I.
some love of mine moves to
Manassas, Virginia.
he is caught drunk and unconscious and
knows little about history and hence
doesn't realize
that he is standing his ground where the first battle
of the Civil War was fought.

as the dog-handler of the teenage generation,
i find this fine;
realization is subjective and
if his innards battle it's
peachy keen by me.

II.
What is it that I'm terrified of?
No -- I'm on my own now.

There are masses to back me but I
am granted an unwilling privacy.
It is over and over that I am falling
into hatred and love and
peevishness.



And if my innards battle?
I am an unwilling participant --
a lover and hater of humanity --
passive and aggressive to a fault.

III.
I want you to be my Indian so
I can tell you I miss the desert.
I want to be your rawhide double and
burrow grainy and timid into the sand but
perhaps we're both too mild
when presented with the other.

IV.
in the meantime you are touching me tender.
it destroys me on the insides and
bruises up my nethers and my neck and
i remember being in love far too badly.

even if it's not with you.

V.
and you can be my baby should you ever need to drink.

call it quits --
i am the blue-black dye cowgirl of a dying sect
(the dog handler of my age),
and I am smattered with conflicting desires and
obsolete quotations and
a desperate need for common decency.

aslop, lugubrious, and gravid with developing fright.

06/10/2007

Author's Note: I keep moving journal entries here. My bad.

Posted on 06/10/2007
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