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.