molly

rollin down the brown sagecovered hills
home at the new ultramarine morning
  you said I'll be one of the five people you think about
  on your deathbed, we all said quite a few nice things to each other
drove up in there
until we found the view
the orange city lines
blankets in the back, seats down & us all talking
I am a mellow bush
I want warm warm body
rushing me, it's jawing
I love a good bed
I love we'll love each other forever
I love you love I love you unconditional
a comfort that that is OK
bc we seem to be only a few of us
I am glad to have you all. if not your warmflesh in the touch-me warmflesh way
just your warmflesh always-love-me way

I threw a vase of flowers in the hills last night

I'm still a dream
I hear the morning and I'm still a dream in it I am the morning and I'm still a dream and it
I can't sleep anymore
sleep
long sleep sounds long
I was dreaming of this to other places
in the desert now
you've probably never even seen each other
the desert
I know you see me
we missed Mount Rushmore
I don't know that we missed anything
I have a good time up there in the hills
I make a pretty calm out of it
I wrapped many things up
the ground me
the brush me
the Coors under the stars
doesn't the sky
make you hotter than I do?
I love my eyes in the morning water
I am soft down bird today
and my chest is a pain
rocks & ridges
  recognize my voice
we can be the best winner I think
it's nice to think of you first thing in the morning
it's oh so daunting
and a little bit
death

as if you'd notice

It's early, it was sixteen minutes earlier when I wanted to write
I have been up since even more before that
I have smoke coming out my ears
I have nothing in my throat.
I am not a good friend
      to anybody
I go to bed before it's dark
& it won't be light for hours
I don't know how I feel about caffeine
and I'm halfasleep
with a project in mind
that could be dismissed as art-therapy for teens in distress
or it could be adulated
for its tenderness & honesty
and maybe it will be up on the walls
or sent on a plane to another country
between two mountain ranges
where I can burn it all up

ohwhell

I kissed five people in the last 19 days
but only one of them came
and one of them is out of the state
and one of them is out of the country
and one of them is desperate every night
and one of them is in "an open relationship"
and one of them I do like I think
but it isn't inevitable
with one I got undressed
with one it was slowmotion
one kissed across a bar
one was sober
one was gay
one was fat
one had beautiful dark eyes
one was tall & ugly
one had the palest thinnest hair
one had the softest beard
one can't grow a beard
one could never look at me
one could barely touch me
two of them made my bed the day after
but none had breakfast with me,
because I had to go to work in the morning

talkaway the nighttime

do I know what to makeout of you? not even trying, but desperate to. I have the familiar glasses, the quench, and maybe the too-many mentionings, but I am still in one place, and you have left already. but my place is still on the warm, late-night pavement, and my heart still beats beneath a barefoot, but yours has wilted in the slightest in the clearest, and it has begun some slither towards away. even the foods I want don't exist. is it the overabundance, the apostrophes, the apostrophe's. I don't remember you like I should, only I could see perfectly in gesticulations, in caricature. this looks french. your beard in your bathroom, in your couch, in your shower making your hair in snakes, your sad mouth, your eyes looking because they do, right. I can answer that question even if we never speak anymore, still. did we argue into the morning? did we disappear into the morning?

tell me I'm right tell me I'm wrong tell me there's nobody else in the world & who could care? longhair, louisville, mymorningjacket is playing on tuesday

how many of us are there? & you do sometimes tell. but it's cryptic, it's deathly, it's in the ground for you already. but I amn't. & I will try to never will be. I will outlast the saddest-most, the fingers-through-my-hair-most. the ones with the eyecontact, the ones with the hands twice as big hands, long & thin ones too. tendrils in humidity. fine in the talking small. & I know not how to hideaway.

today is for the mouths conjoined

Today is the difference. Recrudescence. The beginning and the making new. Early yet, wet hair in lavender, leaving lavender sprigs behind the ear as a note. The warmth of a house, the windows shut up unlikely, unlike I, usually, tend to be, or to want.

It is enough, to want. I won't try a thing, and the omittances will remain things of doing, will remain the regular occurrences. The ways in which to do it, to make it. What I am making? a promise at myself, selfsame promise made of months. to read, to drink in the words, to eat & ingest the thoughts about them. And distractions weigh heavy, for to sit elsewhere than this bed on this morning is to say, too much is doing. I want not but to drink & eat & swallow & savor your words and notices, and to share and feed it in conjoined mouths.

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. 

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.

my waste is quieted

From the early morning I toss around, considering arise and a flow of me into day. The black & white animals surround, and I, limbs askew on tiny bed free, awake. I don't have obligation to the telephone, or to the doorbell. I have my own rose portals, portrayed through a door and the dog, I prey, won't sound a cry at the basic intrusions. They live all about, quiet as gnats, save when the fruit grows foul & the flies move, multiply. My sun shivers, my sound shivers in an isolated building's edge kind of way, like the glimpse of a glimmering skyscraper scrape against the blue back of a day. The backgound, and in it revs a distasteful engine. And mine own engine in it's revolutions per second, imploding high to headache heights. Piercing the sky. Mine own revolutions carrying me so. Bite me, we do.

treading warm breath morning

just like a kiss the morning starts, without me. her furred feet warm against me, the darkness more night than day, is. the voice like dreamtime maker trading against my headwalls a subtle beat & throb melody. I'm falling past the night now. I don't pull on them, the hairs, and I can see nomore the big gold spider recently webbuilding above the sewing machine. funny should they choose the places used oftenest, or at least of late. just to dare us to keep working. much better than dust gathered. and let it, then, let them all build their intricate perfect villages throughout the subaru. the dog moans, is having a dream. the paw pressed on my leg still warmly twitches. she breathes, should I wake her? Is Dreaming Away, Ida. Let her dream, let the spiders watch & wait for still opportunity.

true I had fallen asleep

pretty little, 45 to 48

True I had the corner of the mouth, a resemblance adamant, expensive. I feel between about my making nonmetrical. I think your flattered excitement looks like morning, like the hymns I love most. And nausea beats, it could be for her. Sleep chants used, something about you in my little chest. Remind me uncomfortably, a song I say. Just kiss the corner of one another to oblige.

The poem, around my mouth it disturbs. I open my eyes in hymn, large and delicate. So constantly around sleep. To praise ornate, with a white lace displaying of one another. My only thought is of you and porcelain. Spontaneity makes mentionings, appears a strange man in my canticle. His size varies from tiny confident, only just remembered that I was, too. I can't help but to cantillate, to chant large constantly for us. He tried to intone the crystal truth that I’ve mentioned to him so. His arm around me, we capered; champagne could never be much. I declined with a tired dance, the flute crowding him. A year he left in a lively, delicate display. Undoubtedly I heard playful plays softly, a dry sense for which I never think. The shower is formal, old-fashioned, which I like but don’t look for.

When he came back, he was a person placed. Neatly was he in the high-pitched laughter on  a street. I’m sure dressed, tending to lapse. Last night seeing him again, blue objections still bouncing in bed. An effect tucked in. I reeked of carapace; my skeleton, rotting rotting away. I’m getting boring, of course. Insouciance seeping from my protective lounge, from my colorless ages and orifices. And flesh, decorative or disgusting, emerald eyes that always matter.

Meet someone in a half shell, buxom, buxom… cute but asleep. After an hour I was light, automatic and ruby, nearly colorless. Up north to hear this, my decorated hair pearlescent. in the negative weather so beautiful, desire supporting the skin. Minutes I knew to never stop time. Coffin of amethysts it wasn’t to see. Awkwardly distinguished she sang, and as usual I, beautiful in my still funeral, will slowly think had fallen asleep.

ringlets dripped down of wind

& the hot spicy tastes lingering awhile down my throat. This morning was looking too good could be true, I saw through dizzy fogged eyes out a window and through a fan, the orangeyellow leaves fluffed out a bit now, not drooping sad in the view. The sky a perfect ocean wash; I could see the tides breaking from where I sat squinting. Like a to be hot day on the coast, but during that time of pre-heat, (though in truth I think proves perfect out, and oh such fall. Autumnal in all its obviousness. I will never close these parentheses. My hair has little knots at its ends. I let the fan blow no matter the temperament of day. I like the slow accordion sound. I like the spicy herbs, dandilion leaves. I like the cold ankles, the anticipatory shower, & poems written for you, & the little documentations of love, & the secret smile at corners of my mouth (in regard), And those trees everblowing more and more orange everyday! Like to change the seasons, already! And the full hunter's moon, tonight, which is why then I stopped to bleed, which is why I urge vocally in silence for you to return to me, this subtle soft sour I have for you, to glean in these bright fields, to roam among my fattened deer. & something about the excitement, feeling heartbroken when hearing a peice of music or reading something tantalizing, and falling in love & dying in the same moment at the fear awe of something so bewildering, so great; and this all of this is a bit like that but without the right words to describe. Every minute & then again every week-end. But my moon is bright and my deer are fat. And my arms stay open late.