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

22 august boise idaho

(from cardboard notebook public diary)

Mmm Bloody Mary! B left for a sweater & pretty dress. The wind in intense boise. The night blow. The alcoholic in me celebrates. The tiny alcoholic. I've missed myself. A little heartbreak, a little hurdle. It will be good to leave. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. Make the final arrangements. Say a silent goodbye, middlefinger to the sky. Oh, boyfriends. And manymore. I'm thinking a texan. Who in their right mind is named Kyle? 

       Next I see him... he will be tiny. He absolutely did it, for real! A classic. "I don't do cats, I don't do beluga."

       Oh, inside. As George said, a heavy Patriarchal show. It goes on for days & weeks, and happens to. If I liked him more, he'd be called Sasha. We'll just call him nothing. o But he's an artist! I can lament that his community attracts. The poets, scholars. Poets jerk themselves off. I'm going to read you Kenneth Koch. "Guess what, Molly, in Nebraska there's this beautiful national monument, a plateau, and there we went and recited Leaves of Grass. It was amazing..." Oh, stroke me more, you obvious retard! He lacks in anything said. Beautiful things, actual poetry,  foreign to his taste. How could he not be struck by the black & white butterfly corpse I flattened in Tennessee Williams? A Dude poet. Poetry, and that impresses me? Often. But obvious! I haven't heard a bit of poetry uttered from his flat lips! He would drive me to suicide after a week of him. Still I'm angry. He's no right to actually be that guy. I said things, enticing, come to the fair & I'll hold yer hand. He chuckles. I don't need to hold your hand anymore, . But wait... why does it happen? Does it actually happen? This? He needs a lesson in the subtlety of honesty. The success in honest. 

       I couldn't change it. I might be able to show him. How I'd love that opportunity! Standing there before his handsome tall form, Listen, Guy... I would have fucked you anyway! What was it, a simple exercise in manipulation? Will you write a poem on it? No. You're lacking too much in creativity. Yeah. I'll say that at the end. No I won't. Give him some scars to think about.  Not a chance.There're some poetics for you. Flat lips. Resembling too much S. L & A. W. Never again... oh I can't keep writing about this, can I? How about is Poem formed?