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

I don't know you, let's hold hands
jump on a train
bergman, tarkovsky
popmusic
I'm young
victorian window display
person of the people
pidjin tongue
crescent moon
crescent city
dance to your neighbor's motown
sweeping glass off your bed
barracade your door
forget your keys
pockmarked
greasehair
mosquito bites
drowning cicadas
saving a cicada from drowning in the fountain with a discarded sandal
cicada makes a dive at my face
spilling a cocktail on my face
carry your groceries
climb through your window
fix a wound
sour shirt
fickle
ice cream
kissing
driving
sob
wash your pants
wash your cellphone in your pants
foodstamps
cheesestamps
grungey
asthma
little roach
singing
bulbous
hacking
husky
river bend
orange porchlights
magazine street
kitten
blue eyes
shower
sit on my face
beignets
dogfood
bruises
hydrogen peroxide
late for work
call me

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

on the clock

finally & see everything
I'm alright with my voice enough
  just us, hear the sound around what I make
can be a beautiful music
or a beautiful temperate weather
material list,
eternity ring lessness
this is how we do this is how we
  justify
making all that money
  standing around with a beer in my hand
  standing all over the place with hands and my beers and my limbs
  if this was a poem that would write itself
I'd be in the echo room
I'd be the coolest echo in the room
but I'm a remaining here, now
I'm a present here, now
but my room is so vacant
and so gorgeous
I wish I could
sure you
what's inside with you?
I didn't me, don't me
  to find someone who wants to be
    inside
I'd ME two
I dare me to
sometimes I look at myself in the mirror
and sometimes I think you'll love me

what are the chances

that at any given moment someone somewhere is having the same thought as you?
is someone thinking abt driving in a red car through the middlewest with you
or maybe someone somewhere really wants a tunamelt, too

how likely is it that someone has invented you
and someone's laying around
imagining the two of you together
even though you'll never meet
and chances are
you aren't imagining them, at all
or, you don't feel the same way

one of my old boyfriends told me that
I wasn't his type
he told me that he didn't know who she was, this dream girl
that he had never met her
or anyone like her. he just new I wasn't she

when I was 18 I wrote on the cover of my diary
  everyone loves someone who loves someone else who loves someone else who loves someone else
I thought it was pretty poignant at the time
I was listening to a lot of modest mouse
and was dying my hair blonde and wearing white cargo pants

I don't really think abt that anymore
its just degrees
& timing
  aligned for two
and how often that happens, that two times converge
& then go along for awhile
it's probably as frequent as someone
  somewhere
envisioning a red car travel-companion
in shades with the windows down, hands on your knees
who'd love nothing as much
as sharing a tunamelt, too

hurt my feelings

okay so I've been talking to the universe, and

  I think

  I think

it's trying to tell me that Idaho is my beautiful home

  what, something about the countryside

    because I spend time there, in the sagebrush

and I love it when my hands are so dirty

  I look tan,

    cinnamon

and then my car stops working

  because I'm blogging in it while it's raining

   listening to the radio, it's all really good

    smoking 1,000 smokes

and how will we ever get out of here, now?

 that sort of thing.

But of course, I just needed to get jumped

Nickey & I found a secret clubhouse

  in the foothills, it overlooks all of Boise

  in a way that makes it seem

  like it really is a city for trees

one can't see the buildings

it looks like it did when those frenchcanadian people showed up in their beaverskin caps.

why am I so angry

why am I surprised

when people don't like me,

don't want to be my friend.

I want to say a lot of very cruel, inconsequential things

  I want to hurt someone's feelings

   more than mine could ever be

because that's what big men do 

they break one another down

I guess, so I hear

I'm not a pick-on-you

 I'm not a hurter 

  I'm not even a hurtee

like I was, once.

I am thick, I know

 but I still have these knives in me

  and I know they can be good for the stabbing

but I am out of the habit-of-cruel

 and it doesn't come naturally

so I should probably just go to the clubhouse, now

  and be sweet & good

   and forget that love-sadness-regret-anger-hatred cycle

    that I've been riding.

This is a Diary entry

  for no one at all

I just don't know how to write a diary, anymore

  like I don't know how to walk or run

   I just know how to memorize

    and to look hard

     and to feel hard

      

     and I'm forgetting how

to wish

  which is the only good thing I've learned to forget

tether

anymore we can just ask straight each other
the anxious can pass, smoke
in an overcast bedroom
  chill
these being the words,
purity ring on repeat
well
may ends
well may birthdays are gone
well I have to move a mind again
  somber just doesn't justice

the flowers are so dead
  & so meaningless that I haven't bothered
  to destroy them
or to even throw them out
I just moved them from the table
onto the floor
  so I've room to elbow around

can it be managed, a life getting saved
time isn't what this was
the great length, big old distances
something so desperate
something so drown,
something so make gel bones
slither
  
   throw a brain away
   puff up a balloon heart & fly up in it
   trust only that
   your hands in the silk sand
   sands in your eyeholes, nostrils
  babybird it to me

I'm sorry my heart is an infant
it should never have arrived alive
it should have been stillborn
I should have had more to drink
  while it was parasiting, puffing
but now I've to raise it up
  nurse it
I can strap it to my back when I go camping
and I can toss it in its harness
  and pull it taught until it snaps back to my arms
 
come on, baby
    grow already

worth it

I came back
   the same
but so filthy
I don't want to ever wash my hands again
I am a touched girl
I have a sunburn or a cinnamon tan or something
I held the hair at its roots
  oilcan hair
  make that face
given me a corduroy elbow
given me your smokes
given me a double-sided noose
your dirt hands
that good clean mouth
  make my stomach muscles pain warmly from laughing solid for two whole days
  get it
under that big moon... there is some kind of agoraphobialike condition
  where people freak at the airport
  when they see how fucking big the sky is
I freak at that moon in ocean-sky
  around the fire,
& I just stared deeper
  & finally got it
we're finally burning sadhouse down,
  watch her ghost away

blanket

millions of pillows, windows open
  we have had an excellent try, molly
  we went to a movie
it was made by those who brought us the twilight saga
  bc all I wanted was some icecream
  to solve my 29yrold headache
I brought the leopard lisa frank blanket
  and I wore it to my legs
  and snugged with my milkshake.
I sat with nickey, and britta, and that tall one with the sparse face hair
  and the long feet in long shoes
    that's my favorite thing on him
  besides the 13 inches he stands over me
but he doesn't know me very well
  he had changed into a handsome date sweater
  but I'm guessing he rarely wears it
    rarely dates in it
we didn't hold hands, or touch or anything
in the car we leaned toward one another
  with a seat between us.
he knows enough, maybe
  like that I won't ask
                 I won't try
who knows, can you hang?
  I had a crush on him because of 7th grade orchestra
  he played stand-up bass
  and I was usually last-cello
    so I'd get to sit by him.
  he never talked to me or looked at me.
he was a skater boi
  he'd dyed his hair black and he'd headbang while he played.
  he doesn't remember the jr high me
    so is it cool or not
that he wants to hang 17 yrs later? with old-new-me
  I guess
    I live in boise, so
on our first date we went to the gasstation
  there were 5 dudes, all posing toward various audiences
  one bro was absently chewing a box of nerds he was about to purchase
  and I was able to look around at each of them
  bc none would make eyecontact with anyone
he bought me one of those giant glitter-fleece roses
  and he held up the line while he filled out the card
  he spelled our names phonetically
    which I found pretty endearing
       even though the flower is hideous
         and it makes this gross crumply sound when you spread open its petals
  I guess when you want to be a good date you do things like that
I had a dream I was going to nebraska
  and someone said, I heard you got a bus ticket back
  are you really sending me a mixtape?
  is it going to be a lamentable one? are you an across-the-country date?
  is that something to look for
when I came home, I asked my new landlady
  how she felt abt overnight dates
  she really doesn't like the idea
no smoking pot
  no sleepovers
     is this the kind of adult I'm expected to be?
fun
  I guess at 29 I'll become like you, then
paranoid
anxious
and lonely
with no one to share
  my millions of blankets with

waft

my dreams are coming true

my sweat hands are pouring it out

my sweat mouth is   pouting it out

I am becoming an onion

I am not red 

I'm not white I'm not green

I'm not a rosy little shallot

but I am rank

I am a fetor, organic earth bulb

little dirt baby

organ baby

juicy layers

I got this B6 vaping out of me

the vitamin C all cloud water around

but I haven't a stalk

or a shaft

or a connection to anything

just a globular squish 

solid-bod

cut into me

get me open

cry when I vapor you

when I steam on you

when I exhale
allium miasma

little mist

little onion burst

they don't make me cry at all, never

but I'm ready to sweet my juice on you, 

for your big old tears to drownout

sad 

little 

onion

cynic

eventually

yeah, I was sick & then I was filled with the life virus & then I made these promises that things were clean & upswept, but unfortunately I was cursed with a perfect memory, of faces, beard-scents, shoulder warmths, eyecolors. so I suffer, and it is tiresome, almost puts me in a coma in a blanket coma, and I try by reaching for all over directions. I want the hands of others around, and a different sort of conversation sometime. I think I will get out of here

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.

things we talked about

eyes, colors, nausea, autumn, showers, blood, being Irish, come, stubble, being Turkish, being Canadian, lying, misuse, anxiety, border collies, language, love, fear, drinks, smoking, hands, feet, newness, comfort, guilt

just a couple of times

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.

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.

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.

no beauty, all the beauty

songs of yesteryear

Thursday 25 October 2007: 8:16 pm

heartbeats (not yours but mine)

Oh! Tortured lovebliss. But it isn’t mine… I’m cautious, I swear, and eternally.

I haven’t mentioned him because I haven’t mentioned anything. He’s my neighbor, a combination of one and another but mostly more and more he’s just he. The records are familiar. The 4 track, the guitar, the hair, the nose, the everythings, parts of a demeanor. I have a few friends now at 64 & 66 Grove St. There are many others here: A man (in height and wranglers) dreamboar; another, a model, who shares my birthday and is my brother & not mysteriously… And the newest. We hung out and I smiled over and over because they’re all great. They sip whiskey and smoke. And the energy is always up, there is always dancing and the birds sing and there is always music in the air.

Last weekend they had a party. I arrived and was stuck to him the entire night, up until 4:30 or so when we retired to his lofted bed in the closet for final. Steve Reich on the tape player on repeat, and suddenly just a foot touching mine. And then the all too familiar fucking with our hands, and I find him so beautiful we finally kiss one another but somehow by accident. No making out, I refrain…

the day could look of you all along

prettylittle 76 - 79

The day looks forward, pertaining right now. I see far past this, I think. I might resemble twilight, & cashmere. Were you thinking? I want to. It matters, dim, indistinct, and I love that much. Deny the attentions, those appearing active in their recognition.

My hands are made of women, of twilight, sight as certain lanterns see. Living clavicles which are bats and insects filled with light. I think about it, but I can’t see. The window is open, we are able to slice but the crepuscular memory. The sun or the moon. I can’t see fresh air in my living everyday by them, in that cimmerian place. Let’s move environments, new reflection doubtless it be believed. Still on that island I want to illustrate, loves distorted and we've all night to understand. I am afraid, all the music mutilated, the night is a little more of a lot.

I want to know raining but my new irrecoverable smell wants to tell me in a song. It’s quite culpable, with me, it follows, and who is deserving a blame? I had always thought this; anyway it’s threads of censure, you know?

The most special out there, a mind unusual, honest, as I stop you. I am listening to art and I really wanted you. Importances, oftentimes, my originals, valued as curiosity. To be there of secrecy comes the bloated new, some curio of you all along.

remember then that subtle sentiment

song of yesteryear: 2008, 8 september (and yet ever pertinent, when will not it be)

Remember then that subtle shudder feeling. I felt it and after still. The night to the country, raining my height take things from my hands. subtle destroyer of things, in the light he ruined so sweet like constant compote to be spread but unnecessary. do but float? beautiful natural surroundings healthy, and to eat and plant of the earth, and to walk of it and breathe it and sleep and love on it. mentally acute. excuse the length of recovery natural, but desperate, too; so romantic of the same, to eat the same sleep the same sleeps, shower & dress & everythought shared, and adventures never alone. books you like, or literature, or poems, scientific & spiritually intelligent. indoors, and I will refuse to stay indoors. never to speak of love or death indoors. invigorating in the ways of the physical: off on a bicycle, to traipse through forest & desert & wild soft voice in my ear! Chile & Argentina. in the southern hemisphere, I feel a pull. relax on semiotics, make it truer. of the future, As autumn approaches everyone’s making turns around. adventure together With backpacks on, headed out. Outside, in tents, in mountains, lakes, streams, rivers. In snow, in fields, beneath the sun. all the laughing And the sentiment.

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.