hazetime

last night we went to the clubhouse for sunset with two copies of t.s. eliot's play, the cocktail party. the sky was going from brevity storm purplegray on the northwestern to fuschia to magenta to oxblood, the temperature & low glowlight perfect on our drowse skin. we each had to read the part of three characters, which proved awkward when one reader had to act all parts in a conversation for pages, throwing accents back & forth. the dog tramped, kicked up soft brown dirt for her shape hole, eventually settling in the dust. but first filling our shoes with the good clubhouse earth. she raged up & down the hill after other bad dogs here, after a covey of quail there. comments on existence, on the devastations & impermanence were made, our mouths sounding out eliot's words like those coming straight from my own. characters giving one another the advice to wait, to just Wait. & I'm learning to. after the first act the northwestern portion had changed to some expensive purple, and breeze whipped around the sagebrush. down the slope, stopping at the plateau to view villa norte & the bare green foothills & the lazy citylights. caught my hair & tossed it around. we ate salads & scapes & cheese, and I opened windows and made myself naked in the mufflenight. I awoke at 3 am & since can't write read some hemingway stories, passing out before flicking through darkness the chitinous body of some invisible bug. I heard sounds & managed to fall into a waterfall of dreams. o to be the satisfied one, once more.

bags

I keep on having dreams you're talking to me about grace

and that I'm falling you

following you around from room to room

Always your head, the back of your head for sure

Always your slow stately bringing it up

  like the notion of grace stuck in you repeating

  or you secretly seek my advice on it

and you haven't anyway to work yourself around it.

I am also in a boat

in a cockpit

in a mall

in s america

and I can see your face as the back of your head slides around.

I am not a pretty girl

I am not intended

I wait for summers to come

I wait for bad news

I try to get some 

I try to wait

but I haven't any patience.

I wake up with kafka, breton, sanford, nelson, even nin

but I haven't swallowed anything, still just still just still just.

I got a sunburn, I want to pretend it's a cinnamon tan

I asked my friend if he wanted to get a manicure with me

because he always says he wants to do that with me

he paints his beautiful gold nails

like chitinous beetles

but today there's nothing I'd less like to do than that

like normally

like acetone

like $$

like filipino muzak

like a woman holding my hand, not speaking to me

like all of the problems of our national celebrities

like the stars are just like us

they bring their own to-go jars

they secretly compost in the bushes

they drink stale coffee

they drive home drunk

they wake up and write bad poems

to prove that they are bad, or that they're helpless

like I'd rather peel my skin off

peel my hair out, have a happy saturday

a good may

a pretty week-end

partysoul

throw yourself a soul party

maybe I'll get all high on drugs or something

or maybe I'll be a yuppie

with a shaved border collie at the farmer's market

in swedish clogs

just like the stars when they're just like us

or maybe I'll be an artist

I'll throw up on my nostalgia

and my sentiment will break me out

I did throw something away, you know.

It was a baggage tag for an airplane flight

it said 28 November 2006 on it

it said C A's name on it

it was from the last trip we ever took together, we went from Chicago to Montana

I remember it was 9 degrees when we left Montana

and we listened to Music for Airports by Brian Eno while we waited for the plane to come

and he took photos of me sleeping on the airport floor.

Apparently I'd been dragging that baggage ticket around with me for 6.5 yrs

I'd say that's pretty fucking impressive, Molly Stoddard

hello, beautiful

Why? Because my blood is thick. I have all these tortured organs, I know it. I make them whipped. They ache, but with smiles across them. My sweet little heart getting big on itself. Making hard itself. That tumescent little thing. My mouths filled with apologies which fall out and disappear on a breeze. No one will hear! not even my own opened ears. My filthy fingers reaching for yours. Your cups in mine. Mine own overflowing. The quiet cold, my heartattack building, the mossy breeches of the nailed fingers, traipsing, traipsing toward yours. Yonder fingers tracing over mine mossy knuckles. But this is love, no? shall we argue? Nothing in me is for an argument. I give up, relentless, restless, accepting, open, whole, heartedly, whole. The whole hole filled with heartblood, gushing, retracting, sucking itself off. Never relenting, never detumescing. The various plaids of my outershells, my chitinous fibres. My camouflage, our matching stripes and shades. I will be there, you know it. I will scrape you off, when you need it. I will sing when you like me, I will look when your eyes are away. And still keep it when they turn back towards, inevitably. Do you still read me now?