stereotype, a song (explicit)

  I'm hysterical

  watch me spin

 whirlwind

wash the place,

wash the world

my innards trying

 as women are wont to do

with the ra shon a ble
world

my wet stuff enticing like

as far as your
 deal   can squish
measure me in that way
ruler me

sorry, to be rude

 sorry, but I'm crying? right

look at me go

swish around

 I'm a heart 

  in a shape

cut off the arteries, the connectors
cookie cutter me

 obliterate
  into dough
masticate me mush

I'm sorry, I became

I behave

 in    that  way

so

the only genius in the room is   y  o    u

 disimportant  me

wash me
 down the drains of history

histrionic       girl

pull me out

push me

 push my breasts from my body

thumb my nipples from them

scrape it off, 

grate me

 cut me out

slice me, sliver it, silver it

wealth my slit

suck my gold voice

savor it

 drink my words,   betray them

take it upon yourself to translate me

 who could write it better than you.

 name me

compliment,

stand up for it

defend.

   my dear darling,

  I'm for a girl

 all of my ins

  and the bones of me, & marrow
 and my heart

but boy
     as I hang a shameful head,
you've the heart of my brain

  and the brain of my veins

i think we're presenting

What is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen? I was asked and I have never been asked. Once it was your eyes, a most boring blue. Because they looked at me in this way. Or because they looked at me. Now they are not. For awhile I thought I would only love a blonde. I like the translucent skin, to see organs and veins. It makes a body seem brittle, like flesh to be ripped. I wanted to look for Scandinavian peoples. Like the tall strange-faced ones, like this was it. The crawl up a long body to some exaggerated feature. A bulbous nose, small bead eyes. A long thick neck, scar tissue, adult acne. A touch on some underground pustule. If you can, I can. If only while you are a mattress for me. I'll wish you'd read the line from Song of Myself      not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar then the rest        I wish you'd read that over & over as I have. This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Where were you looking, just now? Erase JUST from a vocabulary, replacing it with ONLY or BUT or FINALLY. Which of these words is oldest? Guess ONLY because it has to be, english is only just but finally slightly old. Ancenned is the old english form. Take your justice back to the century, be better off. But you won't have your common comforts. Finally would be french, you'd never be french, you'd never go to france, you wouldn't leave your flat pocket, would you. I had a french boyfriend once, only, but he was my amant français stupide and he had the most slender hips & hairless body, and I gianted, and that was beautiful. Sunken cheeks and brown sad eyes. The brown-eyed are saddened darkfolk. It isn't the lack of pigment, it's all of the world's pigment like a vortex for all of the sads of all of the worlds. Lighten my load. Look at my very eyes. Match them to yours. I'd trust you less if you were trusting of soap. I'll plunge all of my buds into your dirt, familiarizing your everythings with your everythings else. This was a beauty. Dancing toward me in my graveyard. After my destruction, the wideset green eyes & giant bones I cast to the wind for my own downbringing. Dance toward me. This wasn't as beautiful after. I hate promises, but they can be the brightest beauty. Apologies can drop holes in you too often. I'm jaded by the landscapes, now. Unless you're my landscape. My face makes you cry, I am too terrible to look at. All of this is true, justify my text please. Take my picture with you obscured behind. If only an easy thing to delete, it was. A memory can be a sad beauty. You tell me you've broken up with your girlfriend, you're in my body & you've forgotten me, but I've remembered that I love you forever. This is the bluest pretty memory, looking into a depthless pool. You are a pretty cruel. Memory bones. These are what I used to imagine as the Truest. I pull my hair out for it, when I was young I had very beautiful hair. It never got brushed so sometimes that was a discussion. I can take part in the tedious with you. We'll talk later, we have lists upon lists. Only once to open my eyes and be unable to count them all. 

virtue

I moved inside and logged

  that fire

write in the light of it

with wet woolens dangling

there isn't a dictionary

  no one thinks to bring one

     it rains on the internet

   but I still find out that nemesis is the word of the day

                     

              but we have a different word of today

  

manliness,

      excellence, 

           godliness,

                potency

Virility & Virtue

    an advertisement urges me to click on a link: why men fall in love

  and its subheading: remind him why he loves you

  I am not a virtue

but a virtuous woman might

  just

remind a man

    why he loves her               

          

  like I am virtually her

  like I am virtually here

         I am essentially, practically there

  like I am essential, practical.

         a word on mouths for 600 years

  being as a fact but not as a truth

the fire is virtually dying

the fire is dying with virtue

nothing in the translation 

  of an old dead tongue

       can truth it real

& our descriptive grammar

    is proven absolute again

(so I know: another log for the fire, another wine for opening, feed them)

  

    I ate potato pancakes from the pancake & christmas house

  they were virtually crawling with onions

    why isn't that so true enough

      that I commit to it always?

and so drink & glorify in the 

older-than-that 

  words

the I-came-before-you words  

from a landscape slammed

  before latin was the only real shit

  Let yourself in then, your valor

        your worth  

  let this ancient adjective upstand

  let it be goodness

  let it rein america in

  let us men be strong

  let us be members

  let righteous members abound

But where's your tuff?

  where's your I'll-show-you-molly

  where's those gods-in-your-veins

  where's your justice?

  where's that wishful name

  placed pressureful on your slumped shoulders?

can't live tuff
  hide-in-a-name jelly skeleton

a nemesis has 

  Just indignation

      Righteous anger

         & thrashes & divines wrath up allover everything

  the virtuous

& the goddess of vengeance? at a Party sometime

   taking some beerbongs

     bodyshots

  Virility's glistening biceps in his threadbare tank

Nemesis' dampened tramp stamp

  and sunkissed bejeweled stomach

    glistening in the fluorescent basement lights

the Good & Strong & Excellent & Essential

   versus

the Defender of Justice

  who can shotgun the most beers

  who can kill that keg

  who can take down the party.

Who is splayed on the patio

   at the outcome of a chicken fight

 which one asks for more

   & which begs to be left off

  

  

old relevant

I don’t even need to kiss. But I do anyway? & I showed late to a dark lawn with a poet reading from the scrolling light of a smartfone. I was quiet, in ambience. eyecontact unwavering. And sitting next to me, introduced, and lovely because from us the conversation then readily flowed. In the grass with jars & cups of wine, like oldest friends sharing knowings all together too easy. Maybe it is easier with a boy. I haven’t met anyone like that who I’d like to just sit by and keep talking to; the girls I know in some sorts because of how easy it is for us to just be. But he it was like a lost brother of mine. Then breakfast, sleepless, and it was a depressing breakfast, in that the breakfast was depressed. Eggs in a weird isolated pile, a couple of biscuits that didn’t fit anywhere, some sad potatoes. We only go places for geriatrics. And hopefully will. It is exciting and we can’t be. We are a secret, a secret shared with bars & the heavens & some select northend streets. Our bicycle seats & our diaries. He asks me questions. No, he just listens. We can’t talk anymore about the good that feels, or the beauty of faces. I can’t think about the feeling of a hand pressed hard against a low-back, or the clench of small arms. Golden beard, Nordic eyes. But our smiles! the best, contagious. Not for those long distances and uninvolved. I got through a day of clenching my lust-carved jaws, of hiding my heartattack chest. And just the saying of the bare-minimal, just that I like it, I want to be best friends, I want to. I have blood-filled veins, after all, and a heart that shakes and pounds, and legs which want to wrap around, and a mouth that kisses with all of itself. I am not there, there, there. I am older now, smarter. I am not in love, I am in love. I am in love with every second, sometimes. Since Sunday night. I am in love with time elapsing, with an everpresent future, with the thoughts that a body feels! The movement, the passions, the lust embrace that I KNOW isn’t gone, has just been hibernating, has not been there, at all, real. It might not be he; he I like so much and feel so connected to, really, like everything is just there and so honest & obvious.

It’s 28 or never baby.

you're so reasonable & I'm so maudlin

I'm a model. I moved to New York City to walk down the sidewalks in towering alexander mcqueens and nylons ripped at the knees. I'm so modeling right now, it's insane. EVEN under the thunderstorms, here in the city, right next to the piers where the concerts glow at night, and the summer-stench crawls from beneath chinatown drains, with the women whispering from staircases, the escapes from fires don't pull down, that never seem to work. The women here are talking bored about child support & doctor's bills, and I am wearing too much copper so rains like these move my skin off, they patina my bones and veins. But since I am so modelin' right now, I am all ribs and clavicles, and my jutting hip on which a trouser-waist sits hangs like a hanger, as I am. I'm a model, and I moved to New York City to stumble down the streets in the earlymorning dark, after salons in my prada pumps. I'm sooooo modeling, but then there is you & you are so able to reason. You aren't even here in New York City because you couldn't exist here, because the beach touches the asphalt and the flowers are spare and wispy, and my hair never ever tries to grow here because only the molds and bugs and beauties of the undergrowth underbenches underground can grow, and my one face melts into nothing with the splay of the city, the stupid subway stench in identical nostrils, and we all evaporate simultaneously. You can't be here, because no one is here, and you are so real, so reasonable. Those days (these, of summer here) are entire worlds, are lifetimes and the end never darkens, just turns to puce & salmons & body-odor vermilions, and the sun rises unobtrusively and casual is the steam from the jamaica bay fog. A man in a yellow convertible comes to me, hawaiaan shirted, and I begin to fall back into the walk I do.

poem(s) for hearts

from crepuscular orations

The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb.
Why does my heart explode my body?
my heart acts ravenous in my body.
the weight of my heart in my chest.
the constant heart spangles.
My heart dancing.
Gaining weight in every part but the mind & heart,
I could put lots of heart and soul into a dinner.
My heart is more awake today, my mind is more.
or breaking my heart.
how he broke Molly's heart,
most of my heart,
to not let my heart open up on the way.
Into my open heart
who broke my heart,
The craving for newness and adventure hasn't left with my heart.
Murmuring in quiet tones on the porch and my heart swung and I greedily thought,
This is the heart of my fear.
My heart was beating and to have
enough room in this heart for all this love,
we had a heart to heart
soaking into my eyes and my ears and my heart, in a heady, low volume rush,
abrasions bursting from in the heart and up to bubble at the surface.
my heart is a stupid little asshole
because he still holds the key to my heart?
my heart does
the heart is heavy
and my broken heart will heal with immediacy, because
total eclipse of the heart.

from momentos preciosas

that's why the heartpangs.
and autumn begins wholeheartedly.
I was thrown out from my hilarious and lighthearted dream;
I can feel the heart now.

I knew the tune which lacks in roots

I knew the tune would be here. And in this cool place where I live, legs beneath layers of down, and blankets, too, and the impending sun of autumn. The subtle morning brain is like a muffled country and western performance, the light tingle of the mandolin or the hesitant whine of a slide guitar. I can feel it up and through my veins and feelers. My spine is filled with the music of stars. The ones hid, now. Last night's cloud sprays, the quiet dark. My warm wet body pricked in the fresh, an opened dress. And now, like a mushroom, grown overnight in these crevices, waiting willfully to be uprooted. Even to uproot that which roots lack.

no v ember

the sight of leaves on street. the fold of my hand around one, veins transluscent through and towards a streetlamp, or the bright of the sun, or the shine of the moon. The wet sky making through the dark of the early night, visible only too by these orange and yellow lights. the size of one leaf, bigger than a face. the sight of a leaf appeared dipped bloody, or into the juice of a beet, or any other naturally staining intoxicant discharged by a wet autumn root.