yes or no and

I'm always looking, searching,
bending over and lurching forward.
I'm always moving while I sit, sitting
while I am standing and confused when
I know what it is you're saying.
 I haven't the time for games, the freedom for
fighting or the focus for everything else.
I take the time when I have none, I give
up all I asked for for something else and I
wish I could tell you what I mean.

only all the time

For as much I
don't
know,

and as much as I
want to
know,

and as much as I
wish I
hadn't
known,

when it turns out I
didn't
know

a thing,
all
along.

withheld

I'm not one for holding back.
The chase, the kill. The boredom.
It ends as quickly as it begins.
Don't chase me and I won't run.
Don't run from me, and I won't follow.
Don't hide and let me wander aimlessly,
hopelessly, and I'll be thankful.

oh yes,

oh

yes

work your way

into my arms, love,

work your way into

my hands, work 

your hands into

mine, love,
into

mine.

October 21st

18 years old and nowhere to go.

breathing

I'm so tired.
Tired of all of these people spouting advice at me and saying,
timetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimetimeTIME
"It takes time, you'll be okay"
"Time will lessen the blow"
"It hurts less with time"

I know that. I know I know. I've already felt the affects of time,
on this, and more things than this.

"I've been there"
"I know how you feel"

If you did, you wouldn't give me advice.
You would know that all I want is to forget
about him and to change, everything, around me
to not reflect all these memories and moments
and have my furniture shout at me, "WADE
WAS HERE"

I know you love me.
I love you for loving me.

But let it lie.
Please, let me
lie.

GOD

I have the worst timing in the world.

On criticism and my poetry:

When I write, I write what I feel and then stop when I don't feel anything anymore.
The feeling, being it's sneaky little self, creeps up my back and into the back of my skull
and again, I feel it and I write.

It's a cycle.
A cycle that I can't "work the knots out of" or "re-write" because I'm not happy with the result.
The point is, when something I write flows, it's due to the fact that my thoughts flow. When I write something that catches every now and then, and sticks to itself in a not-so-attractive manner, it's because my thoughts were jumbled and sticky.

Maybe when you write you plan out elaborate stories and plant themes and you rhyme and everything is just so. And I'm not, believe me, saying it's a bad thing. It's not by any means, a bad thing. When I feel just so, I write just so. Perhaps you are always just so.

I'm not complaining (even if in the slightest way, I actually am), I appreciate your criticism.
But I don't want to re-write something that I felt. Ever.

Thanks for sharing it with me.

"I think I know some stuff.

Drugs don't make it better for me

Not anyone.

Beer tastes good

but in small amounts

music makes me feel alive

lots of people

alive

food is wonderful

creatures of the planet are beautiful

they make food what it is.

I like thinking about things late at night.

alone

but I wish i could share my thoughts with someone else.

the person who is right for me, will sit next to me, and I will feel like I am alone,

when I am thinking

because that person will be such a part of me.

it will be the good alone feeling i like sometimes."

- JC

Big TALK

Talk talk talk talk talk talk talk

is all you ever did, sweetheart

talk and talk and talk

not once did you

think of what your words

were doing

to me

that you were

changing

me,

that I

believed

them.

--------------------------

I don't have myself

any

more

no strength
or energy to
write
this

any

more.

I can't

hate you.

I can't

love you.

I don't

have you to hate,

I don't

have you to love,

I don't
have you
at all

------------------------

I don't want this
I don't want
this

I don't want
all of
this


hurt.

the last time you told me I was pretty

I was wearing my striped blue button-up
and capris
my usual shoe and
dark blue socks

opening the door
smiling and
kissing your
big lips


I'll never feel

pretty
in
them

again.

now then and where?

I feel as if

maybe
as if

yes yes
as if

I need
to make
deci-
sive
deci-
sions

and re-
vise them

be
fore I
die
for

them.

over and ov-er

writing songs I
fill the
blanks of
you and
I

left behind, there,
and here you
see

I have
replaced you
and you have
obviously

replaced
me

no longer, please,
no longer

not until I can
grasp
you
again

not until I can
grasp
you





again.

honestly

beyond things like
coffee makers and
bowls of soup and
being the-coughing-kind-of-sick,
beyond the phone calls, the
newspapers and Elvis's good years,
in between justice and Dick Cheney,
screenplays and short stories,
hiding behind posters of Gogol Bordello
and Elijah wood in Everything is Illuminated,
seeping from the pages of American Psycho
and Geek Love,

you
torment
me.

I hate when you chew gum.

Is it important that you feel it,
or important that you share what you're feeling?

seperate serpents

Overcoming my fears, realizing they're
easily replaceable,
replaced and
dear dear dear,
another year,
yearly never
really
being my
year.

I fear what may
come
of things
of what I've done,
especially,
and coming un-
done, regularly,
and sweating small things,
involuntarily.

The large things
no longer existing,
and this thing
that I do,
'listening'
to my own advice?

You'd think it was my intention
to forget the way I do,
not to mention,
my mal-formed
opinions and
judgments
I forget
which one I
really
believe
in.

I don't know because
maybe, just
may
be,
I don't
want
to.

in my thoughts always

My most prominent fear is aging.
My bones brittle and skin spotting, crawling away from me, my mind and thoughts deteriorating with the rest of me.

Yet,
I see my grandmama and
I don't think
I've ever seen
anything more

beautiful.

All her stories,
all the different ways she's
loved and fought and
cared.

Little pieces of her scattered everywhere,
she's been bulldozed and built over.
Still seeing a field where a building blocks the sun, she sees a corner mom-and-pop store where there isn't one.

And in this way,

I live
vicariously
through
her.

And still,

Perhaps bloggin' is making me a second-rate author.

Truth is, I don't know what I would publish if I had the chance.
Probably 'The Jessi Green Reading Matter" with a smorgasbord of things like poems, thoughts, advice, pick-up lines, drawings, and ickle stories. Stories like, "How I Made the Best Salad in the WORLD."

Children's literature could be fun. I could even illustrate my own.
What I wouldn't give to be an author like Roald Dahl. Dahl is king. Minus his cookbooks. Norwegian recipes include things like 'Fish Pudding' and 'Creamed Cabbage.' Not that enjoyable, I assure you.

Okii Mama

This right here is my cat.
She has many names.
Her official name is as seen in the title.
My brother calls her 'Kiki'
I call her 'Smokey Okii'
Mom calls her 'Cat.'
She is one hawt mama.

The art of losing, and all it's tentacles.

I bite
my lip
as I think,
I wish I could sound


detached
from you.


I wish you were a pair of keys,
the sunglasses already on my head or
a note attached to
the fridge I miss completely in a rush
out the

door.


So that coming home, after the day being what it was,
you'd watch me
ever so
secretly

from your spot under the counter or fridge or sofa,

watch me sidle through the door, exhausted,
slip off my shoes,
and find somewhere to rest.

Peeking from your spot, seeing my tired eyes and wilting hands,
my aging at work.
And you'd wish that
you were

in
my
hands.

Thanks a heap, Dad.

I just found out that I have a sister.
She's my age, and she lives in De Soto, Missouri.


My life just turned into a soap opera.
Anyone second that?

'cause I wanna hold yours too

There are so many things that I need to remember.
To think and need and want, and
I can't seem to keep them all straight.

You can always be as confused as you want,
with your life, yourself and things.
But you have to make sense, don't you?



I think that maybe telling the truth to
make yourself feel better..is selfish.

:)

1: "I mean, watching the two of them is physically painful for me."
2: "Is it kind of like watching Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas?"
1: "A little."

Dear Elusive,

I have finally solved you.

You left no notes.
And asked for no pens,
not even to pretend
you would have.

I got something out of my system writing this.

My mind is running 20 thousand miles an hour and I stop only
to realize that I haven't been running at all, that I've only just started
walking. Only walking around and around always.

Forever and always.
It's sounds promising, doesn't it?
It's what is written in my cards
every christmas.

And what I see on billboards and posters
of young lovers and their bliss and their
hands, holding eachother in eachother
and things like that.

Walking into store and the people,
oh those people! They talk with their tongues just, and I think,
"Wow. Those tongues can really move!"

They're dancing, is all.
They're dancing around things on television commercials.
The pills and the babies and the pills and the elderly..

Oh those poor pills.
Poor, poor pills.
Sitting in nursing homes.
Not helping at all.
They probably wish they could help somehow,
those poor pills.

Better, better

Television shows are as a rule incredibly unrealistic.
With things like always, no matter what, getting great advice that somehow always works out in your favor. Things like perfect kissing and always having that 'moment' when you just see fireworks.

But some things that I have in fact always been able to relate to on the fictitious television shows I watch, is the ability I lack for one: to let go. Another is the habitual need for nostalgic comfort.

They still suck the soul out of you.
But fictitious television is just another provider for something we all seek.
Connection.

What do you do?

When something you’ve known most of your life is over?

Hitchhikers

From my point of view:
I don't really know whether to laugh or to cry so I do both, periodically. I don't know whether to feel angry or sad, bitter or indifferent. So I have all of those feelings about a single subject in one day.

From your point of view:
You don't have any reason to be angry or sad or bitter or indifferent or to question your choices in life because, simply, you settle.




Now I have my swinging back and forth from this to that to another. I am confused at times and adamant the next.
But I refuse to settle. On anything.

Variation On the Word Sleep
Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

Primus

I have so much anxiety due to
your ability to
break me and my heart.

A first!
Usually I break my own before this point.

calm?

I can't, in words, explain to you how this, how I, feel.
I am so unbelievably forgetful that I..well I let important things slide by that area of my brain marked as MEMORY. I let them slip from me into oblivion, into the back where the smokers of my mind lurk, feeding off of nothing but themselves.

Did you know that the central processing unit of a human brain only has seven memory registers? Which means that if you have seven things on your mind, and you think of something else, one of the other just casually drops off of the edge and out of your head?

I remember this ickle fact and immediately think of:
Book jackets.
How cold this room is.
I wish I had a jacket.
Too bad you can't tote your entire wardrobe with you on vacation.
How much I wish I wasn't on vacation.
How much my relatives had to drink before clamoring into this hotel room.
Wade.
Wade.
Still Wade.

And it continues.

I love this.

Photo By:
Avery Enderle Wagner

I'll sing to you, Jenny
I'll let you know
when the war is won and done

I'll carry your books until
all the dirty looks are through
pointing at you

And all your pretty picking
flowers from the their sticky
points of view
would be of no use
to you

This is for you..

Jenny can't can't can't
because she's done done done
'cause she's done
with this one

And I'll just shoot shoot shoot
from my handgun gun gun
I'm not done,
with this one,
I'm not done.

I have nothing but a yellow flower in my inventory.

You're plucking eyebrow hairs and gluing your
smiles to the sidewalk,
and I can't pass idly by
and want nothing more
than to join you.

I need a new, something anew,
some new you to
write about you.

Not that I mind writing about you,
or you for that matter,
but a new
new
you
would be nice,
too.

why?
and how much...?
time-wise, we're looking at
a lifetime
of wrong turns
and late mornings
and early nights
and this with that mixed in
like a combination
of six soft drinks, drank in
less than a minute

eating the edges of the computer screen,
hungry hungry hippos, hungry for
attention and contact and social sedation

take me, shaking with my fingers wrapped around
a vile of my own excrement
my own experiment gone awry and you
are gulping all the fresh air from this
tiny,
stuffed room

a selfish, selfish need to breathe, to live
and plan things and make dates and drink yourself dry,
your skin ashy and such a contrast to
your smooth, angelic
face

Cincinnati

That looks
like
violence,
but he wears it so
proudly and
I find I like the way
his hips
swing
almost like he has a
purpose when
everyone else has lost
or not yet found
theirs.

This hurts.

I'm wearing stomach pain like a pro.

You shot my confidence.

I feel as if I lost this gigantic piece of myself in the storm drain,
sifting through gunk and garbarge you can see an enormous
chunk of skin and self left over.

It's been cut from my side and from some of my head,
and the odd thing is, if I remember correctly, I was the on holding the axe.
A small little axe like the one everyone has hidden in their pockets and their backpacks and for the creative ones, on their chests.

I feel as if..I lost what I lost because I'd decided to keep it,
and when decisions are made, others are still straddling the line and every decision affects the other.
So. I had fifty decisions
and only one that I could see clearly enough to work out an outline that made some sense and had some flair.

And the hole in my head has grown teeth and lips and a tongue and it's screaming,
"Make me younger!
Make me younger!"
in a voice that seems all too familiar.

All too, as in the same.
But awakened from reality, it's not so hard to realize that smaller things are versions of larger.





I have smaller fish to fry, though.
I have something to gain.

Goodbye, Blue Monday!

I have never been so fabulously well-to-do.
And I can tell you, from the looks of things, though my mind is expanding, that the sight of me will always and forever be limited in the eyes of everyone. Because I'm getting older and people aren't changing as much as they used to.

--------------------------------------------------

My favorite color used to be
HOT PINK
and that was it and it was what it was!

Until my sister told me her favorite color was...blue.
Oh! I could see it now, the color of the sky! The blue of the robin's egg!
It was my favorite color!

And that was it and it was what it was...
and so on.

---------------------------------------------------

And so, I am HOT pink, you say,
I never really changed, though I might have faded a few shades,
I am still what I am and that is it.

--------------------------------------------------

I think that there is something about us that we cannot see ourselves,
and though you think you might know what it is, you don't.

Other people can see it, but they couldn't tell you either.

----------------------------------------------------

What I'm wondering is,
why can't I decide to be blue if I want to?

fugeddaboudit

As of late, I can't think in anything but short,
compact thoughts that go to seed very, very quickly.

I have so many words
but I can't seem to use them!

slammin'

I don't like poetry readings.
Reading something that I felt over a year ago to people who just came for the free food and drink

it's more than demeaning.
It's not enough I feel inferior anyway.
But I have to impress myself and my 'poetry' unto others in this room,
this stuffy, quiet, and tense
room.

Perhaps I should just get more practice in. If this is what I want to do for a living and all. But,

honestly, I've always felt a sense of dignity in writing things down and having people read and interpret it themselves.

So that my readers can feel what they feel without the author getting in their way.

Poetry slams are different.
Slam poetry is different.
In that case you write a poem for the specific reason TO sway your audience with your point of view.

And in that case, I would have liked it more. Feeding off of an audience on a stage is so fulfilling.

But in a cramped, stuffy studio where everyone is dressed to the nine's and I'm standing at a podium so tall that I almost can't see the audience..

when I'm reading a poem I wrote for paper and interpretation,
I feel as if I should be hiding.

the bird

Aye, miss. You sure know how to raise some color.

Your swaying hips with painted lips.
You splash some on and wait for the day when the color you wear will fill you in

and make you so
vibrant.

You dance so we can't see that all that you are is lines and tricks and

splinters from your mother leaving and your father slipping from the realm of reality.

You are lined but there are places where you don't connect so,
you can't be anything but

multiple
fragments

of a person.

"Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

I've discovered
that if you get too intimate with anyone right away,
they generally shy away from you.

Which makes me very sad.

Because all I want to say when I meet someone I think I could get on well with, after the bum meet and greet alike, is

'Let's get down to the dirty, shall we?
I mean, let's get right down to the raw.
And if that question scares you,
you probably wouldn't like me anyway.'

And have them answer me. Actually, truly answer me. Not with a joke, not with a laugh.



I don't like when people hide.
Life is too short to keep the beauty of YOU from the rest of the world.

I could go off the deep end.

I need to stop writing songs.
I need to stop trying to channel my emotion or chemically triggered illness and just focus on something that's actually

there.

I know that there are plenty of ugly things and I know that there are plenty of ugly parts of me and

I know

I have a lot of amends to make.
For myself, not for any of you. For me.
To stop dwelling. To stop procrastinating and postponing everything else in my life.

And maybe then I can be a little less self-centered, which is always
a good start
to a good something.

make me

I thought that maybe the freeze-frames of you breathing, me breathing you and our breath hanging in the cold air, mingling like two school girls
would slip away,
like everything



and while we are quietly humming, we secretly are wishing
that the other would start dancing so that the night won't be wasted

but what we aren't aware of won't hurt us, will it?

'appropriate' is out the window

"Men and women are completely different. As a teenager it is very easy to miss this simple truth."



I have officially soul-searched my way out of gender.

I enjoy my womanly curves and soft-er features. I also enjoy my reproduction system and the fact that I may, if I so choose, procure a child within myself. I enjoy the ability to paint hormonal cycles, and of course to distinguish myself as a female.

But I do think, that with modern society, most 'female' and 'male' characteristics are defined by certain standards that are set by impetuous people who have strong-armed their ideals unto others.

Unfortunately, everyone is decidedly impressionable.
(I am not presenting myself as a lone crumb, with thoughts separate from the whole cookie-cake of the human race. I am as susceptible to faux-info as anyone.)

I just think that maybe, we're all part of the same race.
And maybe we shouldn't stereotype the capabilities of beings who are separate from us by only a select few reproductive and non-reproductive organs.

Individuality is more important to me than gender.

bits and the pieces

You make me the saddest
because you make me so very
happy:

You and your estranged taste
and your wacky loves and their hats
and long hair with braids

Big Mama Lips will kiss me everyday
and Aretha will keep on singing
while the gay man plays piano

You have seen the future
and it was like..
like the microwave
and microwaves aren't ever as bad as

mainstream
music

(shudder)

Water drips from the ceiling down your back
but it feels like a giant moth flapping his wings.

I have heard you sing and you can sing
with your soul in your voice and your
heart perching on your shoulder,
looking pretty enough to eat

Eating spaghetti, heat of the moment
when a noodle is slipping from your lip
and you look so incredibly

vunerable.

Four squares and you
were the best of all.

Winning makes you enemies.

But love
makes you enemies.
You use it to get respect?
Putting words into your mouth, a mouth with lips for cover,

but it's just a word, love

we are
really all just

words.

I wrote a song,

When you leave me
To go to sleep, I always feel your dreams matter more than me

And I know it's a silly thought
But you'll always be the fattest fish I caught

And on through the years,
If you still want me here,
If you haven't broken
what I've put my heart in

They say we'll grow old
Change our warm intentions to bitter cold

But if I've noticed anything
What they say doesn't mean a thing

'Cause so far, my dear,
I still want your arms
around me at times
when I feel like crying.

Oh, singing this to you, from me.
Oh, I love that you love me.

Maybe we'll grow up,
and the world will become a brimming cup,

And we'll drink ourselves dry,
but never give up, and neither will I.

And success isn't built
on the hunt and the kill.
No more weaks, no more strongs
Let the rights trump the wrongs.

All this buzz, the earth it spins,
and we all ask the questions but no one wins.

I find I need time,
to think of a reason, much less a rhyme.

And time over season,
the allergies, the sneezing.
The sick and the elderly,
wondering, "who will take care of me?"

Oh, singing this to you, from me.
Oh, love me, do you love me?

Oh, singing this to you from me.
Oh, I love that you love me.

--------------------------------


My mother liked it when I played it for her :)

babycakes

Waking up early to sweater weather and the aroma of pumpkin pancakes,
my throat isn't sore from last night and
I feel very refreshed even with
four hours sleep.


These are days when I know,
I must've done something right.

commentary

I am as still as a rabbit who has been seen.

The exception is my heart,
leaping from the confines of my chest,
up and out into sky and birds
and my thoughts are left in my bed
while I am tugged along by my heart-strings..

If you are to spend a day alone,
what better way than to spend it in the clouds?

surprises

I took this picture by accident two days ago.
Isn't it wonderful how beautiful something accidental can be?

morning glories

I love
loving someone
on a day
like this one.

I take a picture in my head of,
you wearing blue, your dark features
contrast the light and
you look like you did in that picture
on your mother's wall
of a boy all wet from swimming and happy from living

I can say from the weight of things,
the way your hair has grown and
so have I,
the color of the clouds
that we stumble upon and
the knowing glances that elderly couple in the next booth gave us..

Today was a beautiful day.

I think her eyes will pass me, so
I keep watching.
But as soon as
that decision is made,
they stop
on
top
of me

and

I have an idea
of what
Lennon and Dylan and Chapman and
everyone in the sixties saw.

I saw
exactly
what was there
and I
ignored it.

the difference

I said 'best'
and then I realized.
I
lied.

You have never been
my 'best'
And you have never been your
'best'
You have been
and will keep on being
what you always were

a fair-
weather
friend.

raison d'être

Has it ever happened that
you were just too tired
to sleep?

Too tired as in so
MUCH to
think and do over
and re-think.

Piles of noodles replacing brain and
a heavy almost stinging in eyes
and ears are
hearing too
while you
lay
like a real boy
and wish you were wooden
so your arms
would stop moving
and eyelids would
stay
shut.

At first an empty vastness of dark
and
then a line emerges there,
another and more with different shades
and dimensions.

Seeing what you don't
when your eyes
are shut.

Memories like memories
that you want to forget
you want to
forget because
they make you feel..
feel
feel
and keep feeling
something
that's
just
not
there.

And memories like
you
and your
sideways and
backward
view of
the world and people and me and

you need
something else in your life
besides the idea
that you
are the best thing
since Elvis.

Elvis was on his worst days
as you are on your best.

I
am not
spiteful.

I am tired.
And I want you to know that
you meant,
mean
a lot to me.

But I know where you are
and I'm just
not there
anymore.

stopping

Ideas ideas
and running
here, there
now
now
before it's
too
late!

And I get delayed
by people traffic,
car traffic
mind traffic

Buzzing by
bursting through
doors
car doors
front doors
back doors
out
bedroom doors
and in
to
meet
your
maker.
Who just so happens
to have an appointment
at two o'clock,
so
we have to
make this
speedy.

This is the saddest thing.

"Omg, Bachelor drama?! As a side note, Japan is falling apart."

Thank you, Sarah, for sharing this.

POV gun

You kept trying
to make me
'see'
but I assure you, I
have 20/20 vision
without your specs
and I
can
see
exactly what you can.

So you tried to make me
'under
stand'

Always standing a tad taller,
just a
bit,
barely noticeable
but an eye-strain
away.

But I reached my arms
above
my head and
fooled you
into thinking
that I am as tall
as I wish I was.

Your point of
view is
a bullet
and mine
is
the
gun.

It's late and I should be sleeping but..

My eyes are falling
asleep for me,
and my brain has decided to buzz
and keep on
buzzing buzzing
bursting!
and then softly humming
back
to me.

I'm wandering and I wonder if
the wandering should
cease
so I can wonder a
little
longer.

There's no one here to
distract
any part
of me.

So, I am not
lonely, I am
alone.

There is a
difference, my friend and
you
can take that
to the
bank.

I cried.

This is by far the most wonderful and lovely and touching and deserved kiss on network television ever.

Isn't that beautiful?

Kinky Friedman, I salute you.

Maybe
just maybe I'm
a tad sensitive to things
that are
for lack of a better word,
Ca-
put.

Things of the past, the present
and the past
past.

I am, believe it or not
under the impression that
the past is past
and the future
is riding up your ass
and
maybe everything
is okay.
And really was all okay
and will be okay.

So okay. Alright.

But that doesn't explain why
all these things
nearly haunt me.

"Nostalgia is a symptom of illness in an individual or a society."

Maybe nostalgia is a thing to be avoided.

For all nostalgia gets you is a night alone under a red blanket with a head full of wishes and yearnings that,
let's sunny-side-up this thing,
are past.
And aren't coming back for seconds on the cheesecake.

There might be similar experiences,
but you have to admit to yourself that
you will never
have the same day you had
today and the day before
again.

So nostalgia has been glorified
under false pretenses.

Unless of course,
my definition of nostalgia
and yours
hit heads.

So
if you really wanna,
if you're really committed to
this idea of being happy then
forget regrets
and nostalgia
and the past.

We all move in our own way,
but we're all heading
dead straight
for the same place.

trips

It had been a week and
money hadn't been an issue for me,
but you'd gotten your
fair share
of shit from the world.

So I drove from Ohio to St. Louis,
tried to make it all the way
but a grand storm
seemed to
present itself
in the nick of time
for me to sit
and wait
in Denny's.
Nursing a slow cup of coffee
and a scathed sense of hope
still.

There was an old couple
that didn't look at each other
the entire
time
they ate.
They ate apart
while they were together.

And a lady and her son,
the son giving me looks now and again,
watching a teenage girl watch him.
And the lady stared at him across her plate,
thinking.
I can only assume she thought,
"What am I doing?"
Something
along the lines of
insanity/happiness.


I can
only
assume.

and I wish I'd written it.

I love you and I miss you all the time

all of those douglas firs,
trains, transformers, bluebirds.
anxious and my o.c.d.
cereal, atomic energy
and all the answers to everything;

tesla coils, decaffeinated tea
so much more put together than me.

the interstates and, the difference in weather;

I'm so glad you're there to put all my pieces back together.

-Jesse Kurvink

living IS

When there's an edge in the conversation,
when you now exactly what is bothering both parties,
and you know there's no resolving it,
no getting over it either..

What can you do but
have an angry,
passionate
and loving
throw down?

----------------------

These days, saying your in love is almost
like saying, "I don't need love."
in the 20's.

Can't a girl be in love without the hate?

Saying I need to 'find' myself before
I can be with anyone else has
no effect.

I know myself pretty well and
though I am far from what I could be
and ions away from adulthood,
I can tell you that

I
know
that I make mistakes
and
one or either of us
could want out of this at some point..
but my point, good lady
is that I can do
what I want.

So, I can be in love.
Without wanting to stop living for myself.

I like a Pink song

am so unbelievably thankful.
I wish I deserved all of this,
but I don't and
I got to thinking..
what do I deserve then?

Is it true that everyone deserves happiness?
But..what if happiness isn't what they want?

Someone once told me that
life was not about being happy,
but being exactly who you are,
and feeling exactly how you feel.

But I ask you,
wouldn't you want to be the best version of
yourself and isn't
that version
happiness?

True enough that there would not be happiness
without
every other emotion,
but why can't happiness
take the cake?
Would that make a glutton out of
the happy ones?

All I know is that underneath emotion,
we must have a base.
Things are either going to be okay,
or they aren't.

sometimes, I travel to you

Doing something that
you know is wrong,
is..unsatisfying.

Not anything like drugs or sex or partying out until 4am,
those are all choices.
If you don't think something is wrong,
then,
it isn't.
Because in the long run?
Only your opinion matters.

But when you do something that you
know
will not accomplish anything,
Not even a selfish feeling of worth on the subject,
it is un-gratifying and hurtful.

Anger is not an excuse.
You never really have an excuse when
you do something
against you own
better
judgment and
gut feeling.

And I just made a mistake.
I am human but

I am also just a girl,
standing in front of a boy
asking him
to love her.

what are waiting rooms made for?

Not for me.
Not for hospitals.

----------------------------------

Temporarily, you'll be living.
And some believe, temporarily,
you'll be dead.

Temporarily I'll be young and maybe sometime in there I'll be free,
and maybe sometime I'll go through a lot of pain.
I've got demons. But nothing I can't handle, you know?
Nothing that everyone else hasn't handled before me.
I'll have help, maybe.
I know you love me and he and she love me and they all love me,
but damn it if everything doesn't feel so incredibly
temporary
all the time.

I know and people have told me that I must enjoy things while they last.
I do. Believe you me, I very much love life and my own.

But after all of the temporary thrills and kills in this life,
it is so ridiculously fulfilling to have one that feels just the least bit constant.

And it's very difficult to not wish that everything felt as
successful
as that one relationship.
That everyone felt as committed to me
as I do
to them.

I realize how unrealistic it is.
And how this temporariness outlook can be applied positively.
And also that I have my own faults in this area.

It's just something to complain about really.

Not being in public school does things to you.
I did this drawing two days ago, and have done more since, but this little guy remains my favorite. Mumsy thinks he looks like Yoda.

Who are you, Furee Katt?

You've started commenting on my blog and I'm interested.
I'm Jessi.

so..mom's indignant

Do you think it's wrong to want to be at peace with everyone?

I'm in the woods

I have no shame, but I do have faults.
I've never given up my seat for an elderly person.
I don't ride the bus that much anyway.
I say a lot of things and I try new things.
I need a creative outlet,
an aggressive outlet
and a..yearning outlet.
If that's what you want to call sex.

I take a lot, but I like to think I give a lot too.
Sometimes I give things that people may not want
but I spend copious amounts of my time on.

I want to care more about everything than I do,
but I don't know if that makes things better.
Or worse, come to think.

I'd rather be a cat.
Though, I don't see how I'd be a vegetarian...
I wonder if cats believe in love or hate.
I wonder if I do.

See?
I'd be a great cat

fault and blame are worldly things

Why has poetry changed for me?
My poetry was never really poetry,
but notes. Little notes
to myself and others at times..

You did this to me.
I don't blame you.
In fact I don't believe in blame and fault and such things
What I do believe in is influence.
YOU are influence
and YOU couldn't be YOU
without influence.

The redundancy!
The repetition, the
world over!

The world will not end.
"The World" is wherever we live.
And trust me,
we'll find another mother
and cost her just as much
like the spoiled brats we are.

But spoiled isn't the right word.
We're en gorged and fattened
also bruised and flattened
and beaten
and adored.
And we'll keep on going
because we don't believe in
"natural"
We believe in
self-sufficiency
and "man-made"
and MAN
bites dog down
with his mannish name.

I do not hate the WORLD.
What I do hate is
nothing.
Doing nothing
seeing nothing
being nothing.

Being someone
and loving something
and living somewhere
all of everything!

All
of
nothing.

dragging

I talk to myself a lot these days.
And you know, I find myself to be increasingly boring.

I just feel
so very
alone.

I feel as if I was born, I was living
and then
I stopped.
I just stopped.

I still love and I cry and I have opinions and insight..
but somewhere along the line, I just
didn't care
about
the future
anymore.

musing

The need for variety baffles me.
Not for things like food or clothes or hair styles..
those are petals.
Aren't people and conversation and human contact a root to the stem of meeting people and liking them and growing to build relationships and love and comaraderie?
I dunno. When you say things like the need for new people, it often times makes me feel..old.
This may seem selfish on my part.
So many before have told me I was foolish,
but as many times as I have heard it, I have yet to experience it myself.

I just don't understand.

right then

Everything is good,
everything is good.

There are Grand Openings
for shiny new businesses.
Something is discovered,
invented,
improved!

Babies are popping up like..
well, like babies.

Good.

Good like,
good for our
futures.
Good like,
good for our
children's children's children!

How
un-
selfish
are we, right?

to do

The thing is..
I absolutely feel your input and commentary to be necessary.
I care what you think, basically.

But, you know..
you suck
and
you
suck.

I hug you
and hug you
and squeeze
but I'm hugging
and squeezing
what's already bruised
from too much
tough love.

kids are sociopaths

I watched them
swaying
doing dishes
hip to hip
in time to
the music.

And what was that picture?
Above the table
with the seashell lamp
in the room with
the ceramic dalmation.
That picture
frustrated me
and made me jealous
of the stupidest
little
angel.

Why they would want
to
show him off.

the vastness

I have a feeling
that puppy love isn't
really
puppy love.

I have a feeling that
it's almost
a way to de-
humanize
a very
human
chemical balance
and
imbalance.

I
don't believe
in
puppy
love.

Next christmas
I'm getting you
a big
wooden
cross.

So the next time you feel your
sacrifices
unappreciated,
you can climb up
And nail
yourself to it.

I think that maybe,
if it were of a desperate sort
you would want it more. Want me more.
The matter of the thing is,
What if it is desperate for one person,
and not so for the other?

I'm just letting you know,
I don't need you.
I can make so many, plenty of beautiful things,
with or without your company.
Unfortunately for you,
I tend to be satisfied,
regardless of my frustrations,
Or how angry you make me.

Fuck you. Just fuck you for trying.

I cannot drink too much,

You make me feel so empty sometimes,
because you're so full of everything.
You're full of words and ideas and honest-to-god faithfulness.
You're full to the brim with tears,
big, salty, warm tears that go splash when they land.

You are full, so full in fact
that you over-swell the cup at times.
You flood and you flow and you drench me in your sweetness.
And afterward, when I've been set out to dry,
and your essence is evaporating away, away from me
I try and snatch back what I can from the theiving air.
Like a child I cling to the promises, the dreams and ceremonies.
For fear, for worry, for enduring promise.

You're so full, when you're not trying to fill me.

An Ode to Target

Illuminating red beckons those who seek to
invest in hats, scarves, and gloves for the bitter bitch
that winter is.

A concrete monster separates you from salvation,
painted yellow, assigning your personal space,
and limiting your dance.

But a step and a stumble over pot-holes
that wish to swallow you whole,
a glass automatic door awaits.

You prance, clutching the insides of your pockets,
yearning for that first breath of warmth,
itching for a smile and a, "May I help you?"

And though your second wish never comes,
it is enough to be able to spread your lips
in a smile that can only spring from thawing limbs.