Mmm.

that anyone could make me feel naked in
suspense, a need to curl my fingers? I'll remind myself 
that I need my bed rest, that I need 
the thing that heals, that I need 
anything at all is too much, it's too
tedious to need, I won't admit to 
it, most of the time I won't. 

groaning grows from the throat,  trickling down, 
my voice isn't sweet like honey,
but more harsh harsh harsh in ways like
dry swallowing big pill after pill after pill. 

the ends of my fingers are beams, they are brightest 
when I touch the space between me and
the space between you and the soft space
left after drinking what we 
bottle 
up,

every time
every time.

I know you're as hungry as I am.

Let's let the hem out of every 
skirt we own so we can
be
  long 
     belong in
their fraying ends.

writing this while I'm not writing something else

there's something to be said about
the time it takes for words to
formulate, make their way
all the way down to the tiptips of our tontongues,
I savor the ringing silence that comes
after the bitter ones leave, the after-taste of
arguments and the residue left from things I didn't mean.

if I could I'd pour nectar down my throat and
speak in whispers only in whispers and then
quiet quiet
quiet
down, I'd
whisper,
quiet down.

these gaps in between the teeth of my
abilities, no lips to cover, I am
lost for words, so to speak.

perhaps the next go-round I'll be able to write epic poetry like Gilgamesh.

halfway between home and the nomad's life

In my room there was
a strand of christmas lights
lining the four walls,
eating itself where it
began and my records are
filed in a cardboard box in the corner.
When I left I left two piles of clothes,
one for keeping, one for
burning. For
I left a pair of scissors on the floor and
the smell of moist towels molding the air.
-----------------------------------------------
It seems the clothes have evaporated with the tears,
leaving the scissors in a cup on the desk while
the strand of lights no longer clings to the wall
but droops in the center of this
purged,
tired
room.
The records, thank god, haven't been touched.
-----------------------------------------------
When I left I thought I left what I cared about because
it hurt too much. As it turns out, I left a pile of shit
and some fucking
christmas lights.

fourteen to fifteen I was

I remember having long hair. I remember,
I felt like the wind would ruin me as it whipped me about, as it
tore me from behind curtains and into sunlight, I felt
naked. I loathed the wind, I loathed
it. I closed my eyes. Everytime, I closed
my eyes and thought "if I can't see them
see me like this, it isn't real it isn't real"

I remember feeling that easily-swayed way, that
trembling-all-over-all-the-time, that shifting-sliding-about-to-break
feeling of insecurity.

I don't
miss it, I
don't.

I don't don't don't.

You can never help with your money. Money is dirty.
Money is worse than anything you have to give, which is a whole lot.

You can help with your voice and compassion and a little dignity wouldn't hurt.
You can help with your knowledge and your passion and your creativity.
And you can help with your stories because
who doesn't love a good story?

I don't want
your money.

cheesin'

I wish I could write beautiful poetry about
mac n' cheese from a box.

But I haven't the room in my stomach for
poetry.

Get on this shiz.

Watch THIS: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc&feature=g-all-s&context=G250750bFAAAAAAAAAAA

And then if you don't click ----> HERE, then you a damn fool.

I'm asking, now.

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at me.

make them stars so I may not
lose them in the over-bearing light
of day at times and
make them burn like
third-degree burns so I'll
never forget the feeling of them
on my skin.

make them that sweet poetry you speak so that
my palpitating heart can know what it's like to
stop mid-sentence and


(quietly, now)

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at

me.

but not but really but

I'm not so good at telling you how I do feel it.
But I am so so good at feeling it.

I think perhaps I've always needed something to define me,
and my problem at the moment is that I feel nothing and no one I'm involved which is worth my entire existence compacted into it.

Perhaps I was supposed to have reached this conclusion eons ago.
Perhaps I'm progressing slow-like.

Okay then.

Living like I'm living like I'm living in rehab.

Relapse, relapse, relapse. 

Please show me how to convey my ideas.

I have so many many many. 

At first it was bare and ripe for the picking -

my chest was pulsating under your weight you

stripped my heart like an exotic dancer would: 

all eyes and no hands. 

After the initial grasp, the puff puff pass and the

smiles exchanged between our legsarmslimbs and the

time it took to be rid of the excess skin crowding us in, 

we breathed in sweet, sweet fumes of spring and said

things kept in our mouths, light like ecstasy but 

heavier than the average promise. 

But the hours it took to argue the hunger away made our

heads ache and eventually our jaws could clench no longer, 

our eyes could see no more of each other - just smoke and

rubbish clouding our way - it was lost,

whatever it was, it

was lost. 

Take it, please.

I can write love poetry when I'm not in love with you.

(The secret is to be in love with everyone else.)

a nefarious dead-pan glance and

all I can think about is how I have

your favorite book tucked away, safe, 

because I want an excuse for my 

trembling hands and the constant

chugging of my mind at times, the ever-

present headache that originates in 

my stomach. I am hosting a 

cavernous black hole there 

that spreads it's lips 

wider and 

wider 

and

w   i     d             e             r

every day that washes over, 

leaving me a little paler a little thinner a 

little hungrier than 

before

I am s

         i

          n

            k

              i

               n

                 g.

This is how I say 'I love you'

I'll realize that I'm not the only person on earth - little by little. 

I hope you know that

everytime our eyes meet it is
Anthony and Cleopatra,
it is ee cummings and his
dark-haired mistress, it is
every love affair that has ever been
lived again and 
again and
again

in those brief seconds 
when our eyes meet, in those
I can feel you 
looking for a reason
forever 
searching 
me

tell me when you find it, 
and let me hold it in my lips
for the next time
our eyes
meet

Don't hold me.

As much as I want a humidifier for this cold,
I want to breathe on my own.

That which would make you more than a dream isn't worth much, to me.

creeping along my hairline in
beads of sweat and in
my eyes, in the corners he
urges along tears, rides them, 

painting 

down


my 




cheeks,



then onto my neck, 
kissing my collar bone
and, in passing, 
tickles the freckles 
between my 
breasts. 

the little that's left of him fingers into 
streams on my belly that has 
been hungry for him - 



- he knows.

a visit from you always leaves me wanting

my food has begun to taste as 
I'm sure I've begun to
look:

grey
quiet
tired and
mean

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.