what I'm doing

smoking them all. He smoked me

we wrote this poem together, it crept down to the corner of the table

& my script, my script I couldn't see with one eye

but it's legible

So I have this porch, this balcony

the Smoker's Balcony

My Balcony

Sparkle Porch

and I have bsu sweatpants

and a navy wool coat

and the baby blanket 

and brown leather moccasins

(beaded, of course)

and this forever collie

and a cocktail

(in a cool GLASS)

& I'm saying goodbye

to a thing that isn't a secret thing

but the goodbye has to be secret. If I go on giving it up, what will I have to tell them I've proved?

       (and by them) I really mean me & all of the mes in me

goodnight see you tomorrow

the real really happening

The new day, old songs. Is it easy to tell, now? Until tomorrow. If it has been at least two weeks, and untrustable they are to bring the truths to us. How truthful is enough. How much does one say to make another comfortable. How often does one say it before lying. How likely am I thoughtless of the others. How deep am I swimming in it. How much does he mean it. How real is really happening. 

Gravity, and the slides in my head through the night. I dreamt of charles last night again; it had been years since we've seen one another, and he lived in a bus or a plane where I peed on the carpet, then shrugged it off coffee spilt from the real gray cup from which I absolutely drank throughout the short night... here there was also a tiny espresso machine... and he familiar height & body of years and years and years. I kissed myself upon waking.

events of hours hoped or wished down

pretty little, 53 to 55


The events of hours: by tomorrow I am chiaroscuro. I am whimpering, almost, with the night now and still, once again, of light and shade I'm made. I think as usual, hiding in time, an affect of silence.

Consistently a chicago coffeeshop, it’s contrasted light and moderately I attempt to hardly be here at all. Just a beautiful shadow created by furnished apartment. Choke back in the unnoticed French light falling unevenly. Preparing tears a mind never blue from two; I produce a clear cherubic direction. That adjoining abruptly, the life of me, all throwing soft light in. Seeing, difficult & dry. I’d like to wake on the table, leaving love hard and saying, knowing, thinking, goodbye at the rest of a room.

A dance around things, an epic poem, the East in chiaroscuro. To prepare then. Somehow, take me for some marked action mythology; have you found humor to recommend me? might a fire you are looking for?

Black must do to be breathing around. Velvet forms a part of female singing. I try singing it too, for me to keep most interested. The head knows all the words, I loudly need the feel. I never hoped or wished down.