some people think my blog is prolix

...and how can they be blamed? As a logophile, I'm obligated to cartwheel myself wordy word around the world, and I like it this way. Who's to say? The good news, the great news, actually, is I have plenty of sensical stories to tell. I had no idea that "sensical" is a neologism! News for me! I use back-formation constantly when using words unrecognized by our lovely friend, the dictionary. But now: to gather for the basset more water. A sleeping, sweating, feverish boy at my side, the bedclothes areek in his fitful outpour. The basset shuffles back into the outside world.

from cardboard diary: earth science

10 January 2008:

  The case of the ultra well being.

Never forget the abyssal plains and arrows for some reason forever pointing down

and we cry slender in the night, wildfire trapped omitted tenderly wrought against

old again & again. A spontaneous outburst of seeds exploding air all around

now simple soft withering twilight, sunstroke water dirt all betrayed now. Storm like it.

Iceburgs and volcanoes. Cries and whispers.

the punishment of, oh, the knowing of your eternity (thanks for obsessively keeping track, girl)

on love before, 3 august 2008, in brooklyn ny

In and out of bursting in and out of flames. Hiccups, and contractions, and a need to drink water, but I have wine now. And a room which has never been more perfect. And flat tires continuous, almost daily, without a doubt weekly. Because of these roads, these pieces of glass and trash and everything. A siren chirps. They party all over the streets. I don’t like that my tire is flat and I can’t walk my bike the two miles home, that instead I have to pay a car to take me, and paying is what I’m doing, whereas before it was silly to think about not paying, paying paying what, let me pay, who cares. And it’s like that still, the everyotherday kind, of devastation at least it isn’t constant. It’s beautiful to think of him like this. It also helps to devastate my state, in particular a new york state, at why shouldn’t I walk alone at midnight home, where someplace else I could, and could easily & should gladly, maybe not minding so much. It’s just the feeling I want, to be in love and the rest seems excessive, like the trash, the city, the pressure, the job of boring useless. Wow! Did I just scream that? Okay then bye bye. It’s just getting me & has been since we met that I could be close to someone again, so inevitably close. And of course so all I want at this moment, and how long it’s been since, and SO LONG it’s been, and yes I am ready, have been since the day charlie & I broke up. Really have. It seems better, more intelligent, all the wiser for a body to say things to self & others like, oh I’m just not ready to be close to someone again… so I’ve adopted that (subtly, and in a lie) by saying it aloud & to myself, and even at times knowing I’m not great or interesting enough at this particular point in my life. But let me interrupt: why then is it so easy for me to be endlessly interesting to him, and for me to want to listen to him for upwards of eternity, and for me to feel in every bone the truth that what I say & do & feel and all the ways in which I respond & act are right and True and completely unnecessary to justify or explain or support. They are little enigmas on their own, and even I don’t feel selfconscious, when he tells me he thinks I’m brilliant I know it is because I am. I want to say no, I’m a genius- which I am. Bright & lit up. Radiant. Omygod I am such an asshole, it’s about time I smoked that last one and went dark.

But first: I wanted to gush; how about the women with huge gigantic bosoms wearing tshirts like JUICY printed across them in three feet of block lettering, oh wow, and gushing, like I do. I go in & out, back & forth with him there, yeah, he’s a boy but must be dumbly romantic like I or else this wouldn’t work out so well. And I trust the fuck out of him, can you imagine? Is it because I know he thinks I’m brilliant, maybe, but not because I’m afar like I worry I might find him, appealing in such an impossible way, and I don’t need to know the mileage to know an approximate latitude, a latallure he has to me, so far down in heaven country where my heart thrives like a succulent, sits baking in a sun so close and thriving, fleshy, on all the blood love lust fluffing out its puffy tufted paws. My heart is a simple succulent, so simple in fact it’s just the leaf of one, nevermind the plant; what I’m looking for here is the whole rest of me, a stalk & a root stuck down into the dry rocksoil. My damn little affable heart in all its bliss stuck into the Arizona dirt, forever.

I once when a child made fun of people who wanted to live in Arizona like they were afeared of the cold, but look at a strong creature tucked beneath a prickly pear and we’ll attempt to uncover a coward.

I want to gush at the productions I’ve had, contractions too. It has been: Only about 15 days since my last sexual encounter with anyone. I happened to find my vibrator today after it had been mysteriously missing for decades. We went at it for about 7 minutes, afterwhich I groped at the sky and mouthed questions. I love him a little bit. He is better than anything I have else. And that is the worrisome. That I could possibly tear my own existence to shreds for some fantasm I’ve producted from years, birthed again anew & from pieces of my own flesh memory.

I still look forward to it, yes.

3:18 am

Dear diary, I am obviously not speaking or gesturing with a wineglass to his child’s portrait in a photocopy stuck to my wall. I am glad. Ovenmouthed, glad. I understand that Tucson could very well mean instrumentals and recordings. As long as I have A. Beard and someone who has instruments and happens a musician to be, a pretty future holds. In a climate such as, nonetheless, healthful habitat all hot and hearts helped.

I am tired. I poured another wine, and fancied what if I could (and I could) make a disc for him what would it be. A poem from titles, nonelse, happenably unwritten by me.

12:57

The desert landscape is associated with a pain one might choose

I read this just a minute ago on Ron Silliman’s bog. He’s talking about a poem called “It seemed a similar choice although in an adjacent register” by Martha Ronk.

Today I’m less than joyfilled, a lot I’m sure having to do with my sleeping a lot later than planned, maybe the whispers of a hangover (fucked up upon going to sleep last night but happy, I felt happy) and again having that crisis of, what the fuck am I doing again? Wanting to abandon NY right away… but the desert? What the hell am I going to do in the desert? Live in a hot, dusty apartment, have a succulent garden, spend time with the desert, look at sunsets, be happy, be in love…

So completely unlike what I’m doing here. I wish I had chosen something else. Well I still can, news for you.

being for the afternoon

The reorganization of dream clothes, the inevitable circle the rainbow display can make. The inevitable dismay can make. My impossible love. 

We walked along the muddy path, making erosion all the more knowable. The dogs in their short legs, prancing, or raging, or lumbering along, and our hands holding to stop feet from eroding down the slippery slope. Across a log across a creek, "the confluence, the confluence!" The brambles in my gray tights, o favorite gray tights, and a hole and arunning up and down. The freezing such running water makes in air surrounding. Muddy boots, laced up with mud, socks, pulled up to knees by mud. The muddy man riding through on his muddy bike, the lightfooted dog leaping over muddy flows. I looked around, and there, in the sun, freckles & eyes of tiger and soft midsections. The colors, and the colors. You & I in reverse symmetric eternal rainbow closet organization style. Thanks for the dreams, brains.

for the wolf moon (1/18/12)

tomorrow night, us and hours,

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 yellow

from crepuscular orations

with little squares of yellow light, like the background of a play.
lesser yellowlegs
yellowthroat
greater yellowlegs
yellow ribbon lichen,
yellow ribbon lichen.
a yellow corona tee-shirt with cutoff sleeves.
he wore a yellow
to Yellowstone at freezing temps,
folded delicately between the now yellowed pages.
The blue yellow gray between the shades fades.
his beautiful yellow labrador;
kicks the yellow dog out of the way and exits the building.
To him, my butteryellow bandana.
yellow trees,
yellow slowmotion leaves falling.

from momentos preciosas

green and yellow peppers
yellow winter remaining

poem(s) about black

from crepuscular orations

The buildings were lit, black silhouetted, with little squares of yellow light,
purple, black, and gray
black rosy-finch
black tern
in black bathing suit,
in black silk bathing dress.
And the black silk cardigan from five summers ago.
white kneesocks and tall black boots
and black silk cardigan.
black belts with southwestern emblems.
Watching a black gay & lesbian comedy,
thick sideburns, black frames, eyebrows canted.
Long curly hair, dark, not black, almost a deep, deep purple...
There is a man with a black security tshirt.
in a holey black tshirt smoking a cigarette.
outlined in detail through the thick, black cotton.
all the auburn and black...
Now I have the black dog and the black and white fluffy dog piled with one another on the porch sofa.
Navy tights (black?)
my black & white dog,
the brown and black dogs
run through blackberries and snakes.
With our black,
black dog.
With the salty dogs, and black.

from momentos preciosas

Sleeps in a black & white curl.
I can just see her black & white prance  
and her black leather couches
and black leather couches.
Black magic.
Blackness symbolizes
death wears black.
a black hoodie zippered dress.

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.

poem(s) for the mind

from crepuscular orations

My body is too old for my mind.
It brings to mind Samuel Beckett and Oscar Wilde.
My mind turning to compost.
My eyes are dry, my mind is tired, my body needs more movement...
my mind is not the adulterer.
Gaining weight in every part but the mind & the heart,
with all my mind & able body
If I could kill the internet of my mind, we'd be on to something.
This is the most boring thing one could write, mind you.
Avoiding my mind & body, too.
he is so powerful in my mind.
I couldn't mind if they don't
keep in mind,
my heart is more awake today, my mind is more.
I kissed him after he read my mind
on behalf of anyone who is involved in the pathetic game of a weak mind,
he rarely walks across my mind anymore.
In my sick mind.
Willing us in his little boy's mind
and never was sex on my mind.
Can I use it to fill my mind with passion?
The songs into which your mind sank.
My mind was filled with beautiful things last night, I was a true romantic genius.
wouldn't you mind
plays are on my mind.
Blew my mind over.
It would take my mind off sex, but my mind wasn't too terribly on sex;
to get my mind off everything.
I didn't mind,
the last cock on my mind for an eternity.
It is better to get out of here so that my mind is completely empty.
I won't mind once I'm there...
And I won't mind one day meeting the next!
My mind is fresh & pungent & accepting.
Mind is quick & thorough.
I do not only exist within my mind.
I don't even mind at all.
He doesn't mind.
Why can't he just give me a little peace of mind?
and he's on my mind...
all I can do for the sake of my right mind is to behave exactly the way I can & do & tend to want to.
it'll blow your mind.
Even if I love his mind and want more of it,
even if the love of his mind is juice.
I love his mind, yes, it's so curious and I want it,
my own laughter at my own hilarious mind.
Excepting his mind I want to hear and experience.
I don't mind never touching him or kissing him again.
But my mind was and is the deadest.
that will blow my mind.
my mind is over.

from momentos preciosas

If he'd mind, could I?
They wouldn't mind.
I felt my mind's eye wander back and behind me, through the open window
as my expectant mind was, just then, in the walkway south of the window.
My problem is not just dilation of the eyes but the mind, and my mind's hand in my life.
My mind dilates, contracts.
In my last mind I said,
narrow minds abound.
mind-blowing
and to softly let my mind spin webs of ideas and escape-feelings.
Just as the wind moves, so does the mind.
If my mind wasn't blank I could reap so dear and clear and bestow my benefits to everyone.

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.

poem(s) for awake

from crepuscular orations

My heart is more awake today, my mind is more.
When am I going to start being awake to say no
it is really a nice time to be awake.
I will also awake with contentedness.
tall & slender & awake & alive.

from momentos preciosas

I'll be awake
I am awake and asleep.
 

poem(s) for breathing

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating.
my breath hasn't come in gasps,
and then I am up and breathing again for a moment;
I am no longer breathing in hefts.
his shallow breaths,
guilty breath
is like a breath
the true breath I utter is not to be used
sighing, breathing,
I'm breathing him in as much as I can.
and his breath, too smells good somehow,
I'm breathing little smoky breaths into the pillow.
my breath was caught,
combining to form words of thick breath,
the sound of my breath echoing over a postcard.
every breath I breathe a worse one.
aubergine hair and scented breath & shoulders & neck...
Then we breathed in our cigarettes, wide-eyed.
He began to emit short breaths and low moans.
in the same breath.
and his breath I disliked,
breathing into my neck,
just breathing, slowly, slowly, slowly.
and he's nearly breathless.
Now we can all breathe sighs of relief!
His breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
That burning heartchoke and breaths of slight ecstatic jubilation.

from momentos preciosas

and he chuckled and breathed like a maniac and he understood. 

poem(s) for blood

from crepuscular orations

my own breath beating, the blood beating
with a bloody, old face...
Blood.
Excited pain and blood to dry in my shoes.
bloody mary
containing all of my blood,
I wonder if my blood is okay.
Blood spraying
spicy bloody marys.
We drank the bloody marys
not to mention the two bloody marys
needing a sweater for the bloody mary
but it's just a bloody hemmorhoid.

from momentos preciosas

And my blood, lungs, full with it.
bloodstain on your majesty
bloodseed of your majesty

poem(s) for eyes

from crepuscular orations

Eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently,
and my eyes sped along ahead so I could see the trains turning quickly around the bends as the women, exhilarated, held on tightly.
To open my eyes.
Look at his pretty eyes,
and flickering eyes.
My eyes are dry,
maybe the sun was too much in my eyes.
He also has prepossessing eyes.
But in my eyes
long tall dark eyes and moan, silently,
his smooth hands and his crystal beautiful eyes.
Even though she glares and corner-eyes me.
Pretty hazel eyes.
For his eyes to see.
Dark eyes.
His dark eyes forever engrained,
through his eyes
when I force him to keep his eyes open
for the eyes to soak it up, the lashes lining.
We looked at eyes with our mouths open.
Desert skin on ocean eyes.
Or his eyes?
All I had to do was to close my eyes
but for the moments when his eyes would grow big looking upwards,
my tears fogging my brain and my eyes.
My pretty dog with her pretty eyes.
His eyes & profile.
My eyes began to leak and he stayed in me,
eyes on theatrical display.
Soaking into my eyes and my ears and my heart,
his dark eyes etched with the charcoal lashes of a woman,
his beard grows all the way up to just under his eyes.
I can still close the eyes and find you warming down me.
Rolling eyes,
his surprised, opened-eyes:
He has green eyes, or hazel, and they go down at the corners somehow...
I can see the color of his face and the tactile reactions of his eyes...
and the teeth and eyes,
my eyes are watering
his eyes closed
my eyes, his.
I'm glad hat he has hazel eyes that go blue.
I want his brain & eyes.
All sorts of eyes on me,
conversations & eyes!
I can barely use my eyes, they are so teary...
My eyes filled and I said,
pretty eyes, pretty face.
He has redbrown eyes like his hair.

from momentos preciosas

my eyes I can feel are closing.
eyes dilated,
my problem is not just dilation of the eyes but the mind,
I feel my eyes dropping closed.

a poem for lips

from crepuscular orations

the last kiss, the mouths & lips.
those lips.
his huge lips smacking for no reason.
his lips... his mediocre hypochondria
on my lips, on my genitalia, on my beings.
Your lips & your height aren't going to be enough for me.
Your lazy lips letting themselves be,
his lovely full lips and curly dark hair.
Where mouths biting and lips everywhere,
like the flat lips of a fish
but what if I reached across the bar there and touched his lips...
This is lips are awesome, oh, why don't I have thick, full lips just for this purpose...
using my mouth and tongue and lips as they're meant to be used.
My mouth and lips and tongues over his,
my lips are sealed.
What's with the seven little kisses on my lips?
Lips in slight smile.
Lovely full lips parted,
his breath I dislike and his lips are soft and formless.
His lips want to make someone fall in love with him.
He uses lips with what they are and tongue sparingly.
He kissed me very softly on the lips and I saw animated triangles.

a poem for smells

"The lovesick, the betrayed, and the jealous all smell alike." - Colette
I will smell the ever-wilting white lilacs.
The mosses the lichens the smell of wet grass and clover,
I can smell my feet and netherregions stinking away.
I actually smell really, really dirty
And the memory of your smell is mostly what reminds me.
and to smell the neck of a beautiful man...
the smell of liquid fire draining the sink.
the sweet smell overtaking.
the smell of wood
always will smell of tortilla chips.

poem(s) for cleanliness

The kitchen is clean.
My room is very clean,
I took hours to clean the bed of debris.
the fresh clean air
I guess I will go & try to clean up this little life of mine.
very clean in my little atticroom.
The room is so perfectly clean & adorable,
in some clean girls' house,
to clean a large tent.

from momentos preciosas

a good soul-cleansing trip to the Tropic of Capricorn
I have a near perfectly clean attic bedroom  

poem(s) for a body

from warm snow

I can't keep my hands off a face, hands off a face, from a body,
I will stay here with you, and clutch your body to me every night
But I don't want anything in my body!
I like your body in a bed with me 
the sweet feel of a body beneath tight jeans, fucshia sweater
my hands sliding down a body
I almost never use my body anymore
I would never use a body for sex
at my body
The holding of another body at closest range
too hard on a body,
especially when a body will of course go back and smoke harder and with more intent after.
sweet body
I am tired of this uncertainty about my dying body.
beautiful in Universe hair and torking body
My body is constantly full with the salty fat and sweet things which make it middle-aged.
Body in suffer.

from crepuscular orations

why does my heart explode my body?
my heart acts ravenous in my body.
my body is too old for my mind.
I held and rubbed a naked body and I tried to recount everything I saw and said aloud.
no matter how nice it is to hold a body and look at pretty eyes,
the things one intends through body movement and flickering eyes.
my body steaming.
fires in my body will always burn.
My mind is tired, my body needs more movement...
with all my mind & able body,
do not do any wrong with my body.
Avoiding my mind & body, too.
My body is fading away which is completely unfair.
every second my mouth is on a body,
I watched myself leave my body, my breath was caught.
My body isn't sweating at the moment too terribly,
and how have I barely used my body in days?
My body still smells strongly of summertime,
the body morphing into a filled balloon.
The scent of a body, perfectly soft & real?
Mine own hands on my own body, no...
Body posture indicating a hiding or a withdrawing,
the celebrating coyotes hollering so loudly as I lotioned my fresh body.
My body is like lumps of mashed potatoes.
A body small and smooth and pretty, yes.
A hair-covered body, thin, toothpick legs.
My body quaking, atingle all through...
My body reeling and relaxed, legs out on the porch sofa.
I wish I could lick every inch of your body.
I climb a body, hands across me
with my body, with my life.
Body feels so good with mine, hair in my hand,
a bed, a body, the walls in his room.
There are plenty of sexual bones in my body,
smoothe large body, pretty.
And for body touching.
I do like the idea of hands on my naked body...
I just want your hands & my body.
A body so different.
But I want a cock in my mouth so I creep down a body...
hands on my body...
a large soft body,
a giant body.
A thick smooth body, a face always on the verge of smiling...
what am I doing here, body?
And I couldn't think of anything but my body and the world right there.
I can't have a body on mine.
Get a hard beach body?

from momentos preciosas

How I miss the feel of a body.
I even stretched all my body today
massaging her body,
the human body when it is standing. 
Dreaming is always accompanied by the body's sexual arousal?
When I came my whole body convulsed
between the body and the earth
keep the body separate from nature even in death.

hello, beautiful

Why? Because my blood is thick. I have all these tortured organs, I know it. I make them whipped. They ache, but with smiles across them. My sweet little heart getting big on itself. Making hard itself. That tumescent little thing. My mouths filled with apologies which fall out and disappear on a breeze. No one will hear! not even my own opened ears. My filthy fingers reaching for yours. Your cups in mine. Mine own overflowing. The quiet cold, my heartattack building, the mossy breeches of the nailed fingers, traipsing, traipsing toward yours. Yonder fingers tracing over mine mossy knuckles. But this is love, no? shall we argue? Nothing in me is for an argument. I give up, relentless, restless, accepting, open, whole, heartedly, whole. The whole hole filled with heartblood, gushing, retracting, sucking itself off. Never relenting, never detumescing. The various plaids of my outershells, my chitinous fibres. My camouflage, our matching stripes and shades. I will be there, you know it. I will scrape you off, when you need it. I will sing when you like me, I will look when your eyes are away. And still keep it when they turn back towards, inevitably. Do you still read me now?

this year already better than last; an example

Saturday 2 January 2010

I am nervous. The heart goes in and out the veins, the heart thaws me numb. I have the dog panting at my side, the guitarmusic panting in rhythm, my own breath beating, the blood beating. I have been watching too much show, but today, but yesterday was my last day alone. Jon is back, invisible but with traces; the rabbit is gone, the kitchen is clean. And he is going to return from Arizona. I have to pick him up at the airport at 10:30 pm. I am about to have an attack. My fingers can’t find the letters, I can’t find a way to be. I do not want to see him and I feel certain of that, but then I do not want to see anyone at all in my house. I want my own little place, which has no one. I love the dog & cat. But I would rather give them up for my aloneness. I cried without tears, it was raining so I don’t know if it’s true, on the walk from the bar in between friends & acquaintances & coworkers; we left the bar on new years and I wondered, is new years over yet. And I could only think no, I don’t want to keep up like this, I don’t want to go anymore, I don’t want to deal with anything. Like being a human. I don’t want to look at him and listen to how much he missed me because I missed him, yes, on new years when we’re having a party it would have been nice to have him. I missed Kari but was mad, annoyed at her not being there; but who can I tell this to, I am no writer, after reading writing makes less sense, why do I think I could. If my only method of escape is this? how? I can’t write, I can’t put the letters together, nothing is honest, even, save for automatic spell checker. If I am to escape, just constantly for myself. From myself. I just need a break from being me. From the internet distractions, the sounds, my visions haven’t been. My tears haven’t flowed, my breath hasn’t come in gasps, I am not of passion anymore, and he will see this when he arrives. I want to trick myself, to say well now that he’s here I will be so happy! Finally the emptiness isn’t! But when he comes, I will have to be here, too. I don’t think there’s any way to live here. I want to be alone. Without roommates. If I really do go to college one day, in new york like I think, well I’ll have to be damned prepared. Also, I will be ready to be around others. I’ll have to be. So alone in new york. So alone but never far enough. Here the expanses can be great… and still so lonely. I liked the big dark house, empty but for us. I liked not thinking about anyone coming home, or complaining inside about my lackings. I like not thinking about anyone. But I hate not thinking. I numbed myself around, and am, just to avoid the true honest thoughts. I don’t miss Adán, he is a distraction from the real empty pain I feel when I’m alone, the pain which leads me to search frantically for something real to devour, and I am numb and searchless now. I can’t see anything. I am blinded bored.

8:42

It is restless. The struggle over I over it. My mouth is dry as can be, there are songs coming out (songs coming out of me) and the programmed static is like rain on a tin, and the things which jar and strangle. F pyramids. F hillary.

I was struggling okay all these things I have to articulate, and do I hear sounds of voices. Ah, the bright lights. I am panicking, learning forcing to force by means of love. The soundtrack of the night playing, of course, the important role. The progression of moment through music. Of feeling and the tinkle in the lobe of a basedrum.

            I suddenly relaxed. After hanging up all my favorite dresses (duresses) aloud saying, “I must throw all these away!” suddenly so jovial! Ah, the mere trash! I have to stop watching that trash, any trash. My trash, my treasure. Why does my heart explode my body? The theories, I see!

The height of the night, the eggs of sweet little salmon

passed around to us on loose baguettes. I used to know

the finnish word for baguette. If only.

Reluctant relaxants. Cigarette in the yard.

Unpaired socks are called loose ends. For right now

they sit on the feathered nest made for all of us. I

have never laid there.

hearts and bones……..hearts and bones………hearts and bones

The timing will tell a story if remembered. This is about the arc of a love affair. I haven’t a story to tell. My life, as I already described, is a numb skull.

But the dog is perfect

so the fleas too, are perfect.

“Why won’t you love me for who I am where I am”

this is a story! It is true, I dare it!

If gayle could only have married paul simon

would she then be called gayle simon?

They would have looked lovely

in pictures together.

Then to be called gayle marie, of course.

No, I do not think it’s the time to try to write a poem about my mother. For she isn’t really my mother, except maybe once, or for a time, but then only because I felt like mother is this faraway, unobtainable being, who can’t care for you or protect you but who wields absolute power. Is there a better phrase. Absolute, without a doubt, oh, doubtless. Incontrovertible control. Yew

She was my mom, of course. Molly’s mom. This is a replication of the cabin. I could try for an upper upper situation.

The soft faraway look of the dog, eyes semiclosed, gazing panting gently, and the pink earlymorning at far rockaway some hog july summer relate in an instant, stirring a spark up. But I was so desperate for those occurrences. Something in me has since died. And I am wont to bring it back.

Alas, at this fair hour I anxiously await the welcoming home of my beloved. I am aching inside, tiny dagger-stuck innards. The whistle of a train!

"...she kissed me thrice with more mouth than meaning..."

"...as if woman's love were springwater containing the salubrious salts which at the least notice she ever so willingly gave anyone to drink..."

(12/2/10)

Dear Diary, today I:

Missed someone, exponentialled my own self sexually, lost two games of cribbage, wound around denver with goals, removed the disgusting lavender nailpolish in front of the grocery, pet labs, drank rollingrocks, & coffee, read a beautiful Nabokov, surprised myself in phonecalls

third day of hanukkah, denver, colorado

In the land, again. The echoes of everything. I have talked about them all, to one another. Their opinions support my defense... but how will I defend? can I, will I? What happened to you?

I know for what reasons I am unwilling. I will never be the continual shoulder, I will never be the shovel with which to  undig. I will defend your honor as long as I've reason to. Will fight & win for proof of loyalty. What will you be?

The good, solid fires, the surprise on a beautiful face, the accepted touchings with meanders, the sunshine and wearing socks & scarfless, the failure of a horrific nailpolish which remains not in memory... The words for other words. I feel proud consistently for achieving such constants of love.

songs for why not

Dear Diary, today I:

Missed someone, exponentialled my own self sexually, lost two games of cribbage, wound around denver with goals, (achieving them!) removed the disgusting lavender nailpolish in front of the grocery, pet labs, drank rollingrocks, & coffee, read a beautiful Nabokov, surprised myself in phonecalls, reminisced, celebrated, ate burritos a million years old, reassessed, reclined, became rejuvenated, loved life, wore my norwegian sweater & canada coat in delicious combination, lamented, made inner promises, reconnected, read Virginia Woolf for the first time, and attempted love for the millionth. Denver is smiling & sunny, and who knows about it all.

slow

Wednesday, 17 November 2010, Boise Idaho (from leather journal)


"I think that job interview went really well," says Brittany, reclining beneath the bedclothes.

-Build a diary
-Dylan & Nancy
christmas
             Aubergine

Brittany's house, roommates introducing themselves to love of life. To get good at writing quickly again.

             Great.

     What are you guys moving?
           A couch.

and later...
              Magenta sky turns lavender. Brittany tells love-of-life to look up... I want to give a love the same urge! Too bad to be loveless. So I send it to the first of whom I think: but remember, this doesn't appeal. And if it does not appeal to him, why does it appeal to me?
        I try to say, it's worth it. If you feel appealed, and if you urge towards response.
But madly you do not. Madly feel nothing. With all the passion drive to feel nothing. If I would keep my mouth shut, my fingers from walking honestly, if I could keep myself from fishing. But with he I'm asking for something, for proof that I needn't be gone. It is so apparent, nothing to do for fighting it. Nothing to change. Yours & your way and nothing else. Forever and ever.
        Oh, day. Coffee, and pot, and a bagel sand? And a cookiedough brownie?! Of which I can only eat two bites. And games of pool, a salty dog, and coffee with whisky & kahlua.

The money I have is for keeping. The nails I have are for scraping.

P I Z Z A ! Michael?
How should we make him pay?

         Look at the sky,
       ? I think I missed it

You most definitely have. So much cheesy meaty grease congealing in a stomach. Who finds this interesting? Brittany doesn't feel good. Her boyfriend isn't calling. The pizza crust sits uneventfully on the plate.

Why hang out? because you can't say no? Even though it's the most obvious? I know how I'd feel if I felt this way. I'd like to say I can relate. I wonder if I should go buy more poison...
          But my stomach is full and all that's left is a walk. To find something better suited for something else.

          "I like Magma Chamber..."


Don't be Molly Molly Maudlin


Have you found a place to keep your face? In a large frame, hazel blue, narrow straight a point. A real blonde, but dark. Mellow monotonous moderately-pitched. The lean height. The oily aubergine curls. Dark eyes framed as always. Lips showing behind thick varicolored beard. The voice of an excited teenager.

           Respond to me, because I'm dressed for 1996. Black little boots, navy tights, gray Paris dress, olive & gray plaid pendleton. The new mittens exchanged; thumb fitting perfectly and rest of hand free & open.

           Exceptional things are happening to us now. The first seconds of freedom. And forgetting and forgiving.
           There are many of us for friends.

          A pledge
                  to never, ever live love in a sentence.

things we know about me:

I am 26 (I am 23)
I've lost seriously, and twice, within four days.
I've made a list of things I am no longer allowed to purchase.
I am sick, but this time just hearts & brains.
It doesn't matter, the dressed body.
I'm extremely good at giving myself pleasure, in wool tights, in the darkness of a terrible night.
The weather is perfect for me
I tried to ride my bike on the ice with a cup of coffee, it spilled, we slipped.
I am not ready for pool and pitchers anymore
I am ready for different places, like colorado, and tropical places, and new york.
I am an Exhibitionist Atheist Romantic
I used to be Vegan.
I used to be Vegetarian
I used to hate animals.
I used to hate mushrooms.
I like the past
I still urge that I don't believe in magic
I have no problems with those who believe in magic
I used to cry, but now I never do
I cry when I laugh
I am almost alive.
I am a twostar occurrence
& If I'm not worthwhile by the end, won't at least the progeny be.
I am not invested
I don't want new friends.
I like the ending.
It is utter.
I hold grudges because they're tangible.
& I am apologyless

things we know about me:

I am 26 and a half today; it means that at every moment I come closer to being 27. 

Really, at every moment I come closer to being 28, and 31, and 46.

I have a dog. She was dirty, but then it snowed & she ran in it, and suddenly she's crystal clean.

I usually call Fat Tire Flat Tire but it's often the only beer in my mother's refrigerator. I unpacked it from her luggage; she moved the beer from california in august.

I am no longer sick.

I can wear pants, if I like.

I'm wearing these pants I got & wore everyday in london. I am wearing wool tights underneath.

There is snow & blue sky outside, and it reminds me of chicago at its wintry best. The crunch beneath my bootheels satisfies.

I am not hungry.

I am aware of my jobs.

I am ready to play pool & to drink pitchers. 

I am ready to wake up in different places, like colorado, and a tropical island, and new york.

I will paint my room the colors of the painted desert, once I have a room to paint. 

My fingernails are way, way too long.

I hold no grudges.

on nonboredom & revengespectations

The nonboredom, but the unwillingness to live hard. Maybe it's my blame on the lacking braincells, because of illness. It doesn't stop the beachparty popmusic, nor does it stop all the showers I take. The chapped upperlip is a result. The claws are not. I also am not stopped from wearing the bright red dress: it is a powercolor. How can one not smile consistently with all the confidence mustered? 

I have plans for us, for us too. It will take weeks, but I'll be placated meanwhile; my bruise tattoo will be mollified. And everyone thinks he's a poet when he says "mollify Molly" and his peers congratulate him, but I say, you're not the first. And won't be. 

This is too much information to keep in a head! How exhausting. I'm going to sit serenely on a sheepskin painting aqua and crimson, threading a needle in & out of folded pamphlets. Plastic ono will be there, and the appealing overdose of theraflu. See you in four weeks.

mediocre moments in half snow

I watched She-Devil the other night, after showing up late for the BSU game. We were nervous. We began in the cemetery, where we left the limeaid bottle after consuming casually on a headstone. The roar of the crowd could be heard for miles. The muffled jock jams rocked our gourds. Are we ready for this? Bedecked with orange & blue Boise State chairs and an expensive fleece Broncos blanket. I stuffed various accouterments in my tights; my erection was made of tequila. My phone warned me that my inbox was 88% full, would I mind erasing unwanted messages? I erased the mess. Once inside, my pregnancy startled no one. Why was I so nervous? to be kicked out from a football game? I was entranced by the performers. The cheerleaders, with  their fleshtoned nylons and cellulite and off-time moves. The swish swish swish of their hair as they attempted unison. The players, some with small heads, some with thighs like trees. I could see them all naked, and it overwhelmed me. How does one find pants to fit such a thigh? and how does one's penis look when compared to the nearby limbs jutting huge? The bored cheerleaders of the opposing team; if there was room for a cellphone on that warmup suit, they'd be texting their days away. 

She-Devil stars Roseanne Barr and Meryl Streep who plays this amazing romance novelist who surrounds herself in pink. I went to brunch yesterday, sick, and ate a croissant. After excitedly relaying the joys of She-Devil, I received a 100% affirmative reply from the members of the party that Meryl Streep is a great actress. One hundred, mind you! Historically, (we share initials and even names) I have never met anyone (aside from my mother) who is willing to agree that she is a fine actress.

And today, my friends are drowning. Some of them sorrowfully, and some of us, in coughs and dripping orifices. Why is it that my orifices continuously drip no matter what? and which? Some call with favors, showing up at a snowcovered doorstep days later. At least the demands are doable. But some of these persons just aren't intoable. I'd like to take a late snow walk; a companion, chosen by me, would be necessary. I want out of this corner, now, at least out enough to feel the breeze flow between my ears. Under the beaver moon, I must. I know how to dress for warmth.

this is all of moderate import

Almost last winter turning spring in portland I purchased a pair of black doc martens. Brand new, & too large for me. If I get ahold of some insoles, however, they'll be perfect. At the moment they're inside an amazing black & white trunk with old leather handles ripped long ago. 

I came back to boise in late october. I found from savers some little black boots & inside, on the bottom, there reads NICOLE. I love them, but my broken toe is alas still broke, and pressure from the thin outer side of a shoe is still pressure, then. The click they make on a woodfloor or a cement walk is tempting & generates a moderate satisfaction.

Blue leather lace-up shoes with heels from a suburb of seattle. I've been asked: are those leather soles, there? to which I wrongly replied, rubber. I got some cole hahn tassel loafers at the same store, mostly for entertaining the thought of my dad's probable jealousy. I think I lost one of them; I'm not sure how, but I'm certain I lost one of them. I brought the one with me, when I moved, just in case the other turns up. I could never forgive myself if it did... these shoes were like slippers on the feet; leather & with a heavy wood heel. Toes always wet. Ball of foot always loud & doubtless.

In new york last summer I wandered soho with alex in the sweltering bosom of that lusty town. He wanted some adidas, I said man, get sambas, and he said, well, I want white shoes, and I said, great. He forced me into a large retail store; he had to get a white tanktop (it's impossible to wear white adidas without a white tanktop) and I gladly thought of buying the gray mesh butterflyprint shirt. It was fifty dollars, and mass produced, and a nylon poly blend, of course, so Instead I bought some suede oxfords with faded wallpaper flowerprint. Some of the greatest shoes the world has known. And what a sound on the street they make.

Twothousandten sees my hair fall down, and the tears in my eyes. It sees me maudlin. It sees me intrepid, erasing a hapless/imagined ten years from my life. It sees me in sweaters, relating. In eyecontact, in the hushed yells on an earlymorning park bench. The clasp of a mouth around me. My own views of drunk couples pressed against the outside wall of a bar. The eager fingers pinned against the brick, her hand letting his wrist drop on occasion to her skirt, pushed up or down. The mendacity of aforementioned loves, the ones who come with their own apology, nonspecific to our relations. Your unctuous apology, secreting your fancy for fear of me. Of me? Keep one of us from the other. Pushing me against the wall is goodless, I see only a reflection of the drunken couples, salacious on the streets, careless, ostentatious. I and you cannot be they.

dear old ones

? I think I missed it. And you have, & we know it. I know where you are, too. Do you know about me? never alone? I can see us seeing us seeing me, watching out for you. But for where? is it the sound of a drink hitting your glass? is it about the truths we told, and the one question I shouldn't ask. but will pretend to have not.

How many noses at which I have wondered. And eyes, your celebritorial eyes. Like all the famous men, with the old creases surrounding. And another, yours, with the darkblack lashes. And yours, changing always hazel blue. But the noses. The ones I remember for years & years. The length of one, thin and so sharp I think my soft cheek might cut open on it. &  I can't crave this sight. The possibility of a slice made by one is devastating enough. I'm of a devastation persuasion & have had all I could want of you.

The indifference of a cheek turned, the casual phrases carried through the radio, translated text... the questioning high-pitch of an uncertain voice. The questions which aren't questions. Honesty displaced; too nervous to make attempts for it. The solo opportunity. The failed friend. The mediocre tries, the givens up. My own wishes at communicating bodiless. The mouth & mind, and the staring across a table. The regrettable disappointment inevitable, caught it cold this time.

a perfect definition of drinking the cold cup

I am easy, too. It is true. And the warning, or the discouragement from ease, from a friend or two... they would say a worry which is meant to cling me to an ideal aloof. I am sitting here now; it's officially november because we can all tell... it's the still skeletal yard trees, the weird quiet in the morning, the unlikely solid overcast, thorough, final. Some near-winter punctuation. The dregs of sentimentality. It's a new frost! from the stranger cat, a white paw pressd to my leg, his one eye is green, his one eye is blue. The arm hug of claws.

Am I the only fearless one? is it impossible to be the only fearless one. When I charge with ebullience: fear is the killer; and I charge again, burbling, gushing, effluvial: communication serenade it all about... and to never, ever use love in your sentences.

efflux

In the sentimental morning. Finding the sheaf, I know the fact against the facts. A mentality sent  forward, sentimentality pitching & yawing. If it make sense. Today I have a lower tolerance, the head more honest & on the neck. I like it, as if the versus are all laid out, my own nighttime verses retrospectively humorous. The morning this way that, why because. One or other. Through & through and out and done.

the invention of romances

(songs of yesteryear)

4:32 pm 19 November 2006…

To make self feel better?               Douse the flames in the eyes with hot coffee and endless headaches. I’m slashing around inside myself and running around crying & let out a few screams, too. Because no one is here. No neighbors coming around suspicious, no one wanted to know. Am I alone or lonely? do I want to be alone for a week or do I want to be with someone consistently, one who Cares with that Inner Depth Care that goes down from his core and penetrates into mine? like that.              Trying to decide if I can ignore dehydration induced headache and still take a cold ride on an old silver bike to Skylark for tater tots and beer and to read Cormac McCarthy. Isn’t the best plan… I cried and cried and then I quit after talking to charles on the telephone who really does care and I made coffee and read some geology… enough, or I tried to, at least. I can’t make anymore lists of things to do. I can’t chart out my day. I can’t say I have to do this or I have to do that and within these hours, though sometimes it works okay to do that. Because there are too many possibilities and variables, and I know that. And I should drink water because I want to know hydration. And I want to have a clean room, and a sufficient knowledge of geology, and I ate something so I’m alright there, but then there’s wanting to get out of the house which I haven’t done in two days, I know that would be good for me, really good, and I could get a bit of exercise on that big rickety bike and see something new. Reading in a bar, a warm bar with beer and cigarettes and tater tots for only an hour or two. Make a new friend. And not have to be here all day- I absolutely have to do it. And before charles gets home, though it doesn’t seem like he’s running to get home anytime soon. For which I cannot blame him. I’m okay, you’re okay.

Saturday 10 November 2007: 4:46 pm

Unable to decide what to wear to work, as a stoned girl tends. Wishing I didn’t have to go, could instead go to see múm play, again, which was most beautiful... Felt like it was true to me, so I went all and by myself especially, knowing especially to be by myself. Lovely, smoking a spliff alone in the londonesque new york city rain, on the steps of the beautiful old myrrh-scented cathedral. And I haven't really a notion of the smells of myrrh, truthfully.            And the days drifting away… silly me, I have this pass, the unlimited MTA pass I found in the stonehome wine bar bathroom. Could have taken a tour of something lovely today… but perhaps tomorrow I’ll go to coney island by my c Aw cut it out molly, always you by your lonesome. Cry me more, if you can! Because it’s not true, of course. I’d prefer oftentimes someone to be around when I see and hear things. Amazing things sometimes better shared. Maybe I’m disillusioned with my best friendship, whether or no it’s still developing… I suppose it is, but won’t I be irritated by it? When we have energy, still; it doesn't provoke a thought. That’s because the boy with whom I’m spending my time is… ? He constantly spews new-age clichés then I remember the lines of poetry spotted in his notebook and I can say, I could never love you. I definitely can’t justify that! So the idea was to throw something of mine at his new-age reactions (R.W. Emerson, friends), so that maybe he could get his face out of that celestial psychedelic haze. But most likely not, and who cares I guess if we never talk about anything that makes me think or know or react… aside from emotions, facts, histories, feelings. His thoughts and relations on such subjects are definitely worthy of every attention. But… bla bla bla. If he’s not soft to me, and he’s not warm, then he’s a buttery knife. And leaves me uncut and greasy.               I’m a slut for lovely uselessnesses. I’ll keep inventing romances where I can. With urgent frequency!!

13 November 2008

I feel rather like I should initiate a part two for this thing, as the days have passed into months and it’s a wonder I can type. Still. And now to open the journal, not for the sakes of pleasures or poetries, but for plans… Although one can see it, plans equaling plans & poetries, really. Because as I intend, I do to find Portland my new home. And I want to, am very ready to leave New York but instead of energy it makes me tired. I am tired of wanting to, just want to already, of course. But there are many things a must.

18 November, 2009 1:02 pm

This is a different story I want to start. This is, it’s the newyear. As you probably know, I am nearing on twenty-five and a half. Do you understand how sad it is to say that I have kept a diary since the age eleven except for the year around two-thousand-nine? What! I am supposed to be smart, ticklish. Maybe I have lost it all, myself, desire, in a flood of adult-hood. which of course I don’t even have. Oh! But I need to, must, have to. I am 35 years old, seeming. This is serious. I absolutely must, like whenever I finally get my fucking belated period I’ll start taking my own temperature at the birth of day. Everyday, then afterwards, since I’ll be awake and it will be eight am, I’ll start to write. Just a little at first, maybe, but it will be like stretching, or praying. I have this in me still. And when I read them all, the beauties, the geniuses, they make me cry and make me think how could I ever do it. Thank you, thank you solemn baritone. Thank you letters & words abounding. And thank you, self! only five pages into the year! is everything that meaningless & dead, grown away to float with out a feeling. Is it, then? and the inspirations, how will you really thank them? and can you.              I saw her the other night, kari, last Friday. I rode my bicycle to her house. Before that I met adan to eat. He was certain to order the foods before I got there; my arrival was nearing six o’clock. So I did and there a spread lay before me; a quesadilla with a sweet jam inside, a plate of nachos with sweet oregon cheddar, and a lovely little macaroni n’ cheese on an ovular plate, with those charming crumbles of baked bread.              Oh, my! Such unusual justification. What of this? I dressed in the coat, but it was cotton, but it didn’t matter for it wasn’t raining at all. At the Alberta store we found a pair of magic gloves. The gloves fit around my hands, I could tell I’d be warm. I kissed him for awhile; his neck was warm and pungent of him, and I loved him all the more. He is so good sometimes & and lately.             The ride was west down Alberta street, and a left on Vancouver. Down the lovely hill and across & over to broadway, that gorgeous view from the broadway bridge. The darkness of the river water, the warning clouds above in grays and cobalt. And nearing upon her adult apartment, and she in her tall high-heeled boots, and her black leather couches and large screened television set, and blonde professional roommate who reminds us of course of a girl we know of a different era.               It was like always it should be! After she applied a liberal application of bronzer to my face we were off on the street – should we take the streetcar? – no, let’s just walk – in new york we walk this distance five times over just to avoid the train... And to a bar where we sat all dark & redlit, and talked of the girls of the past, those names of the eighties. One is nearly engaged, depression & mania. I almost nearly made reference to a buoy, on accident of course.               And thanksgiving, in Boise, across the mountains: the Blue Mountains... 

the excitement of the outback steaks & the smile I can makes

I'm going to put these words away, now. I want to experience some facts, now! and for once. Today I am going out in the world, but with a bike for the weather's too much for experience. I'd feel guilty leaving it behind.

When I last looked for employment, I went on a long, rainy january carride to beaverton. It was a westy's, or maybe... are there westy's in beaverton? It was a big bowling alley, supercorporate. I fell in love immediately. I fell in love driving, actually, the rain beating against shoddy wipers, the cliffs of the freeway climbing, climbing in the dark around, and the forest surrounding. I thought beaverton might be a romantic little sanctuary, buried in the lush of north oregon, the layers of soil and dirt brimming with life, earthworms, beetles, ferns of every sort. But was I surprised, then? After the long drive I knew that if my future workplace was in fact going to be this particular bowling alley, my forced lunches & dinners would be fries and outback steaks.

But my confidence! oh, I knew it, I just knew they'd want me. I was perfect. I would wear skirts, and have a nice haircut, and I'd be younger & cuter than the rest, and the patrons at the westy's bar would just love me. I'd keep the crowds thick. I'd keep them coming. Of course they'd see this clearly! The line in which I waited for my three-minute interview was one-hundred people long.

Today, I have this path to go along the boise river, and somewhere, over in the worthlessness of parkcenter boulevard, I'll creep alongside the red robin, smile a smile I can smile, and show them how fucking retardedly able to welcome rich douchebags to a restaurant am I. How capable, and how thrilled, even! I can smile and smile and smile. Just keep the bruise-tattoos and armpits to a minimum. Minimum is a pretty word.

(11/5/10)

a phone is a best friend. the cord which connects you to the wall, umbilical, is that an adjective? for a cable, for a cord, for a hernia, for a notch, for vessels...

for #15

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.

a brain is simple and tough

1 November 

Finally, isn't it better. Wondering about the chain, the delicate filigree of onehundred years ago. It is true that the brain dies, but you see, giving sustenance till the end is righteous. It will matter.

The incest of a body alone. Empty of others, the hands of legs or the wrapping in a bed together. The door from here is too far; the brain is actually dead. Just still moistly warm. I could drift away right then & there! The flickering four candles emitting their faux vanillas. My own true lavender to light me.

The lights on one, the closed windows, another. The better friend vegetarians. My cells growing, the thick of arms and shoulders. I am awake alive and it tastes hungry in me.

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.

today is for the mouths conjoined

Today is the difference. Recrudescence. The beginning and the making new. Early yet, wet hair in lavender, leaving lavender sprigs behind the ear as a note. The warmth of a house, the windows shut up unlikely, unlike I, usually, tend to be, or to want.

It is enough, to want. I won't try a thing, and the omittances will remain things of doing, will remain the regular occurrences. The ways in which to do it, to make it. What I am making? a promise at myself, selfsame promise made of months. to read, to drink in the words, to eat & ingest the thoughts about them. And distractions weigh heavy, for to sit elsewhere than this bed on this morning is to say, too much is doing. I want not but to drink & eat & swallow & savor your words and notices, and to share and feed it in conjoined mouths.

because I am, where are you, too

And for you all. I know how you feel, the sums of you, like me. I require no addition. I refuse to upsell. I refuse the heart's upswell. It's swollen enough. It is full with lightening and smoke and the jam of some fruit going bad fast. The gel of my own enormity. The poems for all, the abrasive truth of them all, the disquieting arguments within a self, my drunken glory, in drunken revelry. Wanting a walk through the leaves, so many still covering the streets and street-scenes, marking october, punctuating my own private october happily. Wanting the walk through this litter all red and gold and old, crumpled, to see a recognizable face, and have you read me, yet? will you recognize me when you do? will we converse, is it possible... have you ever heard of it. The rustle, the slight birdsound at night, the wicked idaho shadows on garages and blue of earlynighttime sky. I am in love.

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…

obvious tryings to get out of it

(songs of yesteryear)

wednesday 25 october 2006

Look here. It’s obvious, all the same. A journal entry is a story is a dialog is a poem. A poem is a garbage can for the brain. And yet, when I sit down here to the blank slate, I have nothing, nothing comes to mind. Gargling gerbils is all I can do. What about abstract expressionism? no, not the movement, but you sitting here, defending yourself, making excuses? Hey, what’s with the bitter attack?

I hate it but really I love to think about these things. When I ride my bike home from work sometimes I pretend I'm showing you around. "Quickly, turn here, yes, see that? That's the beautiful cement factory. Isn't it rugged? Isn't it romantic? I climbed to the top with someone I was in love with a few years ago. Watch out for the bridge; when it's wet your wheels will slip around. We should try not to go down that street. It's full of potholes and there's a trash dump there, too, and sometimes the smell is too much. That place is nice... I'll take you there for coffee later... I know it's a long way, but we're almost there..." And then the ride goes by really fast.

I recently began corresponding with a boy I met in my home town during the first winter when I returned from college. We were together only for six days, and we fell in love. We drove in my father's car up to the foothills. We parked in a scary suburb that's miles and miles up, it feels like a strange, perfect town in the middle of nowhere… a train set. An old-fashioned gas station with pumps that don’t work. A red fire station. Perfect lawns. Tiny, sporadic trees. We parked and drank beer and listened to Built to Spill and I kissed him- it was his first kiss- and then when I left a few days later, hours before I went to the airport to come back to Chicago, we had sex…  orgasms, though it was his first time… We talked on the telephone over the next couple of months… he thought he could get a scholarship to the university of chicago, because he shared the name of one of the main college founders... they said no... we stopped talking, and have only just begun communcations again… But now, since writing, I’m taking him on those bike rides with me, I’m remembering the details, the ways in which we fell... And I love these as I hate them; they’re ridiculous and ill-timed, but I know that I have to have these secrets, and that’s why I am thinking about it all again for the first time in three years. And I'm feeling thoroughly there.

I just got a job at a lingerie store. The bras cost $150. It’s called Trousseau. Ha ha ha. We’ll see…

I hope you’re well, and I thought about you on the 16th of October. You & I, blushing on wooden stools after you guessed my birthday…

I’m afraid, very afraid… but only in the surreal way. In ways where there’s no worry. Of the unreal, impossible.. but this music is no good, here, to describe it at all, and then I think, people actually made this art that is affecting me so, and people are still doing it. and it can be done. I’m thinking these things with a dry enough throat and alone in this dark house, but it isn’t very cold outside, so I’m not afraid for that, and I wish I was more beautiful, same as always, thinner face, better in red lipstick, hair bigger and fuller. And I think, do I really want to go and...? Do I really want to go outside? Aren’t I afraid a little of outside? Yes, a little. Unfortunately… it’s nagging at me, to do that, so I think I will.

Monday 8 October 2007: 10:03 am

My bedroom smells like camping and there’s nothing to do about it.

song for the dogs and denver

she is wiping her cool breath on me! she drops her leaves there, so I can foot them when I walk. is it the northside of chicago here? is it boise to the north? is it highschool, is it being 26, still? is it twins, the same person, the signs, the only children, the histories, the halved lives? is she later on in gone months, or is she samewise when before she existed? not missing the spiders of oregon (though don't I still love them?) is it being unemployed, is it the fish in the street, is it the p-i-z-z-a... the caffeine craze, the early mornings & kitchen floors. the sound of my sweet dog as she growls and snaps at the innocents, wanting to caress her iridescent fur... is it timed, now, after it's stopped and it's beginning to grow again? and as my health itself flourishes upwards with a dramatic flourish of the heart.

song for the holiday inn at casa grande arizona

And here, still, warmest pavement beneath barest feet, the hair of the dog literal & figurative, below and over. The glimmer of aqua poolwater waving at me. My own salty dog, my palest pink dress. The palest coloring of arizona no matter where. Today I took a walk down a long road, over three miles and they claiming it's one-hundred-and-seven degrees. I scoff and drip. Would it be nearly that hot? I can take it better than I thought. No loneliness set-in, just the flies of me, the dogs and me. The grasshoppers give a great chase. Our feet bare, the courtyard of a holiday inn bare, save for our voices. The salt cutting the grapefruit, the liquors. My mind beginning again after air-conditioned dreams, the sweat congealing me cold, soaking a dress till freezing. A fly walks on my lemon, and I am fully alive in a chickenless existence. Thriving in pastels, in arizona keeping me her prisoner once more.

I'm elevated

Thanks for all the notice. The honey of sonoran bees. The limes, the sparkling metal of a cup. My beringed fingers, the faces in memory. The old ones, the nonresponses. How can you have so many histories, so close together like that? Hiding out in the cool humidity, seeing the sun out there & fighting it, the money, the food, the apologies, the wanting to get it all over with & good. Avoidance of goodbyes, the patience in hellos. Your hair is short your hair is long. Your hair is aubergine, it is curls. It is thick & your head is large, it isn't changed, but you with guns, now. The new me, the new her, and the shes in between. The ancient heart of yours still there & with it. The love interests never losing any. Multiples. I am here, on this couch constant, getting stirred from ahead, waiting till body to catch on.

hello, beetle (hello, hello)

how are you today? are you walking on my sleepingbag? Well! And is that man outside chopping away the palm to rid of it a wasp's nest? How many angry wasps, now? At least he felt badly about it. I had to put on some shoes for his benefit. Wishing I wasn't the only one, now. Where are you? How is that voice of yours? Mine is low and cathartic. Which isn't a problem. Imagining summer squashes cooked in butter. Imagining you & I, in butter. My bruised arm, permission to leave the desert. How is summer anywhere? Is it turned to fall, yet? Where are my cousins & friends? Should I go ahead and look for them? Where's my sweet dog? Is she wondering after me? What about the rush of a train just going by? The fear of the rails beneath, the seismic moans into me? The wet earth? The hard, brown clay? My own moon away? And the pools, the soft rocks and the blisters caused only by shoes. Shoeless, maybe a wasp underfoot could be, or a snake, or a tarantula ant. The little bloods of fire ant. My body wants me to fill it. I feel the same. I suppose rescue is the only word. But I need nothing, just a cloud to float me away. The night is warm but the day is here, & earthly pungent.

sleeping with spiders (9/11/10)

The red hourglass, still sitting always on a web. from here I can see you, long-legged, waiting. I said hello. please, let's not bother with it. The biting, the killing, the letting go. Mine or yours. I promise to do as I can to leave you lone, unstartled, waiting for yours. I am not for yours. I'm unwrappable in webs. Just killable, we are.

I got these new jeans

and for some reason, I did. the salma & sabina, the fantasy of being a true cowboy, the feel of a rough denim/poly blend in sage green, riding up me, lifting, separating, spreading, pushing. A lot of pressure is a pair of pants. The length is good, the waist is certainly good enough... after a series of 27 pushups for 27 days I will be indeed the leftover cowboy I've always wanted. I've taken to wearing a kerchief at all times, as a neckwarmer, rag, snotkeeper, hidingplace, and fashion accessory. Even while I sleep it stays. And where is the brassiere? the razor? When did I go back to transform into a version of me but thirty, forty years ago? Today, or last night, or a week ago, even...

it is silent again, and will

(songs of yesteryear)

7 September, 2:27 pm, ne 59th avenue, Portland

It is silent save for the burbling of brown rice. I hear the froths, the drips of steam collected and singe splashing against the burner of a distasteful electric range. And outside, the snipping of branches like of the rose and such, those which hang and throw themselves after the rains to block the walk just south, outside the window, of where I sit. Oh! I really just yelped there; I felt my mind’s eye wander back and behind me, through the open window and into the aforementioned walk, where ARMK clips clips away. I envisioned him and then lo, a begloved hand holds a perfect perfumed rose of the palest pink before me. I did happen to cry out in surprise, as my expectant mind was, just then, in the walkway south of the window. I see the steam rising, waiting for the rice to finish its process. And then, to dine on such delicious stew! I used kale (after de-aphiding and sadly disposing of many, many long curled leaves) and two small beets from the garden, as well as a sweet potato, lovely little onions & garden garlic, cabbage, fennel seed, ground mustard & cayenne. Oh! In this kitchen the light is common to change, and the day hasn’t yet appeared in rain, nor would I hasten to call portland anything drab. Is it sad for me to not capitalize the town in which I live? It doesn’t mean I no longer feel it so!!

Drinking in yerba maté chai, and autumn begins wholeheartedly. I want to fall in love with mine again, and will.

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?

 

3 september, new mexico

(from cardboard notebook)

Wake up in New Mexico after a first good night's sleep. Quiet, with a cool breeze. The sound of a hammer repair, Tony, the man on the roof. Born and raised 8 miles from here, he lived in Jerome, Idaho for three long winters. Wishing me well on my trip and urging me safe. Ooh, the breeze... The Land of Enchantment.

Taos, New Mexico

At a restaurant covered in umbrellas. Ordered plenty of chilis on my food... And the adobe houses and buildings. I miss my companion a little... more last night after leaving Denver because I was jittered through & through by the coffee and it wasn't until after crossing the New Mexican border that I was able to celebrate. Ida was indifferent to our arrival. I like the companionship of a fellow talker. though it's most mentioning of pasts (while we're lying next to one another, no less!) or talking only of... This companion is a... But he is full of care. We're all lacking in clues. But I am glad to have a friend...

         Ah... the most delicious food! And with enough leftover for breakfast lunch & dinner! A bowl with pintos, pozole, green chili, chili caribe... I could die. It's rather a shame no one is here to celebrate this moment. I am love with you, New Mexico. I am going to find the fresh tortillas.

1 september, denver colorado

(from cardboard notebook)


On the porch, nothing (there's) like the re-smoked. The dogs are sleeping. I wonder what George is doing

Everyone & their kids. Everyone & they're kids! It is nice, like refreshments. The last time with love. I'm not emotionally in it with you... I said. And what I want to know is, who asked? Or.. the looks long lingering long lashed, and then, my saying such a thing, a likely untruth? It was was it cruel. Or it was attempt (car blasts by) to cover up the exposure... proving it isn't anything other... or showing off maybe (cruelly...) that I am under no spell...
I, overflowing with possibilities for my sensitivities... spilling myself out... I'm so tired, my life is a mess,.. I'm dying inside,.. ha ha ha     The whole is poetry .
      Wyoming today. Waking among the green desert bushes and hard clay grounds beneath us. Rocks.

Today is a different day, I can feel it. The breeze is more fine, somehow. And the men I'd meet. The minute. The particular air, back, on my back. It's nearly past 3. I am still here, braceleted, & wondering... when? Tomorrow? The next? Day away?

ism, thanks to hism

On behalf of anyone who is involved in the pathetic game of a weak mind, left only to feel made a fool by a truer one, I have to respond.

millions of wild forevers

for #28

million, forevers

desert skin, ocean eyes, but

Hearts can't hold time.

for #13

your wild dog ways, the

desperation thrive.

smell in mint inspiration

for #11

forever the first

the red awake of Being

entangled to death

for #3

and so you were thick

like an adult in me, blood

and pink on the floor

Ha

one day

Reading One Arm, by Tenn. Williams. "But death has never been much in the way of completion." I realized I stopped paying attention after this line; looking at the various birds of this backyard Boise, the recognizable house finch with its vermilion tinted breast, the color subtly changing faded green and the sage growing purple, wheat-yellows, the rustle of the invasive Russian Olive. The ending of this story, with the Apollo youth seeming too perfect for anyone to touch with a knife, his unclaimed body donated to the medical school, just a tender one gone...

truly lovely, this writer.

15: the tale of the green-tailed sheep's bit

The sheep's bit and the abecedarian. It was love at first sight. One was cataloging all the plants and photobionts in the forest, alphabetically, of course, when the other sauntered over, ripe as a juniper titmouse in spring. The bacchanalian creature bleated coquettishly, batting its heavy-lidded eyes, and turned a rosy-finch shade of peach. The gray-crowned abecedarian, unfortunately weighted down by a crippling cachexia, was barely able to recognize the beast's flirtations. The dog-lichens were in full bloom; the dactyl of spring, metrical feet of verdant green. Just then the abecedarian dropped her work and was flushed with ebullience; the sheep had handed her a shell-flower of the rarest and most beautiful form. The seaside sulphur rim lichens also seemed to her a thing of fabulation; she touched the daisy spurting from a gnarled rim and shuddered. Such a gaffe! the sheep seemed to say, in disgust. "I only wanted to touch it," cried out the abecedarian. Knowing full well there to be no excuse for such blunder. The antler-lichens who, until then were flowing and yearning in the sun, fell as ghosts. She sheep, who was actually a very prominent haberdasher, placed a grayish thistle on its head and was off. The spring, coming iambic, fell short of summer. The abecedarian looked up guiltily from her hamster penetration test, feeling the jackanape that she looked. A green-tailed towhee shuddered in kinetic response to the moment.