I moved my goodnight

I moved my bed so it's parallel to the wall, between the two windows, still. I thought I would go to sleep with the red notebook, the one without lines. I used to write in it round my birthday last may when I lived at kari's club, and I was drawing pictures of flowers dying every day, and I was really stoned all of the time & I'd go to bed alone because I wasn't allowed guests. I would read kafka's blue notebooks until I got too bored or distracted or tired and then I would write a little something in the book and I would fall asleep. An example:

   19 May, bed

      You've a lot of work to do. Read    deal   finish/throw away  your library         move to New Orleans

I started again, writing in the red notebook, and it produces similarly, only I am not the devastated one I was in may. I am still sad to report that may of 2013 was historically one of the worst months in my recent years. it remains cloudy and dismal in my memory, and it has cracked something of my view of idaho or of impending summer or of love or hopefulness or something of those natures. I am still sad that I can't laugh at that. I had the sweet depressant in my skeleton. so many questions. I had begun to see luke and he knew me enough, made me come in the park, screams echoing and I snuck him in kari's club afterward but then in the morning I wanted him so gone. I was like that guy, we all know. I felt like the truest broken thing. it was late may by then. I was a dead finish. r

I made some apologies to them. I was sorry that I wasn't going to fall in love anymore. I was sorry that a whole, flat bland vacuum of the country was off limits to my wandering brain heart fingers breath. my best friend moved away, I moved away. I haven't smoked a real american cigarette in days, just the herbs of the world, it seems better for your health and for your pocketbook and for your roommates and for the smell of the world, right. I like to smoke while I cook, like while cooking things like chicken noodle soup for my boyfriend because I want to reach out to him, and he is sick, and I want to prove that I am good & careful & capable. there is science in the chicken soup thing, and I believe usually what I hear right away as the truth. why lie?

which reminds me I wish I had a cigarette paper. I would roll one of these good smokes. I have these little butts, but I, too, am ill. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be smoking, I almost almost even considered quitting smoking for someone this spring. may2013 killed notions of that, so I must have smoked 100,000 smokes over the last 6 months.

I liked smoking and cooking. I spent four hours in the kitchen, four hours at least maybe more. we have a nice big kitchen, and a table ben secured from a house where he was working, it came from someone who overdosed, he told us. it in the sorry for him, lucky for us voice. it's nice to sit at a table. I watched project runway and I ate sweet potatoes and rice from louisiana, and arugula from louisiana. I asked ben & colette to get me some rosemary from the store, and kayla looked at the show with me and we all tried my smoking blend. dan came in and he tried the soup and he told me not to overdo it with the parsley. we don't like to fight but somehow we are fighters.

I'm listening to rumours, which I'm waiting to remind me. ever listen to music expecting it to shock you back into something? after justin left boise I listened to all of the music he sent to me. he sent me music over the internet, and he sent me flowers once, which he probably purchased over the internet. we had an internet relationship & so I listened to rumours on the internet. it wasn't ruined for me, I keep waiting for that. I don't feel anything about it either way, the sting is gone. somehow that's a little disappointing to me, like it felt like so much back then and now it's almost as though nothing ever happened. like it should remain important? sometimes I'm such a dreamer.

I haven't been drinking or doing drugs or anything. I am trying to drink tea & lemon & ginger from louisiana. I have never lived in a place where I could eat ginger grown from my earth here. it feels lucky, but also like an of course kind of lucky.

I think the cigarette paper is the toughness I appreciate. I really shouldn't be smoking, but I feel justified. I still wonder. I met someone in florida named justice and I told him about things a little. I'm glad I love the south, and even though it bums me a little to feel so little, I'm glad to not feel the pull sting anymore.  goodnight

I will dedicate a tango to it (5/16/13)

define sentimental
blood red sentimental blues in the style of van morrison
when I was listening to van morrison I was thinking oh man
I'll bet he was like 23 when he made this album
because I was thinking, he had to be 22
and of course, he was
when I was 22 I was in a bloodbath
I had black hair
I weighed 113 pounds
I chased my own tail
I was sentimental
cleaning the sink with bakingsoda and vinegar
the gum red, it was dry
I threw a mango into the yard
I threw the ball for the dog a couple of times
I said what is sentimental and you told me it's the by-product that oozes from your pragmaticism

farawayapology

me, able me
me avoiding you me
I
ornate headdress
of emblazoned silver coins welded,
like the ones hanging in the carpeted booth of iraqi battle garb that one time I'm london smoking hash, gettong hiton
exemplar of exoticism
obscuring faces
I said, are you sad that I'm leaving
and you said yes, but this isn't written to you
I am writing, no I am thinking of you
I want to drive down the hill to the gasstation by the sandcliffs to talk to you there, I am sad that you're not
like he is, when I won't be
& I want you
to want to know everything. onlyuidred butdw fixszzcnallyzz like that.
I was drunk, not crying
but I was crying when you said you'd be sad. you're thinking of your parents, losing their minds
walking to the store for some scotch
getting lost on the way.
take the car away, sorry.
I learned last night
that the year my grandfather died
he was driving down bogus basin road
with his brother in law riding in the scrub seat
and the red jeep ended
upside down in a ditch
john would have been confused
and bruce would have been bitching
Goddammit! Watch my goddamn legs, you're hurting me! griping all the way to rescue
I'm griping towards rescue, I think
I'm guilty that I'm not here anymore, for you
I am a sorrygirl
but I am displayed allover
displaced thing
timing it to find
my parts in ditches, in ancient across-the-world rugs
behind weighty masks
an old kid
in a beatup wreck

spice juice

give the length of a sip trying for sun,

the grass always an unnatural shade

faster and fast crawls across

this time of day, meaning, this time of today

or a similar time, but yesterday

oh accidental chives!

oh concrete cubbyhole!

  & the waving nylon slap, whoosh

oh waving onomatqxrzzzdrzzzfzxzZ (onomatopoeia) 

red, always the dull sunworn red

  on flag day

on your staggered haphazard white poles.

pour hours into your glass

heat to serve it to leave it to cool

the tops are for you, they froze for you

finger them out, thumb them loose

they move away from your touch instantly

cringe away the cold, frozen moment

but thumb them, finger-to-mouth them

make them last till 9

with its highwilling sun

and longmoving shadows

 watch melt it

gather your hair in your hands,

  sunset glimmer grass of heat

  grass of heat of head

  mow your head in the sand

   guzzle your years by your roots

     melt melt melt drink

 do,

      only finally but

chub

last year bruce & I went to home depot

and we bought a little cactus

the kind with the beautiful red bulb for a hat

and the gentle spikes down its shaft

He named it Molly

When I left the house for good

he took care of all the succulents for me,

feeding them calcium supplements

turning them toward the sun

making sure their puffy leaves were full with juice.

But I came one day

to find Molly

half dried, petrified

rock-like

her swollen red top

shriveled & black.

Oh, I don't know what happened to Molly,

he said, eyes downcast

And then I took them away.

It was cruel but I took all those sucs away from him & brought them to my new house.

Then I took some back to him

because he could have just killed her,

smashed the pot

decapitated it

burned it alive

he didn't

he just stopped thinking about it

or he just disregarded it

or he liked watching it shrivel, waste away

but it didn't die so maybe there're tender gestures still

Now she's grown three tiny cactus arms, 

and she's reaching to sunlight

and she's chubbing up again with water light health summer

but she's still fucking ugly

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

bedtime

It's true, even though I say no, that I am hurrying around and it really doesn't look good. I always tell myself about patience, but I am so heavily off the edge that waiting for anything seems like a deathpush. I just took a shower and how unfortunate to bathe off the Payette from my hair & skin, and all are looking red & pale & curled & summery and also, I make all of these promises, and I have to keep them

to never tell them about you

to never tell you about me

to never talk more than I ought to

to never say a thing

& so unfortunate to be back, because there, I can remain resolutionless... but now I am naked, & under sheets, & with a fan blowing over me, and no one to joke with

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.

on nonboredom & revengespectations

The nonboredom, but the unwillingness to live hard. Maybe it's my blame on the lacking braincells, because of illness. It doesn't stop the beachparty popmusic, nor does it stop all the showers I take. The chapped upperlip is a result. The claws are not. I also am not stopped from wearing the bright red dress: it is a powercolor. How can one not smile consistently with all the confidence mustered? 

I have plans for us, for us too. It will take weeks, but I'll be placated meanwhile; my bruise tattoo will be mollified. And everyone thinks he's a poet when he says "mollify Molly" and his peers congratulate him, but I say, you're not the first. And won't be. 

This is too much information to keep in a head! How exhausting. I'm going to sit serenely on a sheepskin painting aqua and crimson, threading a needle in & out of folded pamphlets. Plastic ono will be there, and the appealing overdose of theraflu. See you in four weeks.

because I am, where are you, too

And for you all. I know how you feel, the sums of you, like me. I require no addition. I refuse to upsell. I refuse the heart's upswell. It's swollen enough. It is full with lightening and smoke and the jam of some fruit going bad fast. The gel of my own enormity. The poems for all, the abrasive truth of them all, the disquieting arguments within a self, my drunken glory, in drunken revelry. Wanting a walk through the leaves, so many still covering the streets and street-scenes, marking october, punctuating my own private october happily. Wanting the walk through this litter all red and gold and old, crumpled, to see a recognizable face, and have you read me, yet? will you recognize me when you do? will we converse, is it possible... have you ever heard of it. The rustle, the slight birdsound at night, the wicked idaho shadows on garages and blue of earlynighttime sky. I am in love.

sleeping with spiders (9/11/10)

The red hourglass, still sitting always on a web. from here I can see you, long-legged, waiting. I said hello. please, let's not bother with it. The biting, the killing, the letting go. Mine or yours. I promise to do as I can to leave you lone, unstartled, waiting for yours. I am not for yours. I'm unwrappable in webs. Just killable, we are.

december the twentyseventh

8:55

And my blood, lungs, full with it. The piano, or the blue, the whale cry in the smoky club scene. You are a scene. Scene the scenery. I thank the piano, and the slide guitar I whimper to, asking please, but not needing to so doing it silent. The last five years are the ones of life. I slap across the song. I flood myself across the piano; a piano spark waterfall. Forget the semicolon; this is what I need. Skipping punctuations like stones. An explanation like pebbles dropping on keys , the comma, an upstroke. I can feel the heart now.

    Subtle smoke curtain now. Ash on a pillow, the porcelain dish. Not a dish but a lid. The porcelain lid to a hairbox. This a particular delight remnant of Nanny. Poor Jack, didn’t get a gift. The only one at the party. Jack Clark wish not to write his obit. Without mentioning death, will they surpass it? Without mentioning death, they passed it. Without mentioning death can one suppress it. Without mentioning, death surprises. It’s without mention, without mansion. Without mandibles, death surprises us. Death sells us. Without mention, mandibles surpass. An ñ of sourts, the unitalixized ways, her little fingers skipping stones. The brown stones, the ones  made from porcelain, the little stubs of fingers wafting generously. Like the breeze. The bees worked with them, that’s a fact. Soon as the sky fell earlier in day, like a shade of red over everything, and a call given to elbows and arms in favor of sweaters. The possibility of sweaters, sweater possibility, sweater ability. My shadows over everything, the letters abrupt and flat. Oh, but if I could go back then! The only time is time viewed rounded, like the edges of courners cut, and made curved and painless. The letters, though: the letters are so straight up and square. The haunted voice

    could change eventually, ending gorgeously. Yesterday, yesterday: yellow winter remaining, gold drives serene. Enough hazard dreamt,

    Scratch the spelling off that piece of bark! Knowing gratefully yields some emotional leverage. engaging gratefully yields savory youth, harrowed, dimly, yet triumphant, trying, gggggg

    Songs stretching, going grim, marbled divine,

we found your virginity, to hunt in time and bounty

"bloodstain on your majesty

four seasons dark combinations

13 years of Karen

to be given all the unity

the hunt & tie of bounty

bloodseed of your majesty

in this mighty plan

dark correlations

I found my 13 years of Karen

in all four seasons and their dark brethren

your four seasons and their embarrassment

with dark combinations, I found my

13 years of Karen"

What an unnecessary document! considering the effort, I would like to offer an effort, in trade, a words with five or four letters time.

We will be together in Old England we’ll be together

And as for falling in love, this mighty contemporary thing. Trying to recreate the divine. Only smokers need desks. The ashes are flying!

full moon, emptry heart

I can't find it but I know it's there. I saw a full lunar ellipses last night, a red tinted moon far far away, a tiny little moon way up high. I stopped running around, scullery maiding for a minute or two and went outside tshirted to view it. We all stood in silence and appreciation and respect.

Tonight I will reminisce gladly. Another month to celebrate. When I find that old bitch in the black sky.