sober

I was laying in my bed trying to 

sleep and I was thinking about some things that make 

me sad. Im thinking about the time I got 

my heart broken, one knows the time. The one person who I loved and who left, twice. It was a relief to have him again this late night in Tucson over spring, over 7 years later. In the stilldrunk sunlight next morning I was barefoot and my face still reached to his chest, his button clearly still aligning with my nipple. and whoosh! I say it was a relief because I let go and remembered that we are older now, that he doesnot rock my world. But I remember it a lot. Not often But A Lot. Im thinking that I dont know who will care for Ida for the three weeks that I am away. That I dont have plans. Im thinking and I have chestburn and lonely contemporsry future. I wish I was asleep and it was later, I dont know. What I wish.

most sloppy

I'm so fresh,
not worn down at all
I'm such a tight ship
I'm     ask girl
    how you say,
   so tight
I like this better than with anyone
and I say, that makes me sad for the past you
and so you said, don't be sad
       you're my future    you're my future


from your dirty dish work
with your dirty hands
with your master jeans
mustard jeans on
what hi fashion
  sure that
the mess
we bring this
  is home all the time
all of the messages         all of the masses
all of the messages
  every mess
we mess up my bed
I miss my hands into your hair
I miss my arms around your shoulders
you mess up and down my body
you message across my back,
you mess up
  my mind
we missed in and out of each others brains
mass in
mess out
  we are massive pod
on a flat floor flat surface, cush ground
breathe heavy snore me for me
I'll whisper tired hate at you
are breathing so rough so sleep
    estoy dormir
I'm sorry it's just a mess
something called something
  for something
it's unsafe to step across your body
it's wrong to walk up on it
and through all the sorries
we can sure of it laugh at it mess it up more
just call it out
  of love

no prob

hey pretty getreal
we have to $$ too much
I always hated air conditions
but I moved to the south, to the endless summer so
we pump her up
I don't like to sleep enclosed is a room without windows
is hard for me, for my want of fresh breaths but
the buggies
they fly invisibly in
and suck at my ankles
at the underside of a toe.
so seal up we do.
but we can't afford it anymore, controlling our climate.
so now it's a heavy 85 degrees
both in the house & out of the house
at 74 percent humidity
rains in waves
I don't mind it at all. covered by 150 yrs of balcony
but
inside my skull it's humidest
and I can't defog it
I don't bite my fingers anymore, too relaxed to chew me up.
leave that for the buggies.
I've got nothing wrong. I'm adaptable, you know.

things we think of alone

in the stars & bars, the neon bikini
wet from river,
it sucked me in
this is how drunks drown
the water black linesnaking across
I wouldn't have fallen in there in daytime, too dangerous
wet home, always the sprinklers on the greenbelt between 3 & 4 am
things we think about alone
the dry eyes, the good goodbyes
the dreams I have about masturbating
always a mother or stepmother figure to embarrass myself in front of
the geminates: double rs, double ss
the ending of sentences with prepositions
I'll let you sleep all day, I'll tiptoe about you
find you coffee
watch your skin on the butter sheets, your shorts of a dusty salmon pink shirt
long pretties
I get jealous when I overhear things sometimes
but alone on a bike in the dark, feeling cold, wet, driving fast to beat it
coming alone in the heat, it's nice like winterblanket
it makes a sigh smile across me.
thinking of your leaving, of my staying put
I'm putting out even in sleep.
get in me
you did, once, many
I'm alright with that now
so I think it
so I build it true.
now

hungover

I can't tell if I'm straightup being ignored by you
I don't want you to leave, am I? where are we going
I don't want Kyle to go back to Nebraska, it makes me feel like I'll never see him again.
I don't want to never see you again.
I did too many bad things, I lost all of my words in one paragraph
I lost all of my tears, down my throat, backwards
I don't remember getting home
to your home
you interrupt ignoring me to ask me if I know what time it is
I don't know how to find the things
the people-things
I've lost
I'm already gone
I'm trying to be capable
I want dates
but I am so sick on dates
I don't know if I impress
leave impressions of, on

I like your face
I like your beard face
I like your profile & your mouth
& the way you point instead of speaking
I like that I'm in your kitchen
& I'm writing about you
& you're moving about

and you just handed me a black ricecracker
with hummus & pickled okra
it was really pretty

I'm always asking so many questions
so people shush me & hush me
when in bed & I'm talking in my sleep
I forget sometimes to not read your
poems and then I can't tell if I'm
sweating or if I'm crying

there's a golden retriever wandering around outside
and I feel this weighty terror
& a terrible jealousy at it

I'm not in love with you

I am not in love with those who don't love patterns
with those who don't love onions
with those who don't smile
with those who call themselves boring
with those who don't want to come
with those who litter
with those who don't think I'm sort of beautiful
with those who won't constant clutch at my bod
with liars
with those who don't cry
with those who don't ask all of the questions
with those who write as badly as I
with those who drink from to-go cups
with those who don't love my dog
with those who don't love language
with those who don't get drunk on words
with those who drink too much, too often
with those who say, I don't care
with those who mutter, I don't know
with those who deoderize
with those who make excuses
with those who hide
with those who deny
with those who don't give it
with those untouchables
with those who don't hurt honest
with those who won't ride with me
with those who don't sleep outside
with those who watch me & aren't okay with it all
with those who
  just can't hang

sunday crowd

the sunday crowd at JO BEACH is suuuuper lame
they have their fullbred retrievers
who fetch consistently, barkless
get in get the ball repeat
BOR RING
they don't realize that I come here every single day,
that I get in the water
and I smoke smokes
and I drink cocktails
and I publish things I write on my phone to the internet.
they're sunday people, weekenders
they work all week & then come cut loose on a hot summer's day.
it just isn't right
I pull out the blankets and sleep through storms on my beach
I get naked at night
I makeout, here.
while they sleep, I stake my flag in the sand.
but they're easily scared away by the exaggerated sounds of orgasm while two girls struggle to open a bottle of soft huckleberry wine.
poof! it's our beach once more

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

basted

I woke up later than usual but I am in here,

and the first thing to notice me was a tiny little tear,

the backwards kind

been waiting for the sun to rise

so it could greet me

back through the nose tunnel

into the canals

so I'm breathing underwater

drowning in sleep

like waking up to your weeping

like I woke up with this soft dog

in yesterday's dress

I've trained John Shinn to not refer to a plaid shirt as a flannel if it isn't flannel

he calls it a plaid, then

I don't even notice that I do this

but maybe I'm incredulous

or maybe I'm just correct

maybe I'm a boss

it's just a shirt.

do you want your shirt back?

the ironic one

it smells bad

it looks bad,

it's a sad, terrible t

I wish I didn't know where it was

within the handful of those I love

there are some who are more difficult than others,

some do worse, some cause upset,

some I can't barely get along with

some I trust less

some are easier to hurt,

some are wound up, like me

some are delicate. 

But we all remain 

even when one of us loses

or loses it

& we don't give up for anything.

I expect everyone to hang 

because to hang is to be worth it is to want to be worth it.

To say I love you in a silence,

I'll love you whatever,

even though you've lost your mind,

or are selfish,

or are too tender for conversation,

or have overabundant expectations.

I'll be here when you get back 

from whatever terrifying trip

you're on

sleep apnea

a woman came into the coffeeshop, she walked to the pastry case and looked and said,
Oh I'd better not
she ordered a latte
and tried to pay with a quarter
so I said, polite and sort of loud,
three eighteen.
she did a snort chuckle, the giant salmon gem dangling from her hangthroat jerking,
fishing a ten from her wallet
Don't tell my doctors... under her breath
she has sleep apnea
 (oh noo)  whispers OL from behind me.
Do you know what that is? It's when you just can't sleep.
I watched Judge Judy from 3:30 am until 4:30 am
and guess how many times I fell asleep and woke up again?
we were bewildered, we had no idea
Ten,
she cried
we yawned in disbelief
she said, Guess how often, so that's three divided by ten... and I wake up like this-
she does a snore like a seal on its back
It's so bad for your heart, she scolds

I went and made her latte

I never should have told you girls that, she said
as she left

sipping sense metal

prettylittle, 15

 Sipping metal, I shake to death. Someone else oftentimes wonder typically, and  was I wrong. People do much, that holds through this comforting. At first things cost, burning in a fireplace. Failure, then inevitable when drunk, maybe and yes you were. You’ll get out of that. Seems I should straddle the hearth slab… obsessed with bed and a good idea. Smoke a cigarette being full of fashion, move somewhere else to the time. And concern yourself with windings and intricate turnings. Failure in the truest sleep, even be regrettable. Looking occupied, tortuousness in a theoretical sense.

an hour and years

songs of yesteryear :

2008, 27 august

An hour, a little under two, in a life what to remain. awake, Tucson time. underwearclad, we’ll never sleep, we’ll touch the sky, a perfect down blanket. freezing cold here. It is warm there. My heart will burst into flames and I can make a home from it, camping. Cuddle up to a fire. not smiling still smiling. Everyone looked at me impressed, all of them pleased at my pleasedness. like a gift just suddenly deserved. mustn’t be loquacious. Be laconic. Ooh, reticent, taciturn. to hear him talk for ever for once, his sweet pretty voice and the truths about him. I could hardly know. I awoke and hearts falling out and dying. fret about its immanent end, fret about its immanent end, I have the pleasure. excited beyond compare, thrilled oblivionward, obsessed capricious. I could have become so frustrated to destroy everything, letting it go, it all. I will give of myself openly. So much of everythings. In so soon, beautiful agate eyes, profile, face against smooth neck, eternal smile, arms around, one of the only two blissful people for miles and years.

head over heels / sunburst and snowblind

Happiness abounds. Here, on display, a few pertinents from CONJUNCTION #7. I can't commit to its entirety. Just some lines running through my head at this moment. Sent off some in a loveletter; realizing how good I am at loveletters, how unsullied they can be through all imperfects, past or present. How good I am, and how badly I incorporate my own real life. But, no matter, sentences are worth more than given justice.

I’m so cautiously wondering if it is

about to happen for a moment

I’ve saved it for the bushes

somewhere
noticed it wonderful,

the verging of panic

It’s snowing like the grass,

(forewarning) a moment, gorgeous

Thinking a soft moist mass isn’t an exaggeration.

I try to invite plants or flour

(and a brief pause)

because it’s snowing

Then he heard a voice applied to the body.

it’s over and I know there’s no chance

in the deepest blue of relief.

Bite angrily into the darkest depths

of reality calling over.

Inflammation in despair at why even exists she.

Talk, did I think this would, and even if it did

(the exact color of sunlight foolishly),

He’d come south wearing a soft blue, tediously

interrupting in a car through the snow to be warm.

The same color of her.

Something suddenly with the likes of me.

She had high ecclesiastical sexlife; he’s got everything

else and he watched with fascination as she moved

toward prepuce.

That is supposed to fix the rest of the life?
Up there

in the world already?

She was carrying a bunch of red and orange tulips.

This lonely, lonely, so amazing.

I am clutching his fold of skin, closer to his waist.

Surrounding the person to whom you’re attracted but

who means nothing save for one hand.

Clitoris is little romantic joy

This ridiculous waste of a morning.

The collector of prepuces, she’s been with someone else.

Lies are good, she smiled magic tricks

She didn’t seem recklessly extravagant.

looks at the ground

To explain yourself
I’m glad I caught you licentious

My relationship lies are pertinent tonight and
we’d like

dissolution.

Vigorously do I know you a little bit more

an inclination I don’t have…

sometimes these ideas linger, eyes sparkle like

that natural tendency to fall asleep awhile

before underwater emeralds.

In a particular way she doesn’t touch me again,

and then over to catching the sunlight, encouraging,

looking down quietly and childish.

Couldn’t stand there, excessive interest with great sadness.

I do not know for much longer.

Sexual matters I find, something else but I remember him tonight…

salacious, obsessed, concentrating on forcing a smile.

Licentious, she kisses me closely blood
pumping lascivious

my mouth intently hot. She was lecherous and leaves, but then

I accidentally admire tulips
to her chest,

lustful and quickly allowed.

Flames on concupiscent tears,
night on the silken pink.

Trivial perfumes… a tangle of mindthorns.

But we can hear each other inside.

The discharging of love breathing around courage;

timid.

Aching in panic instant inside now.

A square with pain warm from it… tonight/ feeling

I'd want not to.

Across the lawn from loss

a circle in love with sleep

bounded by a curve

feels not Mediocre

the position of the moon
happens to days and moments

and months effective.

Being in a state perfect elsewhere. I’m the only one

who feels the urge.

I’d want to keep it still inactive

so I’m silent, reticent, judging for a reaction,

caught up in the romance of happy and alone.

Wanting to be impassive as always

and the pursuit of unreachable goals with certainty

I know obsession, foolishly impractical happy

a year or more goes by

I’m not obsessed with the pursuit of ideals, looking

at other things.

If I was obsessed capricious,

the philosophers I love

would have impulsive suicides.

I don’t celebrate quiet

Unpredictable is left for today when his eyes, in which

words and his closeness and hands are represented,

flood love.

All that, all over, combinations of pictures I don’t want.

I don’t care if he was, for instance, to suck me dry.

Care about eyes represented by a picture.

So I can suck it dry, for him. If he cares, I know.

A person to whose name it punningly alludes,

suck someone else dry.

a person with parasites (I could).

I was never so revealing.

Anything to say…

I have a strong memory.

I think treating sexual, killing time.

Living in regret and distaste,

willing to give indecent.

A chance display      you in a bed becoming enraptured

Gasp the life out of everything.

He put his arms around enjoyment of the subject,

and you remember sex

and you remember regret.

The red glow of the slow.

Stately, enraptured by a display touched.

Such a dance, and you find yourself logically.

Screamed worldly things

and imagining it’s nothing in those things which are

not regarded as the moon,

and the grass means nothing.

You will be on her side; sacred could

have never meant less.

Such a drastic change of the temporal.

Let’s not try to transcend.

(Out of respect

to the distant temporalities.)

music for mine masts

I can't even spend the seconds writing in my own personal journal anymore! It's as though those days are dead n gone now, that all that's left for me is a carpetless existence; I am sitting in spandex shorts, racing stripes along outer thigh, a black silk slip ("HAPPY VALENTINE'S" you'll hear me mutter sexily as I rub hands up and down over my own silhouette, insinuating that which already is but obviously isn't), wool socks pulled up to knees and a sweatshirt I decorated with a crosssection of a volcano, a magma chamber glorified. And the old blanket draped over, strong and poortasting coffee made from a french press but purchased begrudgingly from dunkin donuts. Colleen ringing in years, the devil's backbone wilting subtly in front. Trying to keep it from the cat, trying to keep all matching pairs of shoes together, wondering why I've pocketed myself in a bikeless existence, for now only is there a blanket of snow outside. Hasn't melted evenafter a day, which impresses me. And only hours left until the day is over; I agree it's as though I have two days with sleep in the middle for I awake at 12 noon and then to the restaurant as we all call ours individually at 5 then a night to begin at 12 midnight. And sleep once more from 5 to 8 am, and again & again. Who has time for anything but blasting oneself out of one's gourd, carelessly cavorting, straddling barstools and prancing, attempting to maintain a sense of balance. When the eyes dry up to little sands and the head spins just slightly, aware of a coming dawn not unlike yesterday's. Luckily everyone I know swims the same, though we're just floating along in a boat built by us but not actively. We all spin up the sails lazily and haze around in a sun, wet on occasion by the spume from the forward bow, tangled just for seconds in the cords and all the shiprelated words which I can't bring to mind.