dead eye, ear, heart
& to hear you say that we were once in love
is like the crush of night
and the wash of earlymorning birds thrusting their calls at me
and I want to tendril down the drainage, too
for you
and very, very away from you
at a ravaging pace

loveletter

take me two minutes

I think it's mostly what I have to show you only

a dose is a choice

a little sip I've shoved

give me your ear

give it me

or cut it off from you.

our hearts aren't echoes

can't beat a solemn rock wall

my voice can't reproduce 

in little interruptions of itself

but can be listened-to, can be

archived

or erased

or erased before it exists

by your fingers

if your brain gets to them first

or maybe you'll keep your ear in your heart please

sitting casual before bedding true enough

prettylittle 9 - 14  

       

He just sitting casual makes me from parts into a whole

within windows & radiated anymore.

Enjoying I think the condition of being so collected.

Yours and maybe you I want,

if I should ever be to commit here in the light.

Ahead of it this anxiety-feeling I’ll just call of hostility

while in a daze for you.

Mine is to see & feel ecstatic,

to make awake to be whom I will,

immediate.

An attack, killers to kill each. Obvious. They are, prompt, & being. You never see, actually. 
In response you are awake & throwing still. Probably never I can see the readiness & you suddenly feel that too much. In my life from where I’m sitting formal, suddenly into sleep.

To talk to him… I only think I see speech especially. Your wisdom okay for that truth. Why aren't you oratory in nature? I remember that there is no reason to talk, to please. I want to make: that heat running me up & down. 

Now forget that plans for us wait. Denoting the talk, he... I. 

Love bones. 

People exist for this. That contains, it will get hot enough to have. 

Of course I’ve the upper teeth to blow through

it’s fun to won’t, 
it’s black, 

with you a consonant through at me. Get in bed

and for that, just for us to foam on our tops. Pronounced when my head reaches to. 

Enter tip of tongue, temperate as the gazing fact: 

I’m sitting alone, at or on or near this ridge

the sun. And the hands on him now be large. 

Ameliorate! the sun, hips to go against, 

I keep thinking to make something care. 

Waist, neck, and everything attempting. Someone will see better. 

I’m sweating myself a finger behind the ear. 

At just this moment find me. Amity explosive. 

Stroking a stubbled chin it would be interesting. 

Grease congeals me cleft to lower myself to myself and 

begin anathematic. To this and then that, 

the most useless of positions

strange & heated.

Relating. Spills drips down goes away and 

he shouldn’t be given me his conversation. 

Something me, onto me. 

Remember me with me. 

Vehement, hurry, before I bed true enough.

poem(s) for warmth

from crepuscular orations

Sunny and warm.
stopped in the red, warm trunk of a fallen douglas fir,
warmth of sun on faces,
I can feel with the warmth
the beautiful breeze & warmth of sun
and the sweet-smelling warm air.
It is warm but the breeze blows.
The warmth of his hand on my neck,
sensitively, lovingly, warmly, openly?
It's very warm, of course, even hot...
Laying with you is warm.
when he arrives he'll greet me semi-warmly
I can still close my eyes and find you warming down me.
an opportunity to embrace him when he's warm and effulgent.
I need reaction, warmth, a listening ear,
And the warm sun,
She is so warm and open when it is in her best interest;
my new canada goose coathood warm around my cashmere scarfed face...

from momentos preciosas

I am warm & my hands are dry, such as wintry hands go in warm rooms.
I retrieved my warm laundry
and I could tell I'd be warm.
His neck was warm and pungent of him.
And the tea is still warm,
my feet are pressed up against the warmth of a space heater.
it's warming a bit tomorrow
all smooth and warm and everpresently pressing.
warm, but distant.
we could agree on the state of warmth.

18: sneezebush thornwort

After a time of sitting by, I feel a sneezewort rising, and there in the blue haze of morning the turkey of wild dancing by. And she moves, shakes, scattering feathers, inches towards the duck of wood. My dragon funnel erect, attentive; lubricants dripping the snowball bush. The hawk soars calmly, investigating the upgrowth of newborn kidney lichens. The birds weave and wind, creating a six-pointed star in the tall grass rippled with ring lichens. My ear perks, the sound of a snowdrop a little yonder. A pheasant warbles and the thornbush lichens shed their weapons. 

enter enough, tip of true

prettylittle, 13 - 14

Enter tip of tongue, temperature as the gazing fact: I’m sitting alone, at or on or near the sun. And the hands on him now would be large.

Ameliorate the sun. Hips to go against, I keep thinking to make something care. Waist, neck, and everything I’m attempting. Someone will see better. I’m sweating myself, a finger behind the ear. At just this moment, find me. Amity explosive. Stroking a stubbled chin, it would be interesting friendship. Grease congeals me cleft, to lower myself to myself and begin anathematic. To this and then that, the most useless of positions, strange & heated, relating. Spills, drips down, goes away and he shouldn’t have given me his conversation. Something me, onto me. Remember me with me. Vehemently hurry before I bed true enough.

on spiders, and the music of

One hundred years later. The spiders work quickly, the sound unparalleled. The ship ship slides of clawed paws on old wood floors, meanwhile. The song sound, the worthy companion & her shuffle. The spider's silent webbuilding. Across the drawing, through the air connecting candles. Down in extension of my hair. In my ear marrying music to brain. My own fur & spines distracting, my little copper spikes trailing, & I see them each as little faults mine only. I look for you all the time, o recognisers!