[030]
08/09/2007 01:09 a.m.

more scraps:



i have been caught unawares.
off guard.
this sweet stench of closeted skeletons,
it wreaks of the gods we've repeatedly denied.
it wreaks of drunkenness and crying out,
of exceptions and complications and draft dodging.

last night, i made up my mind.
these strangers who chase me back and forth are simply not for me.

they're not my problem.
they'd fuck me for blow any day of the week.
they've got preconceived notions.

anymore, i've got to work against what other people say to people i've never met.

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[??]
07/18/2007 02:14 a.m.

i met up with the devil again
the first time i met him, he fed me from the tip of
a distended spoon --
mainly the problem is,
i think,
that it's impossible to talk about it with dignity.

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[028]
07/09/2007 05:48 p.m.
'look' is a grand word.

why do they not build a barrier, to push back the squalor?
it's too hot, too hot.
look: he is trying but he will fail. watch him dig.

go -- you race and remember that
if the ocean is the womb come open
then this narrow passage should be birth:
and what am i borne into?
what is this mess?



I am currently Reflective

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[027] Collected Scraps.
07/09/2007 05:02 p.m.

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

for the love of God, boy,
i haven't seen you in five years.

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you're my species, sparrow-saken, you're my heartfelt.
you're the reason why i gave the man the slip.

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

there's nothing left for me to write about.
i am too deeply content.
at the same time i am engulfed with a worried longing.
promises this to me.
doesn't.

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my wing-tips have touched
the hollow tender of the sky
and come back charred --

or, touched by god --

i have felt them twine down the bloated slopes of my back.

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i believe in usuality.
a minimum, the occasional maximum.
i'd like to settle down.

from day one all i've wanted is ordinary.
they say that different people change the world.

i wanted
who needs significance?

i have accepted "stuck."

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i describe both of you as having no commong sense.

you are who i think of when i think of
orlando
chicago
l.a.
and the subtleties of sex and warfare, no really really
what do i look like at this age and disposition?
what do you?

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everytime we're together, i want to tell you,
that to me you are how difficult it is
to light a cigarette on the beach
and how badly i remember
our shared grunge 90's.

you are one of the many women i've kissed
absentmindedly
but the only one i've laid with naked
in the sea.

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sometimes we don't talk for months
and god knows why.
everytime my world falls stumbling apart,
i always fall towards you.

it was my birthday on easter sunday this month,
and you're the only one to ever consider me silence.

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it's hard to tell you that i've loved you
when these days you rend my spine,
but for eons i'd forgiven you
and paid it back myself.
instead i want the world to know you're horrid,
and even more than that,
to then agree.

i had hoped that you'd disintegrate
into the gravel cracks of Richmond Heights,
but you're thriving off the pain
and living off the filth.

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i have travelled this feeble distance.

i've got a lot of babies,
but not one quite like you,
who bruises up my fingers with his teeth.

for you, i have travelled this feeble distance.
my boy with the too-long
arabic name,
anywhere more north than 163rd
and i search for your face in every car.

but you wouldn't recognize me.

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it's too early to assume.
negrito, no te quiero,
no te quiero.

per negrito, tu conoces?
Conoces que cuando tu estas triste,
yo estoy tambien?
yo estoy.

gravemente, baby,
because i cut my hair off and
pluck my eyebrows on
your behalf.

porque no te quiero.
por que no te quiero?
E porque.

gravemente, dollface,
it's too early to assume,
but i live a better life than you.

con todo mi corazon
con toda mi alma,
mi negrito.

gravemente.

ahora tu sabes nada.
ahora
con todo mi corazon
y toda mi alma
negrito;
yo no te quiero.

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i am not afraid to die,
as we've discussed.
this lack of fear is neither courageous
nor heroic.

i know i needn't be afraid because
once dead i won't know fear.

or need. to sleep, perhaps to dream?
i do not expect to die.

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

baby it was good to see you.

we don't talk about the day we met.
it's a taboo wrought of streelights
and harsh concrete gritty under my palms,
the way we kissed out all the kisses
from the months before
and you yelled at a girl i knew
and made me cringe.

i cannot tell if it's because i was ugly
or because a week later you'd
be dating some Hialeah girl
with fake tits that left scars
on her ribcage.

the day we met a stranger i'd
mistaken for a friend had
called me beautiful.
she told me how she'd run away from home
and smoked cigarettes in front of me
on the uncomfortable benches
at the mall.

it was the day before Halloween,
and a surprise.
to this day i associate you with
the French Quarter
and an egyptian middle name.

three months later i would
forgive you, minorly.
our friend would call us vicious,
watching us vulgar in the farthest seat
of the train.

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

i remember a lot of
being naked and
a lot of
your aftershave.
an old friend, who
remembers me young and dumb, she
brings you up in
conversation and
what i remember is

lying on the back of your car at fourteen
and hoping my mother wouldn't notice
your fingers kneading up my body.
i hoped you found me beautiful
even though i was ugly, looking back.

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

hot damn Miami five a.m. dark and rainy and
swerving on the wet of I-95 North and
i'm listening to some industrial remix so loud that
i can't hear my own horn.

this song reminds or two, three summers back
(i can't keep times straight)
i had linked its lyrics with the splits in the boards of a floating dock,
i wanted to be a hippy punk goth glam rock star and together
we would bite each others necks and hope your parents wouldn't see.

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

baby girl, you decorate your body like a junkyard
don't get me wrong.
i love the way that all-stainless USA
tie wire hangs clink-clank in your collar bone loop.
you picked it off the welding room floor while
trying to think of excuses to get him out of work.

i want to announce that i don't really talk anymore.
i don't talk dirty,
i don't talk trash,

i want to announce that i've shut down.
all i do is write poetry very few people read
and draw bulging eyeballs that nobody cares to see
and i'm content but

i may be fading.
if the importance of self is defined by social significance
i may be fading.

i decorate my body like a junkyard.





I am currently Calm

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[026]
07/06/2007 08:59 p.m.

oh babydoll, babydoll,
whoever said i drank it all
was wrong--

swallowing that
would take more belly-room
than i've got.
so allot less than
this stopper-knot,
for you've little more to give.

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[025]
06/30/2007 05:05 a.m.

How Icarus and I share consistent paths:



in doing so, we become experts at building wings --

it is neither that i am Ammon nor
headed as such,
but still they say a boiling-blooded
ram-skulled sailor like me is
destined to seldom bundle these
feathers,
is destined to lock
horns with you and yours

for the rest of my life:
"Icarus,"

"Are you still building momentum?"
they always said a
ram like me would
butt heads with itself,
even as it sat within the Lion's den.

even as it sprung
equinoctial
on its haunches and led me to this well, Icarus,
ram like me were suckled on the unforgiving
southern sun.

how Sarasvati and i are
horned, watery, sisterly:
both of us, despite, are commonly depicted unmarried --

"Icarus,"
and where the ram's are sacred, sacrificial,
and rut to keep complacent:
"it snowed today."
and tender the light.




I am currently Thoughtfull
I am listening to Tarkio

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[024]
06/18/2007 03:42 p.m.

How Icarus and I share consistent paths:
In doing so, we become experts at building wings.

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[023]
06/17/2007 03:08 p.m.

i would rather not exist, but merely play witness.
should i fall asleep in bed with someone else, i would like to be the one with cold fingertips.




------------------
incidentally, the octopus has never been borne as a symbol of anything peaceful.



I am currently Obsessive

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[022]
06/13/2007 04:59 a.m.
I think it's funny that poetry takes such importance on here when anywhere else it would take no importance at all.

Camaraderie or come and get me?






Why isn't drunk a mood option? Do you realize I can write in proper punctuation and capitalization and HTML codes when I'm drunk? I DEMAND THE MOOD!
I am currently Giddy

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[021]
06/10/2007 11:39 p.m.
I can't believe I found this! This is a story I wrote when I was twelve, old old.

Once upon a time, no one believed in fairies, save for one little girl, who had a pair of pixy wings all her own that she kept hidden in the back of her bottom drawer. Her mommy watched her dance throughout the forest and flowers, kicking up wild blossoms and kissing at the air, and she patronized her little girl with a smile. The little girl was so in love, with a handsome young pixy, with wings to match her own, like an entangled gossamer monarch bound by symmetry, gowned in spiderwebs and ivy leaves. However, her mother was one of class and sophistication, and as time wore on and the girl began to outgrow her pixy wings, the mother began to frown and pull her away from the forest she grabbed at. Gain manners, she said, speak only when spoken to, for it is a woman's place, and the little girl spent less and less time in the woods and more time getting acquainted with the aristocrats of society. She sipped her gold-lined cups of sweetened tea as fairies did, dainty and delicate, and wherever she went, she danced as if there was nought beneath her feet. The mother feared that it was a bad habit, but society accepted her dancer's feet and her fragile movements (as if china would break at the merest sudden movement), and the mother sighed in relief, for what is more important that image? Every day, the little girl would stare out her foggy window at the rainy forest, for the sun hadn't properly shined since she'd left, and she would watch as elves and fairies peeked at her from behind the trees with longing. I miss you, she would say, you're where I belong, not with this sophistication, this class, I want to marry the pixy with wings to match my own, gowned in spider webs and ivy leaves, not a socially acceptable man that my mother picks from the aristocrats with upturned noses, from the nobles that snub those with brighter hearts, save me from monotony, return me to your magic. But the mother found her a husband and made her forget the forest as she moved into the cobblestoned and cold and grey city, carried on a carriage's rickety wheels and dressed in the height of fashion. She married a chosen man who smoked tobacco cigarettes and stunk of nicotine and French cologne instead of smoking foxglove and smelling of rose petals and rainbow tinged dew, who wore cuff links and boot blacked shoes instead of spiderwebs and ivy leaves, who matched her in no way. The mother died and they had a little girl with wide and bright eyes, and the grown up girl insisted that they move back to the cottage near the forest, and as she wandered the empty and dusty rooms, waiting for servants to arrive, in the back of an age-old bottom drawer, she found pixy wings. How silly, she thought, a child's toy, and so she gave them to her little girl to play with, and she watched as she danced through the forests, kicking up wild blossoms and kissing at the air, until the little girl ran home with the widest smile and the most eager eyes, saying, Mommy, I've met a fairy with wings to match my own, like an entangled gossamer monarch bound by symmetry, and he says he loved you once, and you loved him, he says you used to sip tea with dainty fairy fingers, and dance like you were in a fairy's circle celebrating a new blue moon. But the grown up girl just patronized her daughter with a smile as she watched her dance like china would break at the merest sudden movement. For nobody believed in fairies, save for one little girl.
I am currently Trippy

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