voyage of my house around the sun

Moving from the cardinal to the blue jay. Feeling like anything past 11am is late in the day; watching as the sun moves around the house, around from the one window to the back window (through which it shines now) and around back to the kitchen (never truly shining hard but lighting a little) and then the diningroom for the rubber plant who won't grow more leaves but also won't die, and then finally by 3 through the front window for the palm trees and the rooms I never spend any time in

I am obsessing over the sun lately. The dog (the pointer) lays in her weird jump-ready manner in the one bit coming through the back window, now. On the little brown cabin rug. She always tries to lay in a beam of light, I do understand. It's hard because it's now left the bed (11:53 am, no sun on the bed) and it instantly feels colder in here, and I also am at peak anxiety at noon on account of how many cups of coffee I've had & how many more I'd like. And the sun sets in 5 hours, this I know because I visit sunset park each day now and watch the sky turn pink and watch the electric salmon mirror metallic off the buildings of the financial district way over on that rock island that looks close, looks far, is close, is far.

somewhere

I am a little beast in here, a beast for you 

babe.

who has fingered me? don't stop touching on me. don't use your words at me, leave your swoll fingers afar from. I'm grippable. take my city from me, push it out my holes, fill my brain with other-fluff, the stuffs of else. I already knew, read ahead in all the books of this. once I was at your house and we were fighting, I was in the bathroom and you put on fade into you by mazzy star and I started to weep. I thought it was an example I could grip, of you connecting to me. and you hadn't any idea I felt your playing this song to be a reaching out for me. I started to cry because it felt like we were in the same place for once in awhile. you were hearing & responding & sending it back out. but then you changed the song in the middle, and I looked at my tearface in the mirror and the illusion was spoiled. welcome back, I said to us. but always remember, to never understand should never be a surprise maker.

on the clock

finally & see everything
I'm alright with my voice enough
  just us, hear the sound around what I make
can be a beautiful music
or a beautiful temperate weather
material list,
eternity ring lessness
this is how we do this is how we
  justify
making all that money
  standing around with a beer in my hand
  standing all over the place with hands and my beers and my limbs
  if this was a poem that would write itself
I'd be in the echo room
I'd be the coolest echo in the room
but I'm a remaining here, now
I'm a present here, now
but my room is so vacant
and so gorgeous
I wish I could
sure you
what's inside with you?
I didn't me, don't me
  to find someone who wants to be
    inside
I'd ME two
I dare me to
sometimes I look at myself in the mirror
and sometimes I think you'll love me

it's humid

it used to fuel, it is letting itself go, look at it
all shab, all grub
it's avoiding the mirror lately
it hasn't any pets anymore
everyone's in a flat great fucking mood
puddles are lying
reflections of trees
like our CITY OF TREES tattoos we're getting
it rained very early this morning
I want to know how to barometer
how to measure the letting-yourself-go
in length of body hair?
in width of copper chain stain on dirt neck?
in amount of bodyodor emanating?
in a caliper of fatroll?
I just googled the word WHATEVER
but I haven't checked the results
it's 70 degrees, 53% humidity in boise
it's 97 degrees, and only 47% humidity in new orleans
I know how to do this in the wet
so let's get it ONNNNN

waterbed

I don't know whether I can do this, stay the rest of the night outside

but there's the cerulean edge light

over the silhouettehouses

and the earlymorning carsounds, bc it's worktime

I woke up to the sprinklers on me

soaking halfbed

thanks for helping me move furniture so late/early

but I'm determined to get beneath blankets I'm dreaming of these blankets, too

sticky feet

tuck me in, unfold around me

I'm dreaming of how badly the blankets smell

how gross they all are

and I'm wondering at a full sleep

and I'm wondering at going to the dr today

and I'm wondering at will you really hold my hand while I get this done?

and I'm wondering at will you promise to keep up how we talk to one another

  even with drs and nurses and strangers in the room?

GET IT

GET IT as you hold the mirror by my thigh

I have a million beans growing inside of me

it's the best

I am a gaseous system, I'm pretty out there

I can feel all the beans dance

have a funparty in my bod

I've always had a partybod to share with all of the worlds, you know

hey, do you know me? in a wet bed, with a dog, sleeping in silk in flannel, outside

  sometimes

sleeping is fun

 I miss it when I don't have it

  but I am no longer good 

   too good for sleep

    to party for sleep

     to wet for sleep

      too date for sleep

things we do to damage ourselves

   put your head between the two speakers & lay upside down so your organs can slide back, loud as you can
   hold the knife blade in, but gently
   never quit
   never quit
   never quit
   take drugs that half the time urge you to kill yourself
   tell your friends you want to kill yourself
   let music & only music hold you
   lament the past efficiently
   get pleasure from tears
   destroy yourself for crying
   give up
   forget someone you thought you'd love forever (a celebration in this like your very last birthday maybe)
   starve
   stay up
   fall in love with your own heartbeat
   let your own heartbeat drown the world out
   isolate yourself in you, as if you're the best hiding place
   dislocate
   disavow
   distrust
   promise
   expect
   forget why you came, pretending you never intended to
   keep your heart a secret
   keep your brain in your throat
   keep your mirror as a pet
   wish
   hope
   look behind you with watery eyes
   call the best poem you've ever written a tear-stained page in a diary
   forget your own beauty
   call yourself a genius
   call yourself a retard
   kiss anyone who holds your hand
   make truth out of whatevers
   say I don't know
   tell someone that you do, and they won't
   watch yourself go
   write bad poems
   thinking they're like a bath
   thinking they're just words
   try
   stone face smiling
   ignore
   revenge

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

i swear a mourning dove lives beneath the awning

today I'm like the actor in monochrome when the movie is like heavy

like saturated reds & greens, that kind of movie

way newer than technicolor, but still the thick dense 8mm sort

that thickworld

& I'm the one with the umbrella, but it isn't raining

so the other actors walk around me down the streets,

avoiding me because

umbrellas always have those sharp stabbers when the rubber things fall off

which I think always they do,

and it's even worse, doing this, because

I've always hated umbrellas.

I've always thought

so I will be wet

so my hair will be fuzzy

so my eyes will tear up

so my coat darkens.

but the rain on a face,

nice, nice

nice

nice

& the other actors mill about avoiding

but they're uncertain, mostly, why don't I see the sun &

the saturated red & green?

but I mean, they're just actors so probably they aren't thinking that at all.

it's really hard to tell, I mean

impossible to tell

what the others

could possibly be thinking

it's okay because I won't stop thinking of what others could possibly be thinking

and what they would think if I told them what I was thinking

or even would they think anything at all.

I had this box of coffee which mostly just spilled onto the floor of my car.

I had a beer in a jar.

I went to the thrift store, and there was an ad on the radio about how boise interior design & co or something supports the christian radio station

what was it

not the teachings

not the services

oh, oh

the duty

yeah, the duty. doing a duty deed

& so in the spirit of it all I bought a child's forest camo tee

like the kind with the leaves

& the branches

& I paid a man drinking a sprite

and he sort of stood there for a second, I think deciding what to do with this sprite in his hand

so he settled on setting it down. He had a superlow voice

& this steady uncertain movement

of a recent believer, or a recent exsmoker, or a recently having been given-birth-to, again

and he said: with fondness, & a struggling sentimental: I'll bet this is for your little boy, isn't it

and I almost lied

no

I said I don't have any children

& he looked me over

and he said, oh, I see, you're small

did he say small bodied?

I left because the beer in the jar was getting warm

& I had looked in the mirror

& my clothes were so drab

so like end of summer, hating on early fall because it will become winter so can't look at the

pretty present

but instead at the sad torturous months ahead, sad futures

it's that sort of outfit

but I'm not that sort of girl

I don't hang in the treacherous promise future

I hang with the heart in my chest kind of present

my brain

my bod

my chipped teeth

they are good for tearing flesh

they are good

for caring

caring flesh

& this morning

& right now

I hear the low moan of a mourning dove, and it sounds so close I think it just must be tucked under that stupid stripe-ed awning

which is pretty nice

it's pretty nice

It's we from the branches, inevitably

prettylittle 88 - 91

It’s we from the branches growing forth! I can go, I've resolved. You’re the best thing, you get me inspired to sleep. I really have nothing more to plot.

I love you so I work pleasant. I’m too happy to have anything to say. Climax I don’t want to live without, and we’re close for our bodies tend to be right now. Events denude you… But eye-contact and you still are really more pure & naturally. I took to deprive of time, with the afraid, remorseful, amazing something... We’re different now, and I know we’re speaking intensely, physically. I get to stare at myself, to strip at certain points things of which I’m sure; illness & depression uninspired in the mirror, all surface layers needed desperately. Nothingness after.

Avoidant the whole time, bare by erosion, with you and death and in need of pruning too, which is always fun. To strip you fully, showering, I can’t wait to look.

Land of forest, a deep breath and it relates. Keeping a mirror at my bones. As we pass by her eyes for a moment, I quote a pet, old and grimed: poking through every denuded woods, I can’t justify what I’ve done… I’m unafraid. Long since mossed over. I’m starving, you know. Depurative. I know well that I have a new grave and so it goes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- epilogue

O, how much I bathe! Caring, younger & younger. I'm killing the point, purifying me; I try not to be. Solemnly. I’m a purgative love, jealous but celebratory. In renunciation, inevitably. All the hope for me.