[078]
10/20/2010 09:08 p.m.

&: rotting though? really?
#: really really. and decaying.
&: cooking. dying.
#: delicious. absolutely.
&: absolutely.
#: the break down of fat, of protein, like
when you char a steak, smoke a salmon.
&: like when avocados ripen.
#: l-glutamate is nothing to scoff at.
&: I may have to scoff.
#: you may have to.

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[077]
10/20/2010 09:07 p.m.

Halo on your right hand chickadee,
your working sumbitch effort never bothered me,
cause eat your bread and eat a bit of steam,
a chompachomp you'd better damn well disagree.

you see his face all mangly moony too big too small
all sweet as punch and stupid smart as all the days
we long? he's plumb drunk and not touching her while
she sobs and sobs and fearing for his livelihood
between. blunt about her sex life and blunt about
her future, she misses the old ways: the resounding
cry of failing institutions means nothing to her now.
Life, she says, takes entirely too much effort to keep
on living, like she'd never kill herself but dear God
is she tired even when she sips on withered coffee
and struggles to make friends. women regularly hate
other women now there's no common cause. otters on your
thighbones, yessiree, beetles on your hips slurp slurp.
one time there were animals the kind like no one else
for real ever gets to see and everything gets harder
and harder but this weekend must be easy and this
weekend must be clean. now there's a good excuse: go on!
live a little on the instep. he tears apart these beepers
and bedecks himself in burn ups.

flopping all along the sidelines kerlunk as fat slaps
the cold hardwood, she lays her down in the sweet
confidence, roundy and whole and oversexed, who said no?
not i, not i, so quote -- holding handfuls of belly,
holding handfuls of belly, who's stupid? you're stupid.
be charming, sweet innards, be safe absolved and grow up
faster. he never ages and remains confused as she grows
old, little boy you are ageless and vantageless, a
simple pretty being with no proper title or categorization.
eat it if you must. bite it if you must. continuous
repetitions of common verbs and a distinct lack of to-be
in a whole list of to-do's. everything smells of vinegar
and baking soda, and so does everyone, oh hey, that's an
excuse. tight clothes and button knows, hot sauce and
apfelsaft. leggies peaking out the underbelly, have you
seen? a terror and a warthog if'n e'er there been. a daily
on a dally oh you sweetest queen, i swear upon my scalpel
that you need no spleen.

who's a daffodil oh pretty babe? you spin a seed around
come each new day, and lay it on the fur of lamb and pup,
awaiting for the birds of pray to eat 'em up.

come reach me now the sky to push away, the steeping of the
tea and then the quay, with fingers touching tendrilly
therefor we pray, black toes black knees black fingertips
do come astray.

boyface, you're a mangy motherfucker i'll tell you what, with
your dirty feet and hair shorn half-assed like with a spoon,
I can tell you's smart but I can tell you's stupid too for
all at once. Your back pockets are falling apart and out fall
stories and your eyes are big with es-tee-you-pee-eye-dee
STOOPID. didn't your mama never teach you to wash your face,
zip your fly, tuck in your shirt, and show respect to ladies?
can't you keep a schedule or cook your own damn food?



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[076]
09/20/2010 06:03 p.m.

he's got lists on his walls and springs in his steps,
he do he do. he's a fierce blueness and a fear of losing.
he's repetitive stories because what else has he got,
he's terrified sometimes and it shows.

and he eats apart dead animals in ravenous form,
leaving gristle in halos around his plate. peaking from
beneath his fork, he watches the girl he's unconditionally
committed to spit out the remains of a mussel gone bad.
she'll shiver for the rest of the day about that mussel,
but he doesn't want to hear it.

(mussels gone bad are crunchy on the inside, like the burnt
tendrils of corn husk. they crumble, they crumble and no matter
how much you spit there's probably still bits of it left in the
crevices of your palette).

he's the sort who holds hands only loosely and who grabs on
everywhere else too tightly and who hasn't ever learned a thing
about how to comport himself romantically. he's a bushel of
adverbs and a handful of nouns, he's categorical.

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[075]
08/31/2010 07:44 p.m.
it's likely that internal conflict runs in her family
beside a predisposition towards dissatisfaction
and stomach cancer.

it's likely that breaking men apart is what her
mother was best at too -- with their matching
perfect breasts and a generational word of
advice:

"sweetheart you're too young to settle down."

over a bowl of tea, she's been called a ruiner,
a title with which she grapples, amongst two
decades of juxtaposed gender assumptions:

to be strong and independent, to be reliant,
sweet, and malleable, to be angry perhaps,
and to be promiscuous, and to be modest,
and to be every single one of these things
all at once.

she mashes fingers into a fat-filled belly,
pokes at folds and poses naked in the mirror
yelling "woman woman woman" at herself,
unsure anymore,

adding feminism to the list of things she's
meant to be good at given her enlarged
neocortex, yet never quite manages to
grasp.

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[074]
07/14/2010 06:11 p.m.

I think it's that I don't usually allow people to be responsible for my emotional wellbeing.

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[073]
07/08/2010 05:01 p.m.

i live my life in edward hopper moments.

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[072]
07/03/2010 10:28 p.m.

as the saying goes, you get me how i come or you don't get me, a phrase which works two-
fold and don't you e'er forget. it's awful thinking of not touching you, but just the same, it's
a sacrifice worth making lest regret.


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[071]
07/01/2010 10:00 p.m.

don't you dare poke fun at him, i swear, i'll respond in a shattered universe:

1. gently, courteously, repressfully, because negativity never helped a soul.
2. angrily, deftly, because you could cut diamonds on my tongue if'n the mood so struck --

he pulls out two glasses and asks if i'd like tea and i say 'if you chose two cups with me in mind,
then sure.' he wants to burrow every part of himself into every part of me, and wrap me up in his
gangly arms and knead at my feet with his broken toes, he presses & presses & presses.


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[070]
06/23/2010 11:08 p.m.
if you chose two cups with me in mind, then yes.

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[069]
05/12/2010 12:40 p.m.

i've got this sweetheart who would make a good messiah, at a glance,
since he's all skin 'n shin and janky skeleton parts, since he's all hair
lapping its way down his hind-sides, since he's all catch-phrases and
how-de-do's and heaps everyone up into constant repetition.

you take a glance at other messiahs, the kinds of messiahs you your-
self might consider following, they've all got certain things in common:

they've got outsides you'd consider desecrating, for starters. they've
got odd and memorable facial hair and the distinct kind of manhood
that could hint at equality or inequality, depending on the viewer's
mood. then, in case their scarred up outers ain't enough to make you
feel askew, there's a certain sense of sadness and boom!

your protagonist is complete. let's get something straight first, though:

i know deep down my messiah is a simple being; he grew up in a
wee ole place and spends his every day constantly impressed with
himself, wondering but never questioning just how he got where he did.
that's also intrinsic for a messiah.

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