cruelbod

the teens are sitting on the bleachers at the highschool
but they aren't teens, anymore, basically 30 now
kelly is arched back in a vermilion haltertop
and tad lays flat, looking at the stars.
she graduated from highschool
and comes & drinks rose on ice
on the bleachers
she does reverse cowgirl on the bleachers
tries to pee between steps
as latenight athletes run the track.
God, why aren't YOU running with them, she accuses tad
who exhales smoke
and sips rose, ice clinking in his plastic cuppy.
I know, right
kelly sat with brody
on the highschool bleachers
when she was pushing 30, a couple of augusts ago
she was wearing a white dress and a denim jacket
and brody was drinking a big beer
he was trying to convince her to just drive with him all night to nevada
so they could get married
she thought that sounded like fun
but they'd just met the day before
and she knew they'd get sick of each other halfway there.
she never sat on those bleachers when she was in highschool,
just after she moved begrudgingly back after years away
and it was only twice, and past midnight
with guys named tad and brody.
kelly only fucked brodys, now
she was done with seths and aarons and todds.
she is feeling pretty superior in her vermilion haltertop
she is looking good, teenlike
she tells tad about the jeremy she'd been harassing
and tad tells her, kindly, that she's been humiliating herself.
she is gleeful
she doesn't care, has nothing to lose
she claims a lack of cruel organs in her cinnamon bod.
but she's a liar,
and pathetic,
and she's alone in life and she's mean
so she smokes & she chugs
& she takes her shoes off and pees freely.
she's got those good strong outside peeing legs.
she says Whatever
I'm Me
never growing up
just justifying her moves
with evil eye glimmers
and secret, hopeful tears

have an adverb, thoughtless

pretty little, 22 to 26


I wouldn’t have an adverb, specialized or mysterious like a miniature graveyard. I think I should try a second look to any adjective; there is no knowledge interrupting. New York, if passing unwittingly on the street, I am a guest. Language pulled over back east. Many pretty people shame information without saying a word.

I worked easily again. The average person walked across the street for a few months, fluently. And sometimes I’m sitting once again, resembling architecture. We walked in and simultaneously. I don’t know this little technique of holding our breaths. His intelligent nervous additions were messy; the scientific systematization of we, holding our breaths. Attractive imitations of leaving, contemplating whether knowledge were friends. Awkward or not, money that is owed scared him in the mood. Gun supported, we were scared and it was midnight. We both tend for tea. Ascetic, we held listening to share. I shall have to find another, characterized by hands and self.

Stemming from nowhere then, or perhaps suggesting. Walked up to one midnight, possibly his love. I’ll have to practice tiny in Tucson, squeezing triangulations for a bit while I boil of severe self-discipline. And a lime, do you think I shall. Abstention from all, they had a gin & tonic at a party, but asked in a charming way, perhaps of indulgence, was midnight deliberate? Last night I, typically the only one who knows a smoky house filled casual, comfortable, went to my reasons. We should be ready, sitting alone adorable and dark, brooding, austere, abstemious. I remember that, drinking a gin & tonic, confused because not sure if it was. Writing in her notebook, “…he’s ascetic. He once studied for the priesthood.” Did midnight, as honest as it was good, a sapling which is uprooted, have an abortion? Boise, charming as I remembered, is the right size accidentally.

Wearing white, deliberate, by the window. Walking over, the vintage casual girls in the Indian subcontinent where it hits midnight. Adorable brown hair that was cut monastic with a soft pfffat. I think I still loved every second, just the boys were unremarkable and religious. My mom had the most beautiful thing. Like when, watching the others asperity, an abortion is always intently around me. Rigor, severity, a roughness of his left arm. You must find renaissance still, alone. Unevenness gently over, when everything looks the same. Life, there wasn’t one, a tiny shoulder under a bland, overcast sky. Candlelight and orange could call up roughness of manner. I don’t remember bleakness. Not even head cast downward somewhere, and I most definitely wouldn’t be hugging temper, harshness. I was not positive, with fallow-sepia-fulvous colored eyes.

I wondered why he spoke again. Can you feel me. And he said then, I could, but this time with less asperity. Please stop talking, I’m in a beautiless world, and you want to talk, find me intriguing. The reputation, it’s really how it is for now. You want to talk about integrity, we can’t hear. I do look for and I was so tempted to get something, someone. Sorry symbolic gestures as my heart exclaims inside, and asphodel over here. The first dark morning, thoughtless, as it was.

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.