It's nice to be wanted [19 Oct 2008|11:34pm] [ mood | fulfilled ] So, at last, I have finished a poem.  And it's about fucking time.  I was getting pretty worried there.  I have a couple of scraps of things that I was sort of toying with, but for the most part I've been having quite a dry spell.  Hopefully this is changing?  Knock on wood. This one is about two people.  I was looking at Elizabeth Peyton's portrait of Frida Kahlo, and I started writing about it/her, only to discover that I was writing about the lady who is now my girlfriend (featured in The Swimmers, to be precise).  Go figure. Love poem to Elizabeth Petyon's Frida, who is also my lover Your picture, clacking crisp as an autumn train, is smeared with an unfocused need slipping around the periphery of my heart. It calls from beneath the hearth of your breast and impels me further there- the wing described by your brow impertinently sensual.  Suck me further still current conquerante, and drag me past all painterly haze of your beauty, which is overgrown.  I have lost my way in thickets less brambled and wild. I remember crashing through the underbrush and the way my feet became alien as I turned fugitive in the molten night. So can I travel shiftless, saintly through the mazes of you, in health and in dazed masterlessness, living like a fish off of the primordial stillness that prisms time and binds me here thickly in the refracting glory of your presence, mouth opening and closing wordlessly as I savor the heft of your heart. 3 post comment

[12 May 2008|04:16am] [ mood | exhausted ] This poem is kind of being about feeling cheap and kind of gross.  It is also about being hungry and lonely and how sometimes it is easy to feed that hunger in the wrong sort of way.  It is also maybe about a prostitute.  I started it as a character piece way back in the middle of last semester and only just now had the flash of inspiration to finish it. I am the endless merry-go-round, the Million-trick pony lame at the end of the carnival rope, Stretching up back and through your hoops again. Fat lip, purpled swollen eye and Cat scratches, I am never broken, I Am clockwork.  I am Smarting with the perfume of past nights, The exhale jigsaw and the rustle of the sheets, The searing of arms under the covers. They are serpentine, hissing and spitting Bubbled venom all over my breakfast bowl. And I seize up in the hallway, drop My toothbrush with a blue smear and a clang On every goosebump, on each Halting muscle there is a history – the stamp Of endless fingers. I have been married and remarried like a religion, Like an empty talisman. Trusting The craning ebb and flow of a neck, The way it bobs needle-and-thread style, rolling Like deep waves of organ muscle – rich and velvet Full sails bellying, veins stark, loosed To the fist of wind.  Dear becomes The sloppy, soft shock of recluse lips That have placed themselves here, Cleanly as the explosive blank of orgasm. In my infinite fieldwork, I predict like Cassandra, I see the way strangers will love, How they will rend and tear and strain The night, afternoon, incongruous daybreak With the fury in their gait, The hidden shudders of hungry tremors Punctuating gesture.  Their terrific Reluctance becomes the salivating Of starving boarder-lords, savage And coarse as raw silk. I am tensed, of course, against the end: Angel-playing lonely, stinging be-welted All red and purple bruised up From the feeding of wants, from the awestruck Mastery of a child who has just commanded The very first desire to let fly And is still surprised to barrel past the glass floor, The balustrade, those instruments of marionettes That held for the bones to knit and kingship To coagulate around his heart. post comment

[08 May 2008|09:11pm] [ mood | crushed ] This poem is about sexual coercion, abuse, and assault.  I started it after I helped to Take Back the Night here at Wellesley with SAAFE (the sexual assault awareness and counseling group I am a part of). It might still need some work.  I kind of want to put it under an lj-cut, because it's a little tough for me to just let it stay out at the top of the page. ( Poem. ) post comment

[05 May 2008|03:00am] [ mood | lethargic ] For the time being (meaning I still haven't gotten around to finishing my Women's Studies papers), I am going to post a very brief story I wrote in early December for my Russian short stories class last semester.  I thought it would be cute to take Bunin's "Sunstroke" and make it into "Frostbite".  I tried to mirror the first couple of pages paragraph for paragraph.  The premise was that, instead of being thrown into the heat of passion by "sunstroke", the characters were made unnecessarily frigid and awkward by "frostbite". ( Frostbite ) post comment

I don't dive, I cannonball [05 May 2008|02:49am] [ mood | tired ] Finals are about to start, which is why there will probably be a lot more poems getting put up.  There are really only so many things one can do to procrastinate without feeling like a despicable person, which is when I turn to retooling the bits and pieces of things I've been tossing around over the semester, since it's important work that I like doing....it's just not due...or graded....or in any way related to me getting my degree from Wellesley.  Every day that passes, that BA looks farther and farther away...... This poem is from a couple of weeks ago.  I thought that I was going to end up changing it around more, but I ended up not editing it that much. Ring Rain-spangled, loose and wide, the lazy hoop of your arms drape like a talisman, a witch doctor charm, the oppressive weight of an heirloom, constructing with its boned fist of mass the mechanisms of my confinement.  Its cathedral cavern and echoing limits slamming like a gunshot lock, a vault that spells out infinity in its grand gears. I wander bowed, my feet a hushed and meager pith, complicit in the waiting architecture of my defeat. Precise and terrific, surrendering whispy as an exhale that could still cling and fight: a leaf that leaves in October, A child that picks its death like a dandilion, common as heartbeats and butter yellow young. This heart begins to whither, picked tulip. In the shade, the slant of light, there are ghosts of wrinkles puckering and pouting into these hands. Oh see! We are sweet and wasting, we lie inside with the shades drawn, no sun but whispers, no breeze but your sleeping hush against my ear. Our consciousness only just, confirmed in dream, measured in the cadence of your jugular and the sonambulant trance of my veins: the way they lace and warm our reflex of lovemaking. The air becomes a tomb and still we sleep, and still we touch- bodies looped in a fresh ring, a knotted flower crown.  Breathy as decay. post comment

[04 Mar 2008|10:17pm] [ mood | zen ] Okay, I'm back. Sorry about that dry spell there.  I'm not totally sure what was going down.  HOWEVER, I return to you cured of my mute malaise (hopefully).  With some luck, I'll have a few more poems coming out over the next couple of days.  I'm going to go knock on wood for good measure. This poem just sort of came out on Saturday night.  I was sitting with my computer in front of me and I started typing and all of a sudden it was the first line.  After changing a couple of words and adding a stanza and a half, I declare it ready for public viewing.  It's about old age and nursing homes and rotting and becoming useless and passing over.  I guess I was thinking about "The Savages", which I recently saw, and "Une Morte Tres Douce", which I recently read.  I highly recommend both.  Also, I was probably thinking about the whole healthcare crisis and the quality v. quantity of life thing.  And then the whole who's going to take care of us thing, and the whole what are we going to do with our parents thing..... Old Woman, Wrapping Paper Seventy, swaddled, milk-marrow shrinking All bone-dry, all pink liver flecked Wall-eyed, meandering like a clumsy, tired fish An impossibility, an anachronism and a bastard heart Clenched like the stony fists of  a tumbleweed, Light enough to walk on water and saturated Like the Black Sea, floating spread-eagled and paper-thin. Breathing on bone craps dice. Ghosting taupe, steaming of formaldehyde, Of rotten lace, we, you, wasting Tangled by the fat, limp muscle tongue, Too smoky and brittle for bodies: Gingerbread women snapping in the cold- Three even pieces and a used-up dream Mothbally and dumb. They dispossessed you, your organs. I stood, carpetbagged, on the winter street, My wedding bed upturned behind me, a mess of springs. There, in this new country, the beds are nuns They snap like iron lungs and carry us Like our urns, collecting the burnt hair, the dust, The rancid sweat and withered bowels, All bowing, all humble, all puckered Wimple sheet flypaper taut: An envelope to God. Doctor, my curator, my embalmer, Stands hopeless and perfunctory as the wasteland Of my progeny, who pass before my taupe tomb And numb my heart like waves Off the territory I am leaving Walking with my dress sticky and coarse Around my legs, skulls coagulating On my salt-tang, pruned body. 2 post comment

[24 Jan 2008|01:57am] [ mood | confused ] I'm in the process of writing a story.  It is going well, but somewhat slowly (and in spurts).  I'm pretty confident that I will finish it, though, and when I do you know where to look. I think I'm still working on this one.  First, I threw two pieces of a poem about the same person together, and then I added stuff on, but I don't think it connects right or sounds good.   Ahhhhh! The Swimmers Silhouetted by the lake late, You are black and incomprehensible With the vagrant sketch of your mouth breathing And the orange afterglow of your cigarette Nonchalant, as if you, post-coital and loveless, took the water like a stranger. The lawless moonlight plays a halo Over your damp ropes of hair, your Spread-eagled confidence, your little feet. And the geese offer their drive-by catcalls, Migrant and hungry. They smart With the lonely passing of spring Freezing splatter-patterned in the crisping air. But you, dark lady, face them, Their rough accompaniment of wind forceful In the beaded water peopling your arm. You taunt them with your sweet, baby face. In your heart there lies its glory. You are lonely as a lost continent Pacing like a minstrel though all the seasons of the water. And now I imagine your fingers slipping Pearlescent through the veils of me. I am not so cold as my wet toes, not So still as the soft little hairs pillowing your cheek. I would have cast my arms Skipping stone smooth and loose glancing Over the lake, your bruised, milk-smooth Body – there, in the mess Of Indian summer, nascent waves, the terrified promise Sunk deep in your eye. Our clothes a negligent mosaic on the dock, We could have bitten at youth like a peach Bleeding pulpy thick down our chins- Yours with its sweet, baby curve-full Ripe as the broad rope of a wrist. Again and again like a tired reel In the death-sweet damp of the night Your move, I Hesitate and fidget and call myself needlessly A poet.  When I lost every word that means You look like Joan Baez And I like your crooked teeth. post comment

[30 Dec 2007|02:54am] [ mood | energetic ] This is a goofy little poem that I wrote about being happy. Joy brings me up glowing fat and motherly with a gummy, wet smile like the sail boat girth of my blanket dripping down the stairs when its yellow matched the dawn wall all sweet and humming. I'd have a million of its babies in a heartbeat and every one would have bloomingcheeks and a round little tummmy and I'd wrap them in cheerio dust laughing. 1 post comment

[30 Dec 2007|02:52am] [ mood | cheerful ] Tadaa!  A poem! I've got no excuses this time.  I just sort of suck at getting things done. So this time it's about Galatea realizing that she isn't made of stone anymore, I guess.  I'm on the fence about it. Galatea Wakes Daybreak the scalding tinsel of bathwater- My pink feet breathe and sting in the tawdry dawn, smarting fitful: a smack, a big, bright egg popped neatly into my receiving pupil. And my body is a gooseflesh canvas, naked and shy Under its terrible waking: Psyche agape in cupid’s tallow-light. These careless thighs of snowbank, their Heartless and transitory blaze is an angry belltower And I have dug my knees into my chest, Ears bleeding waxy screams around my fingers Through their timbrel wails That mate midair like dragonflies to shudder Back in waves of clamorous plague.  I Cannot be a vessel for their brightness. Where is my marble armor, where Did my butter-blank eyeballs go?  My skin Is cast and recast in the terrific rush of air, My lips grate on this animal tongue like chalk. But soft as ghosts there float whispers Eddying at the backs of my knees: he, him, The chisel that raised its fist to pound my heart To beat.  Its buttressed walls cracked and yielding. He is not at all stone. And out hisses the first confused strains of the undercurrent of my breath: gossamer-blonde Cave air to thread the bridge of his nose. In the dying handshake of dust Fluttering out of my wakeful organs he Pauses, hands naked of any instrument.  I become electric. post comment

I will hide what you want hidden and I'll roam if you say roam... [27 Nov 2007|03:34am] [ mood | sleepy ] Man, I really need to keep up with this shit.  It's sort of embarrassing how lazy/negligent/lame I've been. That being said, here is a new poem.  I don't really have a title yet but maybe something to do with invitations would work.  It's about meeting new people and stuff, I guess. Oh, I've noticed that all of my poems are hyperfeminine in their imagery, tone, and subject matter.  I feel like that's more a condition of where I am in my life and in my self right now than anything else.  I guess I just want to express myself explicitly as a female through the female experience right now just because of who I am today and who I have been for the past few months. Spectral and vaporous, the knocking At my heart as soft as sock feet, breathless On an adolescent stair - babyfaced And unmistakable.  Its hello slips Into my cradle ears easy and familiar. It rocks to sleep by the heavy cadence of dream To wake just after me, all aflush With the naked sunlight, the mystery of my own name. As if it had forgotten bashful, or perhaps Never mouthed those flustered syllables, It cries out brassy as a newborn’s shout, full Of virgin tones buckling on their womb-wet legs Insisting “I live.” I could not fail to recognize the same surreal Beat, the same punctuated shudder Squeezing at the blood in my veins, tireless And as startling as a clock.  I live. Will I meet it, christen it, mother Its wayward eyes and brief, fitful smile? Almost Galatea, almost Shocked to find my rightful pulse sliding inescapably In and through my splintery rigging, The greeting stands a challenge made Of lips, of innocent pleasantries. And my hinges creak The way the side door did at thirteen The breathy March midnights smarting with a promise Of love everlasting that issued unchecked From the salamander lips of a half-formed lover. post comment

[25 Oct 2007|05:39am] [ mood | enlightened ] Finally, I am back.  I have a bunch of stuff from a few weeks ago that's not finished, and I think I broke the boundary over into writing again. Tonight, I finally finished a poem that I developed on two separate occasions.  Just now, in the shower, their resolution suddenly came to me.  I want it to be the last poem in the lust series, since it is about exorcising the wailing ghosts of old lovers from the heart. Heart pitted like a cherry All black-blood and sweet tang and Tense wrinkles around the broken skin. Between my baby pearl teeth I savor Its fat, marbled center, sucking Off the fleshy threads of fruit like marrow. I will wreck your walls, scrape- That hollow, red resound of nails- Away your residue.  A Renegade abortion, willful miscarriage mewling - The explosive parasite of your gut. I exorcise you from my branches, Scare-crow sister, spit Your honeyed noix of breast flatly Skattering across the cathedral floor. Tak. Tak. Tumble, coo Of an echo through the recessed dark. I will forget the names of your knees, their Rumpled elephant faces on my padded fingertips. Your forceful, white front teeth. The clamor of your health but breathy On the open window, my wrinkled strawberry plant. When we were peaches the leaded panes Rang coppery on the humid air.  Now The dreadful sweetness of dried cherry Slides along my fingers through the linens, where Once I did not own the taste of sleep. 1 post comment

[19 Sep 2007|04:04am] [ mood | wistful ] Here is poem number two.  It, too, is about someone, and I think I might make it part of this series thing.  I wrote it tonight as part of my "Hey, I am going to actually do this whole write a poem every day" thing. I am going to name you February: Your winter-chill mantle, your purpled cigarette Scent like smoky steam-breath.  That Sad way you smile up from the corners of Your yellowed eyes like a crocus expectant Rings through my bones with the same sting That rips my winter coat to shreds. So in February I will taste you, cradle The blueness of your icicle fingers, rub My nose red with your snowy skin. While desire runs like slush through the spaces In between our little fingers and their brevity. I will not remember your face in the morning As we melt and change in dawn and cast Our guilty eyes downward, straying On everything except your exquisite heaviness. That is how you will pass, an afterthought, A short and tired romp in territory Muddied with months of winter and its dead limbs. Warming quietly and quickly along The rigging of my nervous system when Your little crooked teeth breathe in your Broken voice a yelp, or Single out a consonant. post comment

[19 Sep 2007|04:00am] [ mood | accomplished ] So I've generally been a very bad person and I haven't done much poetry writing at all.  I promise myself for real this time it's going to change.  Somebody please hold me to this. I have two semi-finished pieces for posting. This one is about someone and I wrote it at three separate times and just finished tying it all together and cleaning it up.  I am working on a title, but maybe I am thinking I will make a series of lust/love poems and then I will just number them. We make love like the condemned: Ferocious, ravenous with our own dying. Our youth like an hourglass, like an IV drip. And we swallow it with shuddering lips Careless and half-confused, grasping too many places All at once in film-still gasps. Suckling you tastes like electricity. I devour you with terrific gusto Before we both ripen through to rotting And slump, sticky-sweet and putrid, Peaches clinging to my windowsill. Our lips smack with the sour zing of impatience. Hungry, the explosion of tart tingling exquisite. In the heavy-lidded morning blur, you Muttered thickly, kisses perfumed by the ivresse of sleep. With you I did not lie awake And watch the shadows cough, tumbling into every red-eyed ghost story.  I imagine You guarded our bed with your taut arms, The bite of your voice. Savageries You waged on me in the heady night. And when you are gone, now That you have passed on like a bee Or single-minded missile hurtling Through your many-seasoned want, There will still rise a tremor, a Misshapen particle of ecstasy that burrows Cancerous through the network of me While we both wrinkle and sigh and sag Into the alien lines of our palms. post comment

[03 Sep 2007|03:02am] [ mood | cheerful ] This poem is kind of crappy.  I'm going to fix it later, possibly.  Yeah.  I really need to write more. Blueberry Picking at Coonamesset Farm My mother and I roll to the blueberry rows heavy, the basket on my hip like a wild baby. First they peer shy darting in and out of the fans of leaf, geishas with flecked skin: canvas purple and starfish-mouthed. Meek, hungry, distorted. They peel suddenly out of their clothes, revealing themselves like starstruck prostitutes, exquisitely tart and bubbled. My arms brush them gently - white yew bow raking easily. They plunk in the bucket like fat rain.  My mother says we have picked them clean. They spot my vision like blue-black pepper. They rattle in our bucket.  Marbles jangling, each whispering to be heard.  Smack! On my tongue like the weighted drops spilling into my elbow crease, playing by my collarbone.  I am not even hungry, just hollow and drifting empty-headed. I wonder what birds we have robbed. post comment

[28 Aug 2007|11:11am] [ mood | optimistic ] This is another poem from the past week that I've finished.  It started as a hectic sort of stream of consciousness and then I looked at it a couple of days later, pressed enter a few times, rearranged a conjunction or two, and called it finished.  No need to explain this one. Born Imperial I am still quivering around where I could feel him inside me on the ribbing of my innards. And the world has ceased its muttering.  I’m clinging to whimpering folk music for some kind of comfort, but there are no steadying hands or kisses to my collarbone, the way he playfully nips at my cheekbones, darts his fingers through my nose, belly button, rushes like a twinkling cellophane crinkle at my sides to make me squirm.  That hand rubbing up and down the inside of my leg “ten more minutes….five” is missing.  I am clean and cool, bursting seam after seam.  My head is already peeling open, the sparkling gas inside it is pouring up and out and through and through and I am draining.  Queerly dizzy.  If I try hard enough, his cigarettes still whisper at the back of my throat.  I will see him in the morning, but that is a far away place. I am wide awake.  I am like a cocoon.  Soon I will drop – wet, purpled, and sticky with birth – out of this cotton sealing my itinerant soul.  And I will laugh and I will gulp at air like a landlocked fish – surprised, unfamiliar with the idea of death, memory already erasing the fluid muscles of water, the green taste of an unfiltered pond on a day blistered with sun.  And when he is gone there will be others.  That precipice is confusing.  I don’t like to look at myself making love to other faces, other tensed gasps, other wolfish grins and flopping lips.  My legs are unsteady like a baby bird.  Is this what it feels like to barrel out of a womb?  Exhausted with motionlessness, dazedly watching things come alive, eyes flash with daylight, skin prick at the rush of cold air, little hairs stand on end, the cogs of memory begin their dumb turn.  I have been waiting for this.  My emotions are as blank as Mersault’s petite revolver.  I can read my making stamped into my sides – names, places, scars, leaded words – but they have been wiped from my heart.  I enter wrapped in light, bored with idling and passing the days in a little black book if I try hard enough.  I fall in and out of recognizing his touch.  There will be others.  I intended to have a memory and a memory I will have.  Purpose served.  Landscape plotted.  If I cared enough, I could terrify myself with this unwrapped creature I am half-surprised with.  My incubation is through, now I can rise up and crush all the little things that pattered before me – a fire-hearted, death-eyed bride washing away the little breaths of flower girls, erasing the padding plod of bridesmaids, ringbearer, glowing so white-hot that her father is drowned in it and all there is is her - shining like the dark organ at the center of a flower.  Whom am I marrying?  My messiah-hood.  Like Napoleon, like a cannibal queen, I seize the crown to my own head. post comment

[28 Aug 2007|11:04am] [ mood | chipper ] Eventful times over here.  I am now no longer operating from my bed in Washington, DC, but have re-located to this charming desk in my Wellesley dorm room.  Hopefully the change of scenery will not impede my supposedly renewed dedication to "the practice of writing".  Only time will tell! Anyway, I have some poemz from the past few days.  They play on roughly the same theme.  This is the first one.  It's sort of just an attempt to synthesize an experience, but there are some greater themes thrown in there.  Yeah.  Maybe I will think of a title later. The shuffling quiet of my lover’s absence - An inconsistent clink of the fan, the Storied rustle of sheets invent language For me, landlocked bird dumb, Heady with the thick rind taste of sleep That speaks in the plaintive grunts of dreamers. It could have been a mourning dove, With its guttural bleating, who sprang from my pebbled lips This morning at the shift When he rolled to his side and washed over me, A gesture unpunctuated by “good morning” His whistling breeds now With the infinite other waking sounds That I am hiding from, here in my unfamiliar nest And I shrink from words as shyly As sunflowers crumple in the dusk. I am letting myself pick up the mute tangle,, Thrusting my spindle fingers in and out and between The ghost of nights before. I think we have forgotten give and take To just melt.  We are like our fingertips That bleed through the air to lose where breathing bodies begin And the alien world of laws, matter Ends.  We move with unembarrassed steps: Mutant angels innocent, hummingbirds Dazed on a particular flower, Then cross over to the animal tongues of hunger: Whimper, moan, bite off a name Skipping blissfully over the halting consonance Of language’s falling bricks. If I were awake, I would shudder from touch. When he is gone, when his house Echoes with the drip of quiet, the ghoulish creak Of a renegade floorboard I will stop short And the quiet will beat in on me like a terrific drum. Gasping at the hollow precipice of vacuum Where there ought to be tears, I lurch - A foot forgetting the stair, A patient heaving the rattling emptiness of her organs. post comment

[20 Aug 2007|04:06pm] [ mood | peaceful ] I need to fall back into the practice of writing.  I've been thinking more and more lately that the only way to actually save myself from a slow death is to actually be a poet.  I can't let myself slip away into laziness or bourgeois delusions of the possible and impossible.  It would be such a dreadful shame. Anyway, this is a poem I wrote today because I'd been talking with its subject and it came up that I hadn't actually written anything about him, so that got me to thinking that I ought to write about him.  So I sat on the metro and tried to think of what I would say, and I thought about that one Whitman poem "When I Heard at the Close of the Day".  I was feeling sort of tongue-tied and unpoetic, but then I decided that, rather than being crippled by having a literary giant already having touched on what I wanted to touch on, to use the way I see that particular poem as a vehicle to create mine. I should read more Whitman, being as I am terrifically American, but in that affected way of the drawling dilletante, the bourgeois Kerouac dreamer plagued by Mary Cassat's whispering delusions of other nationalities. I know that poem where he talks about his lover cresting the hill and the sun-dazed flashes of nude bathing and the sinless moonlight glancing off his face in the dim.  It would be good, I think, for you when my arms dripped off the couch and yours lay hot on my stomach in that post-coital liquidity. The moon, that time, was icy on our toes as if we lived some kind of heterosexual reversal: feet kissing the blue light, heads bent in dark.   That poem hits right on the ease, the simplicity of breathing that issues like a sigh from my days populated with you. What about us is quintessentially American, I don't know. We eddy around each other easily, I suppose: in "No," "Yes," closed terms. Not shy, not skulking like lepers around the vapidity of our teen age.   But I doubt Whitman would have bothered his great beard with us. Our unfinished and uncomplicated present is dry of the shuddering breath of the coasts, unstained by the leaves of American grass. And anyway we are uninteresting.   Though we can play at freedom, wish on nascent whisps of liberated woman, dress up in the husks of Sartre and De Beauvoir, We are too afraid to comb for words when hands falter and eyes hang sticky shy at the possibility of scraping up against the truth in the aimlessness of our archeology. post comment

[10 Aug 2007|11:57am] [ mood | bouncy ] As I've said before, I feel a really strong connection to my greater, matrilinial family legacy.  I wrote this little scrap of something the night before Nana's memorial service in June, and I really want to do something bigger with it.  Reading Angle of Repose is also making me feel motivated to really follow through.  I want to see if I can't dredge up diaries, letters, pictures, somethings of her so that I can write her a biography.  It's a sort of blood-excavation project that I want to for both personal enrichment and a sense of dutiful pride in her strengths and idiosyncrasies.  I also feel like it might make up for the dull, mouldering flicker of her last ten years with water on the brain in a nursing home wheelchair. This would be a kind of introduction to a longer look at her and her life. ( Maybe she is reading, too? ) post comment

[06 Aug 2007|11:47am] [ mood | exhausted ] After this I'll start working on something, I promise. I am guessing that this is from January. In winter when I smoke a sleepless cigarette on the porch it sticks everywhere musky and cloying in my hair, fingertips, the mucus in my nose. I will thump to the bed and then, there in the pillows, it will creep its fingers out and it will come stale on the back of my throat. So does love visit me, the sensation of three o'clock on the telophone and the buzzing fizz of thrill, the hoook just below my clitoris. And sometimes I seize up like an epileptic and snap back my head when I hear Bob Dylan. And there's something on my mind that I've never placed thanks to melting sugar on my tongue, the loose slack of lethargy that reminds me of dolls whose eyes snap thickly open and shut. post comment

[06 Aug 2007|11:34am] [ mood | nervous ] More, more, more! I can't remember when this is from, but it's definitely from '06.  I suspect early winter.  It's little pieces of old insecurities. I... I eat half sighs, seventeen year old leaf in the pond, I have never had an orgasm and some days I think I still ride on training wheels. The whining ghost of Catherine Barkley is slurping at my feet, swallowing me with her ponderous, stupid jaws and I can't write worth a burnt match. I, I, I, I think I've plateaued gunning down nowhere, red mesa dust and purple rocks dazed in my sunset teeth. If I'd ever met a real life Frenchman, or a Swedish speedo model, I would wilt and stare at the ceiling Ah, vous, vous êtes tellement belle… Shrink.  Shrivel.  Slack. I'm only me when I'm a shuffling ghost and, if I wasn't so dumb,  I could play the violin. post comment

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