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

optimism

the haha you!
the edit you
there's always the you to write about, a sort-of you
the all-sorts-of remember
mes
I think back
in a few months ago
or 6 months ago
I was trying to see the pain end
trying to date that end
telling things, to picture it happening
like Molly, you won't live here forever
in a deep sadabandon place
you'll find the surface
you'll move in with your blood
get comfy together, you'll get comfy
together
swim up in it, bubbles coming from a nose
for my mouth
how I shout, mouth
to suck
being a stop-now
suck it out, stop being a shop mouth
a sob cave-maker
let your burbling oxygen bubbles rest
let your breath turn into flowers again
photosynthesize
on the horizon
oh haha you
oh, 6 months later you
oh where it came, from where I am again
the dissolve of flowers in a vase
the burning of your name on a hill
my abundant cusses
I've almost forgotten them
empty hole empty house
no more radiant crevasse
full of sinew & thread
the prettiest sky
the prettiest scab
peel me off
smile laceration me
the pink soft of a nomore scar.
  the teen is    dead

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

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. 

poem(s) for blood

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating
with a bloody, old face...
Blood.
Excited pain and blood to dry in my shoes.
bloody mary
containing all of my blood,
I wonder if my blood is okay.
Blood spraying
spicy bloody marys.
We drank the bloody marys
not to mention the two bloody marys
needing a sweater for the bloody mary
but it's just a bloody hemmorhoid.

from momentos preciosas

And my blood, lungs, full with it.
bloodstain on your majesty
bloodseed of your majesty

poem(s) for a body

from warm snow

I can't keep my hands off a face, hands off a face, from a body,
I will stay here with you, and clutch your body to me every night
But I don't want anything in my body!
I like your body in a bed with me 
the sweet feel of a body beneath tight jeans, fucshia sweater
my hands sliding down a body
I almost never use my body anymore
I would never use a body for sex
at my body
The holding of another body at closest range
too hard on a body,
especially when a body will of course go back and smoke harder and with more intent after.
sweet body
I am tired of this uncertainty about my dying body.
beautiful in Universe hair and torking body
My body is constantly full with the salty fat and sweet things which make it middle-aged.
Body in suffer.

from crepuscular orations

why does my heart explode my body?
my heart acts ravenous in my body.
my body is too old for my mind.
I held and rubbed a naked body and I tried to recount everything I saw and said aloud.
no matter how nice it is to hold a body and look at pretty eyes,
the things one intends through body movement and flickering eyes.
my body steaming.
fires in my body will always burn.
My mind is tired, my body needs more movement...
with all my mind & able body,
do not do any wrong with my body.
Avoiding my mind & body, too.
My body is fading away which is completely unfair.
every second my mouth is on a body,
I watched myself leave my body, my breath was caught.
My body isn't sweating at the moment too terribly,
and how have I barely used my body in days?
My body still smells strongly of summertime,
the body morphing into a filled balloon.
The scent of a body, perfectly soft & real?
Mine own hands on my own body, no...
Body posture indicating a hiding or a withdrawing,
the celebrating coyotes hollering so loudly as I lotioned my fresh body.
My body is like lumps of mashed potatoes.
A body small and smooth and pretty, yes.
A hair-covered body, thin, toothpick legs.
My body quaking, atingle all through...
My body reeling and relaxed, legs out on the porch sofa.
I wish I could lick every inch of your body.
I climb a body, hands across me
with my body, with my life.
Body feels so good with mine, hair in my hand,
a bed, a body, the walls in his room.
There are plenty of sexual bones in my body,
smoothe large body, pretty.
And for body touching.
I do like the idea of hands on my naked body...
I just want your hands & my body.
A body so different.
But I want a cock in my mouth so I creep down a body...
hands on my body...
a large soft body,
a giant body.
A thick smooth body, a face always on the verge of smiling...
what am I doing here, body?
And I couldn't think of anything but my body and the world right there.
I can't have a body on mine.
Get a hard beach body?

from momentos preciosas

How I miss the feel of a body.
I even stretched all my body today
massaging her body,
the human body when it is standing. 
Dreaming is always accompanied by the body's sexual arousal?
When I came my whole body convulsed
between the body and the earth
keep the body separate from nature even in death.

this year already better than last; an example

Saturday 2 January 2010

I am nervous. The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb. I have the dog panting at my side, the guitarmusic panting in rhythm, my own breath beating, the blood beating. I have been watching too much show, but today, but yesterday was my last day alone. Jon is back, invisible but with traces; the rabbit is gone, the kitchen is clean. And he is going to return from Arizona. I have to pick him up at the airport at 10:30 pm. I am about to have an attack. My fingers can’t find the letters, I can’t find a way to be. I do not want to see him and I feel certain of that, but then I do not want to see anyone at all in my house. I want my own little place, which has no one. I love the dog & cat. But I would rather give them up for my aloneness. I cried without tears, it was raining so I don’t know if it’s true, on the walk from the bar in between friends & acquaintances & coworkers; we left the bar on new years and I wondered, is new years over yet. And I could only think no, I don’t want to keep up like this, I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to deal with anything. Like being a human. I don’t want to look at him and listen to how much he missed me because I missed him, yes, on new years when we’re having a party it would have been nice to have him. I missed Kari but was mad, annoyed at her not being there; but who can I tell this to, I am no writer, after reading writing makes less sense, why do I think I could. If my only method of escape is this? how? I can’t write, I can’t put the letters together, nothing is honest, even, save for automatic spell checker. If I am to escape, just constantly for myself. From myself. I just need a break from being me. From the internet distractions, the sounds, my visions haven’t been. My tears haven’t flowed, my breath hasn’t come in gasps, I am not of passion anymore, and he will see this when he arrives. I want to trick myself, to say well now that he’s here I will be so happy! Finally the emptiness isn’t! But when he comes, I will have to be here, too. I don’t think there’s any way to live here. I want to be alone. Without roommates. If I really do go to college one day, in new york like I think, well I’ll have to be damned prepared. Also, I will be ready to be around others. I’ll have to be. So alone in new york. So alone but never far enough. Here the expanses can be great… and still so lonely. I liked the big dark house, empty but for us. I liked not thinking about anyone coming home, or complaining inside about my lackings. I like not thinking about anyone. But I hate not thinking. I numbed myself around, and am, just to avoid the true honest thoughts. I don’t miss Adán, he is a distraction from the real empty pain I feel when I’m alone, the pain which leads me to search frantically for something real to devour, and I am numb and searchless now. I can’t see anything. I am blinded bored.

8:42

It is restless. The struggle over I over it. My mouth is dry as can be, there are songs coming out (songs coming out of me) and the programmed static is like rain on a tin, and the things which jar and strangle. F pyramids. F hillary.

I was struggling okay all these things I have to articulate, and do I hear sounds of voices. Ah, the bright lights. I am panicking, learning forcing to force by means of love. The soundtrack of the night playing, of course, the important role. The progression of moment through music. Of feeling and the tinkle in the lobe of a basedrum.

            I suddenly relaxed. After hanging up all my favorite dresses (duresses) aloud saying, “I must throw all these away!” suddenly so jovial! Ah, the mere trash! I have to stop watching that trash, any trash. My trash, my treasure. Why does my heart explode my body? The theories, I see!

The height of the night, the eggs of sweet little salmon

passed around to us on loose baguettes. I used to know

the finnish word for baguette. If only.

Reluctant relaxants. Cigarette in the yard.

Unpaired socks are called loose ends. For right now

they sit on the feathered nest made for all of us. I

have never laid there.

hearts and bones……..hearts and bones………hearts and bones

The timing will tell a story if remembered. This is about the arc of a love affair. I haven’t a story to tell. My life, as I already described, is a numb skull.

But the dog is perfect

so the fleas too, are perfect.

“Why won’t you love me for who I am where I am”

this is a story! It is true, I dare it!

If gayle could only have married paul simon

would she then be called gayle simon?

They would have looked lovely

in pictures together.

Then to be called gayle marie, of course.

No, I do not think it’s the time to try to write a poem about my mother. For she isn’t really my mother, except maybe once, or for a time, but then only because I felt like mother is this faraway, unobtainable being, who can’t care for you or protect you but who wields absolute power. Is there a better phrase. Absolute, without a doubt, oh, doubtless. Incontrovertible control. Yew

She was my mom, of course. Molly’s mom. This is a replication of the cabin. I could try for an upper upper situation.

The soft faraway look of the dog, eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently, and the pink earlymorning at far rockaway some hog july summer relate in an instant, stirring a spark up. But I was so desperate for those occurrences. Something in me has since died. And I am wont to bring it back.

Alas, at this fair hour I anxiously await the welcoming home of my beloved. I am aching inside, tiny dagger-stuck innards. The whistle of a train!

song for the dogs and denver

she is wiping her cool breath on me! she drops her leaves there, so I can foot them when I walk. is it the northside of chicago here? is it boise to the north? is it highschool, is it being 26, still? is it twins, the same person, the signs, the only children, the histories, the halved lives? is she later on in gone months, or is she samewise when before she existed? not missing the spiders of oregon (though don't I still love them?) is it being unemployed, is it the fish in the street, is it the p-i-z-z-a... the caffeine craze, the early mornings & kitchen floors. the sound of my sweet dog as she growls and snaps at the innocents, wanting to caress her iridescent fur... is it timed, now, after it's stopped and it's beginning to grow again? and as my health itself flourishes upwards with a dramatic flourish of the heart.

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.

oregon

I am a bit, a lot. I am often, and it an obvious lightsource. This is somewhere before never been, at least records of, nonexistent. In a lush green, in an overcast still lit somehow. I remember many things before, and februaries before this. Because all of this. A chirp, a subtle stare from a dog on the floor. The run of water makes the bird cry. Dressed blue in tiny feathers. Just the little bell tinkle too as it quakes cage encased.

A sweet heart next, bodies warm in proximity. A twelve green stairway, slopes and peelings from ages gone. Bygone, gone by, the scent of a strong tea in me, the feeling of many, a breath through the nostrils and in the throat the right of which is sour, sore. Pour a rightside hot down with liquid to burn & scrape making soft clean health around. Health abound. Many little rosemary fronds for my forward, I know it.

inland seas and others of my favorite things

5 June

I this morning spied the 

twitch out of him, with 

few

ings different in soft & quivering tempers.

He spied me and I spied him. He

lost himself away, 

a 

tergo, and spoke beneath a breath       spy me, spy me, 

spy me,    It was snow; still 

must be peppered     I 

will 

admit

growth in foggy abundances

Nearly torn. Tearly morn, blurry turn. 

turning blur method: 6  5  1  12

5 June

I this morning spied the twitch out of him, literally, with fewings of fingers different in soft & quivering tempers. He spied me and I spied him. He lost himself away, a tergo, and spoke beneath a breath         

spy me,      spy me,      spy me,                                                                   It was snow; still must be peppered

I will admit, I might have idead different intos. 

ospe & llewmlyn  (called llew)

came too, (and after the other characters were introduced (vidag & vadid, then culias as stood shimmering behind a bar); all the faces familiar and good to see, and pretty sure a kiss was quick on the mouth as I was gone only leaving a vermillion collegiate logged up to hop cab with 

a pretty familiar, a different familiar prettily clad, a friend to the house expressly asked for...

A presence, apparently. On the telephone with women, fires to look at. Sun to see up close. 

I died

I almost died by ambulance this time, tonight it was speeding through with only lights and engine sound to warn, no music of sirens, not a thing. Seconds on time was I, to life everlasting. Disasters distracting as shapes from outwards of nowhere. Delicious departures from certain snowy landscapes (of a mind). Still fawning, breathless. Envisioning seaweedscapes, a mind full and collapsed, envelopes of dramatic dream memory sway, each little disaster eclipsing in on itself. It would have been an anniversary to end all anniversaries, inside but not to mention a full moon to end all moons full. I am so incipient, excited for my day of birth. I will see the 24th year. In all manner of ellipses. Breaths of doom lush ever ending nervesway.

˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚ I D I E D ˚

---

I almost

Died by ambulance,

It was speeding

Engine sound

Day of birth

I,

Disasters

In on,

Envisioning seaweedscapes, a mind full and collapsed,

Delicious

It

Distracting ash shapes from outwards of nowhere.

Inside

Envelopes of

Departures from certain snowy.

I,

Dramatic...

I am so excited for my

Each

Dream memory sway,

Inside

Disaster

In all manner of

Eclipsing

Doom brush never

---

To, was with only from the landscapes (of a mind). Little lights and warn, no music of sirens, not a thing. Seconds on time was to life everlasting. Ellipses. Breaths of to mention a full moon

would have been an anniversary to end all anniversaries, not to end all moons full. The 24th year will see ending nervesway.

a sip, for instance / doubtless like fruit

A sip of something light,

to sway the mood

A slip just simply shorn,

a shine of bright

Metal off a window shone

Glittering interstices

form metallic sentences

Words like shards

of light, for instance

for #25

doubtless to know he

will never be a tired

sodden soul fellow.

The coconuts are smoke way down the beach.

The ocean raptures, fails.

The coconuts are smoking down the beach.

The ocean ruptures and fails.

A method of a breath escapes, a sullen movement evaportates.

The twilight soucher of an enraptured soul,,,

Aptympani, a tympani /

I meant an apology here. Wrrors unwound me.

I killed myself or tried to in a blare today, said the madam of her house to the traveling houseshow enjoyers. Typing is better than a blender. Difficult like fruit...............

..............