Congratulations

The new thank you

How to talk about reading

Without talking about actually reading,

The active searching,

Without admitting that I actively searched for the words?

The active searching for response?

How do I boredly respond to yours

That makes not a quiver in me

But just the subtle pang

The good old jesus christ

The, that's all?

How do I even wonder at my reaction to your reaction

The emotionless chill

The chilled emotionless

The chilling emotionlessness.

The phone wants to Autocorrect to

Emotionless ex

Which is a laugh-out-loud slogan

Better a laugh-inside slogan.

Thanks, phone

Thanks, 'net.

Thanks be to god

I am no better than you. I weep at my own words tumbled from my fingers

I weep at the screen with dryer eyes.

This is how we see each other. Through all of this

shit

Just the most least of the worst of the best of the shit. Still nothing less or more than just

good

old

shit.

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

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.

I'll b your crying shoulder

love's suicide? I can't remember who does this song
but,
regardless:
your fingers and wrists and hands are waking me up
up inside me, waking up
sweatless, sweetsmelling
my back the length of a bridge
foot me
I'm covered in it
I want to wake up your breakfast
I like the sitting under stars in perfect summer
what will I have to talk about when summer's over? maybe it will all be over
haha I'm not sad, I just don't have anything to say
haha
I'll bet you're a nevercry
I like your eyes downcast
boylashes
symmetry face
gaunt
like a balloon letting out
up high in your kitchen
I found gift certificates for a hot air balloon date
they expire in december of this year.
they were written out two decembers ago
when this summer wasn't invented yet.
you said you would try to buy them
from your basement roommate who teaches churchy preschool
I am not dressed churchy today at all
but I'd be churchy if we took a balloon date
I won't be here in december when the gift dies
but I'd get up early
make some mimosas or something, whatever you drink in a balloon
I'd like to do it in the air
but some old man will probably be there, so
I doubt it.
I'm a fun float date, I'd guess
I like the fantastic world
I can be a good time in it, above it
I took a hot air balloon ride once, over lake tahoe
above the epic deep turquoise
so let's sky before our summer dies
rightly

in the forever

in the coast. there were coasts everywhere, canyons like cliffs. someone last week flew a
  porche off a cliff from the wind road we drove in the early hours
we talk abt deaths a lot, so often sometimes we become immune to that it's better
  than we, we immortal
standing in the place you were
when you exploded your head off
  we feel best when we climb over it
& we're standing there overlooking

like the night city is incomprehensible
like a new city is
but I'm picturing us all there
the ones who'll never leave our sides, hands chained, fingers interlocked
the width of us a city block
the width of us a city's thickness
the width of us deathless, now
the past a murmur
the past is murdered
and we've nights
for our bodies
to web out
like kids
like the future really is ours, then
to fly off cliffs
or to hold on & spread out & go
 at the good invented forever

loveletter

take me two minutes

I think it's mostly what I have to show you only

a dose is a choice

a little sip I've shoved

give me your ear

give it me

or cut it off from you.

our hearts aren't echoes

can't beat a solemn rock wall

my voice can't reproduce 

in little interruptions of itself

but can be listened-to, can be

archived

or erased

or erased before it exists

by your fingers

if your brain gets to them first

or maybe you'll keep your ear in your heart please

shark chin

look at you go! in my dreams I was in a closet with a screaming close-girl, we were being poked by invisible fingers, but you can't hide from invisible fingers

I'm going to make that life-deposit, now. It's early late enough. The ropes are twisting, shredding, I feel the pull more, gravity more, rope shred

We've picked out our $50,000 wicker porch sets

We cut the collars from our shirts to make room for the real breaths

but we smoke a pack

into the night

because suddenly, it is night

and we've gotten there!

I always use exclamation points, and some people never ever do

I wonder when I will find those of you who do?

in writing & otherwise?

And question marks?? I know we all do from time to time

I want the exclaimers. Dig me out to find them.

I blame my parents

I think the last thing I wrote was a list, not the list of vocabulary words but something else.

A list of reaches, desperate

my mom came by last night, she dropped off some lemon fettuccine with shrimp

it was delicious

& perfect because I've been craving fettuccine since three sundays ago.

my stomach rode cradled in my pelvis

my brain was in my throat

my uterus had dropped & splattered in the steps of my feet.

but I turned upside down, in that bridge move

a real yoga move

and I stretched & my organs sort of congealed back to their places forawhile.

she said, do you have any idea how much I love you?

and I couldn't possibly,

and that made me cry

and does she have any idea what I think? what I've thought?

that I have the smoke of a thousand cigarettes for hair

that I have walnuts for a hand

that my fallopiantube legs were withered, so it was difficult to walk

and I tried to spring with just my feet

but they're too small

and the shells of my fingers turned to stone, they were all numb when I woke up.

she didn't make me all alone,

but I think about how everything funny is sad

and everything sad is sort of funny

and I wonder does it make that everything

devastating, tragic

is hilarious?

and then you said, no way, what's funny about your relative getting shot to death

and we both laughed so fucking hard at that

she didn't make me all alone,

but she knew what she was doing

she had to go get a reverse tubal ligation

& dad had to get something done, too

his sperm count was low

too much yellow 5, dad?

doin the dew?

they knew what they were doing. he was 29 when they met.

they knew that there would be a baby would be a human

and it would have to live

in the future

in this world

and it's a big place

but there's nothing bigger

than being shut up in your brain

which is still throat stuck

& choking

oozehair

Tonight I went to a dinner party for a best old friend

and he made chicken in the oven and with tiny tomatoes and tiny asparaguys

and I sat across the table from an old still someone from teen years,

but with his two parents flanking us,

and I practiced with knife & fork to shred the thigh

this little juice thigh, and I also thought I don't know how to cut meat from the bone

because I was so meatless for so long

& I like chicken only twice, now

so nothing I think like would be perfect bacon

I listen to this song by adele a lot

where she walks through paris

on the rain bridges

with the jawbone & the cheekbone & the buttchin

looking sad like crying sad

like sad crying sad

sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead

The dinner conversation, how to kill a chicken how a grizzly kills a fish don't you gut a fish before you eat it, don't you pluck a chicken once it's dead?

I thought your parents were great. I liked the creamcheese frosting

My eyelashes rainwiping the insides of my glasses

if you call me I will answer,

if you call me I am calling you back

and I am talking to you for a million years

I came to my room & opened the door

and I found a smell to trap

sorry if you think that's gross, but the odor is in my top five.

I was afraid of the bedroom, waited till 9

I was afraid of the bed

I was afraid of the bedside wine box

I was afraid of the pillow, the pillow we stole and wanted & somehow sometimes shared

I was scared of one side of the bed

I am afraid to go into it

but I came and in the dark breathed it all in, pillowed

& filled with scents of another other than me

and you & me
and I am afraid more that should it not become an artifact
a museum room
in all its dust
and fur
and hair
and debris, and all of the soak in it
I'm taking pictures with the fingers on my face
& the fingers in my nose
in snaps and little licks

I washed my hair today, but it is not a better person for it

it is better though

TOday

Luckily I got something new at christmastime, a new dress with dragonfly print & it hasn't come off since, can't. When you go to bed dressed you wake up so. Easily, with layered tights & socks kicked off beneath the soiled pink wool & soiled down & soiled 500-thread-counts. Never to sleep without someone in the proximity, but keeping a dog as a wall between he & me. Everymorning waking up before dawn, yawning wondering, whose fingers are these? whose knee haphazardly pushed in the crook? 

The colors of my hands, royal blue chips, the copper, puce, cadet blue. The cardigan accused of being 'mustard' when mustard just isn't olive. The forest green. I crocheted a shoelace; they thought I was out of it. The neon baby stuff I have around me, the notion that honey in my espresso is what's for me. I am learning to devour a little. An omelet here, a slice of green pepper/jalapeno there. The cans all aligned on my perfect big table. I want to write about the internet, because it is finally immanent. I think that could be somehow even boringer than this all.

talkaway the nighttime

do I know what to makeout of you? not even trying, but desperate to. I have the familiar glasses, the quench, and maybe the too-many mentionings, but I am still in one place, and you have left already. but my place is still on the warm, late-night pavement, and my heart still beats beneath a barefoot, but yours has wilted in the slightest in the clearest, and it has begun some slither towards away. even the foods I want don't exist. is it the overabundance, the apostrophes, the apostrophe's. I don't remember you like I should, only I could see perfectly in gesticulations, in caricature. this looks french. your beard in your bathroom, in your couch, in your shower making your hair in snakes, your sad mouth, your eyes looking because they do, right. I can answer that question even if we never speak anymore, still. did we argue into the morning? did we disappear into the morning?

tell me I'm right tell me I'm wrong tell me there's nobody else in the world & who could care? longhair, louisville, mymorningjacket is playing on tuesday

how many of us are there? & you do sometimes tell. but it's cryptic, it's deathly, it's in the ground for you already. but I amn't. & I will try to never will be. I will outlast the saddest-most, the fingers-through-my-hair-most. the ones with the eyecontact, the ones with the hands twice as big hands, long & thin ones too. tendrils in humidity. fine in the talking small. & I know not how to hideaway.

this morning I am

I'm the type who puts the caramel in the coffee in secret, and in doses so small the doses are invisible. It's the kitsch outfits all lined up from bottom to top: silver shoes for dancing, soft-shoe style, though I haven't seen it. I get distracted when I think of shoes and end up looking at them for days, and now I have three documents to write about it all. Moss-green tights accidentally bought, footless, and some cheap fake-denim number withe elastic waistband perfect for sitting here & not walking, not moving because I've pain in my uterus, or in my ovaries, where little cysts grow their little houses. I want to move in. And upwards, pictographs, and an indian-head cardigan. Nailpolish remnants like lichen on tips of fingers. Open something else up; wonder who will know about any of it.

Do you see how that went? how in the morning, early like this, drinking the coffee & sitting half-outside, I'm wandering, two eyes different-pointing, directionless. The familiar music, the familiar mood of the familiar mind, doing its memorable thoughtless moves through.

and there you are

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?

this is all of moderate import

Almost last winter turning spring in portland I purchased a pair of black doc martens. Brand new, & too large for me. If I get ahold of some insoles, however, they'll be perfect. At the moment they're inside an amazing black & white trunk with old leather handles ripped long ago. 

I came back to boise in late october. I found from savers some little black boots & inside, on the bottom, there reads NICOLE. I love them, but my broken toe is alas still broke, and pressure from the thin outer side of a shoe is still pressure, then. The click they make on a woodfloor or a cement walk is tempting & generates a moderate satisfaction.

Blue leather lace-up shoes with heels from a suburb of seattle. I've been asked: are those leather soles, there? to which I wrongly replied, rubber. I got some cole hahn tassel loafers at the same store, mostly for entertaining the thought of my dad's probable jealousy. I think I lost one of them; I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I lost one of them. I brought the one with me, when I moved, just in case the other turns up. I could never forgive myself if it did... these shoes were like slippers on the feet; leather & with a heavy wood heel. Toes always wet. Ball of foot always loud & doubtless.

In new york last summer I wandered soho with alex in the sweltering bosom of that lusty town. He wanted some adidas, I said man, get sambas, and he said, well, I want white shoes, and I said, great. He forced me into a large retail store; he had to get a white tanktop (it's impossible to wear white adidas without a white tanktop) and I gladly thought of buying the gray mesh butterflyprint shirt. It was fifty dollars, and mass produced, and a nylon poly blend, of course, so Instead I bought some suede oxfords with faded wallpaper flowerprint. Some of the greatest shoes the world has known. And what a sound on the street they make.

Twothousandten sees my hair fall down, and the tears in my eyes. It sees me maudlin. It sees me intrepid, erasing a hapless/imagined ten years from my life. It sees me in sweaters, relating. In eyecontact, in the hushed yells on an earlymorning park bench. The clasp of a mouth around me. My own views of drunk couples pressed against the outside wall of a bar. The eager fingers pinned against the brick, her hand letting his wrist drop on occasion to her skirt, pushed up or down. The mendacity of aforementioned loves, the ones who come with their own apology, nonspecific to our relations. Your unctuous apology, secreting your fancy for fear of me. Of me? Keep one of us from the other. Pushing me against the wall is goodless, I see only a reflection of the drunken couples, salacious on the streets, careless, ostentatious. I and you cannot be they.

I'm elevated

Thanks for all the notice. The honey of sonoran bees. The limes, the sparkling metal of a cup. My beringed fingers, the faces in memory. The old ones, the nonresponses. How can you have so many histories, so close together like that? Hiding out in the cool humidity, seeing the sun out there & fighting it, the money, the food, the apologies, the wanting to get it all over with & good. Avoidance of goodbyes, the patience in hellos. Your hair is short your hair is long. Your hair is aubergine, it is curls. It is thick & your head is large, it isn't changed, but you with guns, now. The new me, the new her, and the shes in between. The ancient heart of yours still there & with it. The love interests never losing any. Multiples. I am here, on this couch constant, getting stirred from ahead, waiting till body to catch on.

16: pacific duck, ruddy loon

Oh at the grass I am, and there the ducks, ruddy & floating without legs without feet or arms, on water consistent like yogurt. The marsh lined with mallow curtaining the down afloat. The water, the element of, heavier than air. My fingers creeping lichens over your face, over your face, presenting you a spring shell-flower; within it hidden ring-lichens, concentric fleshy loops for your pretty hand. The celtic cross shaded over us before the sun, its snakeweed shadow-maker blowing. It is a breeze. It is a breeze which makes a howl throat out from the dog-lichens, their membranous moans keeping the screech-owl up too late. I want to know, at night, the loon and its stories of sweeping the Pacific. Make me sleep for the better.

"from the ground" in subtle listening, an ode to

keep your floor warm. keep your soft rocks ready. keep your hair down. keep the keys down. keep the wet away, keep the peach in heat. keep your fingers tap. keep your ears uncovered. keep your dreams down. keep your smile on the ground. keep that ground an old secret.

bequieteth

be not afraid of feeling good,
be not afraid of getting told,
be not afraid of tiring old
be not afraid of trying alone

Mine own hairs stand on end, my own endless days lengthen. My letters excess them selves and superlative the ends of wordss, I am lying, just a body with only life at the wrists and on. So the fingers, bare hands. Fingernails doing the efforts for the restof me.

such the joys from out of its

Isn't until I've thought of it, thought it through, but how strange to have all the trees be pink! I'm liking the views of seeming fronds, seemingly leafed in pink as if not by fluffs. My fingers can barely contain the letters about it.

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.