so long

moving to nowhere. he, kitty, bodum, and I will be reading Shakespeare out of the back of a van. through wireless connections across town you may hear from me again. goodbye beloved Pendergast.

luminara

the clasp of someone's hand a vice, a grip like a clamp, a resentful leader taking me away from me. The feeling building in me that resembles hate, but couldn’t possibly be related. My hair in my face is suddenly like ten thousand moths swarming and you’re on all sides of me like walls. My words meld into yours like a face tranformed by acid, leaving them unrecognizable and putrid. Silence hangs like a suicide, swaying, thick rope creaking. I selfishly want to go off on my own, liberate myself and I know that you want the same. I don’t understand it and admire and detest love for being so strong.

i’m held down like a sea-creature under water who looks up and sees the sky distorted, wonders what the breeze feels like that moves him so deeply. Each of my thoughts outlines the truth in silhouette; a vague shadow I can never quite make out. What expression does it wear?

i don't have any wine tonight and its bugging me.

july is. . .

moving in 8 days. up at 7 every day for class. drinking 6 days a week. packing for 5. transplanting 4 varieties of plants. 3 days to write 2 essays. cleaning 1 vw van. nearing 0 dollars.

not to mention my psychological realities.

i am so inattentive to the fact that this month, this entire summer, is competing agressively for the position of the second most stressful time of my life, the first being 1996. this is an official request for a miracle.

visions

I rose like a giant seashell to fan the earth, squeezed my thighs together in a knuckle of white stone, bright like the morning.

the sun cuts through the shower curtain like broken diamonds. my words echos off white porcelain, a canyon of angels.

the pages of the book fall off my fingers like white feathers ripped from a wing.

the animal lay on the road, exposed skin like the flesh beneath a torn nail; spongy, innocent, and strangely bare.

The blooms of roses like open sores. memories of clotted blood swell to unshrinkable grievances.

night rose like a silent mother and I climbed into its shadow

chez moi

part of me just wants to move to montreal. start smoking again. read leonard cohen, naked, in the window of my cheap forth floor apartment full of white sheets and write bad poems until i write a good one. the rest of me thinks i would get lonely and is it really the right decision to begin with? i am torn. where do i want to live? what do i want to do? do i have the strength and fire to know what I want and do what I want? I need to find it or else i will be disappointed. i'm not good with disappointment, though i suppose no one is. i want to free myself from the trappings i create out of others. he says he sees the fire even though i hide it.

whiskey

Cruel habit who chains us
to what we fear, and love
who blinds us to fate’s hard game.

Tight telephone bells in my
belly like fire, a coil of wires
send electric shoots to my tongue.

Your confession, my cue
to forgive. I can never tell you
anything because I am always

following your lead,
and my words fall behind like
spilt coins from a torn pocket.

Your futile dreams are
as rotted as my own.

sundays

jorane was blissful tonight under the fading sky, gulls floating, curious, overhead. had to close my eyes to block out the grisly faces of pale old and old-before-their-time people, and scary dancing volunteers in orange and purple. but. . . jorane was beautiful with her wide eyes, entourage, and cello. seeing her throw her body over it, hair falling, made me think of a photograph of someone even more beautiful. . .
my arms are tired from working, my guts swirly from a strong mid-afternoon gin and peppermint tea, my thoughts are still with a novel i finished this afternoon and will have to read over again this week. i'm ready now to take buck65 to bed, slip cool thighs between warm sheets and slip earphones in, to be alone.