a song for love in the new year

songs with women's names
the number 14
the light of the moon, near full
I avoid it!
 I don't avoid it
I avoid the urge to
my ring slipping round my finger,
  maria        laura        marlene

a train   choos

   10:53 pm, tomorrow
(this time of year, the nights fall longer)
so let your beard grow round your neck
and your torso
and past your new boots
and down my throat

make me toast

        read your fortune!
        little new-year son

I always have liked
the german pronunciation
for marlene

the soft lilt,
the forgiving!
                         (do you remember proclaiming
                           that you'd never love someone
                           that you'd never love someone explaining
                           that you'd never truly love someone
                              who's never caught exclaiming)

  oh, me!


       hello, little new-year babe
        hellow, last smoke of smokes
       hello, pretty whistle
     of pretty, nearby train
        hello, sleeping city-that-won't
                                        the oh-she-won't-quit place

                               dreamy babe,
                              I've never said this to anything
                            I've never been that guy
                              But I wanna die in You

      and, therefore
    thereby

    tinkle
         tinkle
               tinkle
                      little bell, ring
                                           ring
                                               ring in me
whistle past our bedscapes

hotcruster

a couple of women came into the coffeeshop
one wore a shirt reading,
  DUCT TAPE HAS 1,001 USES-
    toilet paper isn't one of them
she carried a tote bag
on it was printed menopausal wine puns
LIFE IS A CABERNET
LIFE, LIKE WINE, GETS BETTER WITH AGE
and
LIFE'S SHORT, LET'S WINE
her huskyvoiced buddy tried to order a rum & coke, but we don't serve that here
so she
asked for a glass of chardonnay, as she puffed on her electronic cigarette.
today a lady complimented me on the grubby bandana I have hanging from my neck
I laughed, thinking she's
probably never seen something so dirty
but she can't smell it, so
it's a nice statement (her words)
I went swimming last night at 9
topless, in the 109 degree sunset
the air cooled to a temperate 98.6 degrees
the same as a sweltering jungle
but for me, it was only perfect
I sat there, with friends
with a corona, of course
thinking about being 30 & loving coronas
& being 30 & loving the eagles concert I'll be attending
I said goodbye to ian
until we take our northwest tour
to olympia, to portland
to goodbye the rainforests
but right now I can't keep open big dryeyes
I like the heat in idaho
in july
it's 106 degrees
I like the sad you
but that makes me sad
it makes me sad that I want you to be
because I'm the jerk
want your asuffer
I want my friends to visit me at work
the sad one, with the sad life moment
and the tall one who makes me feel Good
the superficial kind of Good
because I've given up on That, for now
& I'm cool
with just swaying timelessly through the heat of the days
my claws withdrawn in cottonball paws
but I want to get scratched, a little
through the skin beneath the surface
in the ancient long nights
in the grass with you, on blankets beneath streetlights with you
because I like to be surprised
to be given a feeling of any sort
an alive kind of sorts
trying to keep my big eyes big
so no crust to calcify me shut
I won't shut
up
until I bleed
in some eventuals,
and I will
I will
I so will

regretless

I fell in love with a lithuanian name
he was my best friend, he shared his xanax with me from time to time
I would have anxiety attacks in those days
we would dress up
in ponchos
and feathers
and we would play pool and ride bikes and drink mountains of old style and sing karaoke everyday
and we'd have sex in soapless showers
he would sing, wouldn't it be nice? by the beach boys
but he had a longdistance love
and we both knew our time was short

on his last day in town
I discovered bloody marys
they were $1 at the bridgeport sports bar.
we stayed there for hours, playing pool, drinking thousands of bloody marys
the bartender stopped charging us for them.
there was a thunderstorm that night
and I knew I was going to cry
so I took off my shoes and climbed into a tree outside the bar.
I sat up there for awhile, screaming with the wind
& it was so loud I couldn't hear my voice.
I couldn't wind my thoughts & goodbyes.
I watched the lightning all around me.
I waited until I was finished howling
before I came down
my knees were bloody from scraping up the bark.
I went into the bar and borrowed a pair of scissors.
I cut the button I'd had dangling from a string around my neck
and I gave it to him.
he knew I was going to give it to the next person I fell in love with.
he told me that he loved me, too.
I cried all night while we laid in bed together,
he took off this grubby tiedyed shirt that I'd given him
so I could blow my nose on it.
I found it a couple of days later, smashed between the bed and the wall

I saw him again, 5 years later

his band came to town

it was my 28th birthday.
we sat in someone's convertible in the parkinglot outside the bar
and we talked about how we loved each other
and how we were
and how we were.
I wonder if I'll ever see him again

someone take care of it

someone put exhaust in the smoke
or maybe a body's trying to say something
we are a fantasy crowd.
we breathe out noses.
months away (not so very far distances away!)
  and I keep thinking how when I was in new york
  I really wanted one of those gold script ID necklaces
  that all the cool brooklyn babes would wear
and I'm not talking abt the williamsburg babes
highwasted jeans
long hair, big shades
with stick arms
I'm talking about the applebottom babes
  but I wanted one with my old boyfriend's name
  and the guy at the shop informed me that
No, this necklace should be mine
no boys allowed
it's a good thing I didn't do it
else now I'd have a necklace
of Adan
  and we're friends, I'll always love that guy
but I couldn't exactly wear proudly his namesake now, could I?
  how many chains could I wear
if I had all of the $$
  for all of the names
     of everyone I've loved?
just pounds of goldplated shines
  hanging from my grub neck
I'd have to have all of the world's $$, again
  and that would be a weighty take
     on forever

crushed velvet sausage

'90s dads

mine wore black raybans

with lightblue croakies

the saggy kind

rayon aloha shirts

with wooden buttons

so you can leave your shirt open at sunset

when you're on a boat or on a dock

having a gin n tonic in the breeze, I guess

tassel-shoes

or as dad called them,

fishy little loafers

meant for working

spandex bikeshorts

& a hotpink tank top

with a babyblue bandana tied loosely around his neck

and those raybans with the blue croakie

this is what my '90s dad was wearing when he met my highschool boyfriend

who thought dad was gay

for the next few months at least, though he didn't tell me till later

we renamed dad

Steve the Stud

which developed into

Steve the Two-by-Four

because every friday night he'd get us a papa murphys pizza

and some blaxploitation films,

and he'd put on a nice cornflower button-down

and he'd ask me how he looked.

Sometimes I would tell him to change his shoes, or to get out of those black socks

and he'd leave us,
with castration-scenes and rape-by-poolstick

and we would get really stoned
& drink the case of natural ice the river man bought for us

I'd die for her & she'd live for me

I did my best twenty hours ago. "Travis?" calls the lady in palepink tshirt, arms akimbo. "Yeah MOM" Travis the teen calls across. "We're leaving." Where do the tourists come from? I am afraid when people visit Boise. It makes nothing from them, to visit. Nothing for me. There is a woman sitting behind me on a booth. She is making sounds while she knits, something like a choke, a giggle, a sob. I don't understand but it gives me chills on the back, and I feel like I do. My dog puts her head in her bag; I have a bag, too. The reusable kind from winco. We are both ladies of the bag. I will stop everything now, you've said it. What I've already said in a sob, a giggle, & a choke. You are something, and I don't want you. Most of you are.

There is the one from last night. With the hairline's always been the same. You were eleven when I was born. What were you doing when you were eleven? you were wearing zippered pants, breakdancing. Smoking weed at the end of the culdesac. Taking acid. You had thin white-blond hair, you began to grow it out long. It takes you longer. I'm too there You know how to do it. Your bed smells nice. Your neck smells better than ever. My shoulders have it all over them. I defined metathesis for you. But I had to tell you again the next day. We drank ranier with ice cubes out of seahorse-adorned plastic cups. You want to ravage. I am thinking about you, about everyone else. You look like keifer sutherland, and I've always hated 24 even though I'd stay up all night to watch it. 

There is the one from nights & nights before. That one is faded away. That one knows everything, with another sweetsmelling beard. No heart on. Nothing left for it. The months have changed, haven't they? What more can we do?

There is one who hasn't ever been, and I will quit for you. But that is the only thing I can do, do for you. I am going to drive, but it won't be for you. You needn't worry. I won't ever hate anyone, unless first I love them. So instead I fade myself off & disregard. This has been weeks, week, any-number-of-them. & I'm getting number than them. 

Everything is so sad. 

not

Compliments Received In The Last 24hours:

even though it isn't it, you're still a really cool gal

you look like... whatsername... dana scully

I do take comfort in you

yeah, I knew your ass would be perfect

yeah, you knew it

yeah you knew it

yeahyou knew it

who cares, I'm goin to feed my meter & move into a new room in ONE WHOLE ENTIRE WEEK

I went home to the other old tiny home, and there was he with wildflowers he'd picked and fruit from the stand, and I was handed a glass of freshmade juice in the tiny mexican cup from chicago, and in it there were jalapenos & tomatoes & kales and my stomach just creamed confusion & he said, here I will put them in a vase for you. I try to explain this sometimes to you (of the other yous) and you couldn't care less. & how could I blame you?

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.

poem(s) for hair

from crepuscular orations

down below us was the white-haired man,
it was obvious the white-haired government man was looking for him
he was the gray-haired man's creation.
And smooth her hair.
hairball lichen,
hair lichens
while ratting my hair pre-bun in the reflection with a gold comb
blond-streaked hair.
sun through streaked hair.
their little powerful hairs breaking off and injecting me in various places.
My haircut looks far better
after my hair dries a little,
murmuring into hair
I am ready to cut my hair short.
And he murmured into my hair,
did my hair up and
a new haircut,
cuttin' hair n' drinkin
there is a pile of hair on the naturalist book.
Showed off a new haircut
with the new power-short hairdo,
my hair fixed in back.
The overweight woman with that awesome short hair, highlighted blond
lips and curly dark hair
pretty hair flowed in the breeze of the window...
thick beautiful dark hair
handholding darkhaired tall boyfriend,
through hair
thick long hair
looking up sweetly through dark hair
he looks good naked and has great hair.
So hairy & toothless.
Long curly hair,
hairy, too!
I cried & pulled my hair in the shower
is it his curly aubergine hair?
long-haired, young.
My hair and the captivating sunlight of your glance,
a haircut for me.
His aubergine hair & scented breath & shoulders & neck...
pulling my hair & sobbing silent
this terrible longhaired hero
only in the identical hair & mustache beard zone.
my armpit hairs growing out, now,
his hair-covered body,
hair.
Let our hairs grow longer.
Hair pulled back,
like longhaired men.
Aubergine hair, if possible,
amazing hair
even hairy.
I need to wash my hairs.
the hairless undereyes...
the hairline behind sweet smelling ears...
hair excellent,
hair in his hands.
I have nothing but soft hair,
his hair in my hand,
and hair hidden.
Hair & beard in hand.
The dark hair.
my hair is a wild riot.
Every minute he'd kiss my hair.
but her hair looked amazing.
He has redbrown eyes like his hair
cut my hair off.

from momentos preciosas

The henna crept from my hair,
why not brag about hair.
My face inches from his dirty long hair.
A few people with that mangy horrible hair.
I had to let go of my purple sweater and haircomb...
he was the beautiful boy I dragged home by the hair
with her cute haircut,
The porcelain lid to a hairbox.

poem(s) for breathing

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating.
my breath hasn't come in gasps,
and then I am up and breathing again for a moment;
I am no longer breathing in hefts.
his shallow breaths,
guilty breath
is like a breath
the true breath I utter is not to be used
sighing, breathing,
I'm breathing him in as much as I can.
and his breath, too smells good somehow,
I'm breathing little smoky breaths into the pillow.
my breath was caught,
combining to form words of thick breath,
the sound of my breath echoing over a postcard.
every breath I breathe a worse one.
aubergine hair and scented breath & shoulders & neck...
Then we breathed in our cigarettes, wide-eyed.
He began to emit short breaths and low moans.
in the same breath.
and his breath I disliked,
breathing into my neck,
just breathing, slowly, slowly, slowly.
and he's nearly breathless.
Now we can all breathe sighs of relief!
His breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
That burning heartchoke and breaths of slight ecstatic jubilation.

from momentos preciosas

and he chuckled and breathed like a maniac and he understood. 

the invention of romances

(songs of yesteryear)

4:32 pm 19 November 2006…

To make self feel better?               Douse the flames in the eyes with hot coffee and endless headaches. I’m slashing around inside myself and running around crying & let out a few screams, too. Because no one is here. No neighbors coming around suspicious, no one wanted to know. Am I alone or lonely? do I want to be alone for a week or do I want to be with someone consistently, one who Cares with that Inner Depth Care that goes down from his core and penetrates into mine? like that.              Trying to decide if I can ignore dehydration induced headache and still take a cold ride on an old silver bike to Skylark for tater tots and beer and to read Cormac McCarthy. Isn’t the best plan… I cried and cried and then I quit after talking to charles on the telephone who really does care and I made coffee and read some geology… enough, or I tried to, at least. I can’t make anymore lists of things to do. I can’t chart out my day. I can’t say I have to do this or I have to do that and within these hours, though sometimes it works okay to do that. Because there are too many possibilities and variables, and I know that. And I should drink water because I want to know hydration. And I want to have a clean room, and a sufficient knowledge of geology, and I ate something so I’m alright there, but then there’s wanting to get out of the house which I haven’t done in two days, I know that would be good for me, really good, and I could get a bit of exercise on that big rickety bike and see something new. Reading in a bar, a warm bar with beer and cigarettes and tater tots for only an hour or two. Make a new friend. And not have to be here all day- I absolutely have to do it. And before charles gets home, though it doesn’t seem like he’s running to get home anytime soon. For which I cannot blame him. I’m okay, you’re okay.

Saturday 10 November 2007: 4:46 pm

Unable to decide what to wear to work, as a stoned girl tends. Wishing I didn’t have to go, could instead go to see múm play, again, which was most beautiful... Felt like it was true to me, so I went all and by myself especially, knowing especially to be by myself. Lovely, smoking a spliff alone in the londonesque new york city rain, on the steps of the beautiful old myrrh-scented cathedral. And I haven't really a notion of the smells of myrrh, truthfully.            And the days drifting away… silly me, I have this pass, the unlimited MTA pass I found in the stonehome wine bar bathroom. Could have taken a tour of something lovely today… but perhaps tomorrow I’ll go to coney island by my c Aw cut it out molly, always you by your lonesome. Cry me more, if you can! Because it’s not true, of course. I’d prefer oftentimes someone to be around when I see and hear things. Amazing things sometimes better shared. Maybe I’m disillusioned with my best friendship, whether or no it’s still developing… I suppose it is, but won’t I be irritated by it? When we have energy, still; it doesn't provoke a thought. That’s because the boy with whom I’m spending my time is… ? He constantly spews new-age clichés then I remember the lines of poetry spotted in his notebook and I can say, I could never love you. I definitely can’t justify that! So the idea was to throw something of mine at his new-age reactions (R.W. Emerson, friends), so that maybe he could get his face out of that celestial psychedelic haze. But most likely not, and who cares I guess if we never talk about anything that makes me think or know or react… aside from emotions, facts, histories, feelings. His thoughts and relations on such subjects are definitely worthy of every attention. But… bla bla bla. If he’s not soft to me, and he’s not warm, then he’s a buttery knife. And leaves me uncut and greasy.               I’m a slut for lovely uselessnesses. I’ll keep inventing romances where I can. With urgent frequency!!

13 November 2008

I feel rather like I should initiate a part two for this thing, as the days have passed into months and it’s a wonder I can type. Still. And now to open the journal, not for the sakes of pleasures or poetries, but for plans… Although one can see it, plans equaling plans & poetries, really. Because as I intend, I do to find Portland my new home. And I want to, am very ready to leave New York but instead of energy it makes me tired. I am tired of wanting to, just want to already, of course. But there are many things a must.

18 November, 2009 1:02 pm

This is a different story I want to start. This is, it’s the newyear. As you probably know, I am nearing on twenty-five and a half. Do you understand how sad it is to say that I have kept a diary since the age eleven except for the year around two-thousand-nine? What! I am supposed to be smart, ticklish. Maybe I have lost it all, myself, desire, in a flood of adult-hood. which of course I don’t even have. Oh! But I need to, must, have to. I am 35 years old, seeming. This is serious. I absolutely must, like whenever I finally get my fucking belated period I’ll start taking my own temperature at the birth of day. Everyday, then afterwards, since I’ll be awake and it will be eight am, I’ll start to write. Just a little at first, maybe, but it will be like stretching, or praying. I have this in me still. And when I read them all, the beauties, the geniuses, they make me cry and make me think how could I ever do it. Thank you, thank you solemn baritone. Thank you letters & words abounding. And thank you, self! only five pages into the year! is everything that meaningless & dead, grown away to float with out a feeling. Is it, then? and the inspirations, how will you really thank them? and can you.              I saw her the other night, kari, last Friday. I rode my bicycle to her house. Before that I met adan to eat. He was certain to order the foods before I got there; my arrival was nearing six o’clock. So I did and there a spread lay before me; a quesadilla with a sweet jam inside, a plate of nachos with sweet oregon cheddar, and a lovely little macaroni n’ cheese on an ovular plate, with those charming crumbles of baked bread.              Oh, my! Such unusual justification. What of this? I dressed in the coat, but it was cotton, but it didn’t matter for it wasn’t raining at all. At the Alberta store we found a pair of magic gloves. The gloves fit around my hands, I could tell I’d be warm. I kissed him for awhile; his neck was warm and pungent of him, and I loved him all the more. He is so good sometimes & and lately.             The ride was west down Alberta street, and a left on Vancouver. Down the lovely hill and across & over to broadway, that gorgeous view from the broadway bridge. The darkness of the river water, the warning clouds above in grays and cobalt. And nearing upon her adult apartment, and she in her tall high-heeled boots, and her black leather couches and large screened television set, and blonde professional roommate who reminds us of course of a girl we know of a different era.               It was like always it should be! After she applied a liberal application of bronzer to my face we were off on the street – should we take the streetcar? – no, let’s just walk – in new york we walk this distance five times over just to avoid the train... And to a bar where we sat all dark & redlit, and talked of the girls of the past, those names of the eighties. One is nearly engaged, depression & mania. I almost nearly made reference to a buoy, on accident of course.               And thanksgiving, in Boise, across the mountains: the Blue Mountains... 

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.

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.