send all the letters

send all the letters
everything written but unsent

letters written, pencil on yellow lined paper
enveloped & return addressed.
letters written, pen on torn out pages
folded once & named.
set on window ledges
waiting on dresser tops
stamped.
walked to mailboxes
walked away from mailboxes
still in hand.
send all the letters
everything written but unsent
 

forget fear.
send all the letters.

orange

thinking about orange. my life is filled with orange. even the foam nerf ball in the corner of my room that I can see out of the corner of my eye. cigarette ends are orange-ish, my skin is a yellowed orange and carrots carrots carrots. its all got an orange hue. orange follows red in the rainbow, rOy g biv. Nothing rhymes with orange. some of my most vivid childhood memories are orange. That nasty kid Robby, a grade above me, tearing open sand crabs on beach day in elementary school, showing the female crab's orange egg filled insides to all the screaming girls, something was not right with him. friend telling me her favorite color was orange when we were 12, thought that was the worst color to have as a favorite. Pencil orange, we weren't allowed to use pens in school until 4th grade, then only the erasable ones (I still prefer a dull Ticonderoga to a pen). dad yelling at me something terrible when I spilled the juice from an orange I was peeling on something carpenter-y that he was working on, I cried so much, he was (I was) so upset--must have been something else that was eating him and my innocent carelessness set him off. Friend in high school with anorexia, ate only carrots and apples, her palms were opaque orange, like duck's feet, I used to stare at her hands in class. the mahogany in my parent's house has such an orange-y glow. The tongue tingle of that fresh squeezed orange-carrot-ginger juice in Germany, like drinking electricity. I know my blood is red, cause I've seen it outside my body... but when iron rusts it's orange. That mop top we dyed orange to make a lion's mane. The favorite orange scarf I left in my cousin's car in Colorado, she's never gonna give it back. The orange beard of the guy I met today on the sidewalk outside the pie shop.  And when our moon is low and orange I feel so close to heaven.

5.15.13

there is nothing inside. a hollow body, like a knock on lauan tacked to a frame. i will be, up late tonight. seeing the moon set, sun burning her on his way up. the hollow (un)hallowed body. a body, cells & all the things bigger than them. a slice of cake with melty ice-cream. smoke, fiery dried bits rolled up in a soggy paper, twisted ends with foam. filled with smoke. piercing haunts, a halloween soundtrack. a morphine lemonade dream. a disgusting taste that I can't stop tasting, a mis-directed hope. should the pin be pulled, dropped at my feet. blow another hole inside the hole i'm in. let's go, let's save the date, let's set an alarm. everyone is the same. maybe all we want to know has already been written, but sometimes the book is checked out & there's a waiting list. and sometimes two weeks isn't long enough to finish. 

it's spring and the moths are back, eating the wool carpet in my bedroom. i'm a splendid girl but i'm hollow inside. and when i'm full it's with wool. 

in a mirror between two windows

often forgetting what I look like

I stand in front of the mirror 

and think

 "I'll never remember this"

mine spine

it's

crunkled
funkled
debunkled

slightly
tweaked
twisted
torqued

fully
scrunched
squished
sideways'd

really
pointy
pinched
pulled 

was

creaking & cracking 

swaying & smashing
holding & folding

flapping & gaping

sticking out & poking in.
In weird places and

out of place places
 

can't be

tamed or taught

teased or bought
that's its way

this spine of mine.

Now it's
screwed in
straightened out
scarred up

not quite
smoothed
or

subdued


still
ach-y
break-y
shake-y
 

but,

it's 

mine

spine.

for b (from forever ago)

there are a pair of purple corduroy pants that I wear when I've had a thought of you.

Will we keep to ourselves? Will you be deranged & will I laugh? I don't think I could be so serious all the time. Would you come up from behind & shake my shoulders that I would scream so loud that all-of-both-of-our bones, would rattle...? I sometimes love it here. Sometimes it feels unbearably remote.  I want poems written for me & about me & I want a big scoop of ice-cream with soggy nonpareils. I forget your voice but I don't miss you, I feel a quiet about it.  I don't know you & won't want to fast, but you'll know me in a second because I am quick-knowable. And I think you will smell like something old that has been half-cleaned with half-new grease. And you'll look dirty but be clean with a crunchy rag in your pocket.

I wouldn't let you touch me, not to lead me through a doorway, until the day it's right & we're both straight & we've exhausted ourselves all day with some labor that wasn't that hard but we both knew it was the day & the anticipation wore us thin. No bells would ring & you'd be louder than me about it all. I'd come so close to your face with the tip of my nose that we'd see the electricity in the dark around. And the electricity would shock us into tucked beds in separate rooms & we'd live for 46 days on nose-electricity alone. On the 47th day, at the end of the magic hour, our palms would be like magnets & wouldn't separate for the next week. Then it would be & happen, on a very ordinary day in an ordinary way, because we're not so extraordinary. After a while you would whisper in my ear, something like,"hello my friend" & that would make me laugh so painfully loud & hard that I couldn't keep from crying & whooping. It would be very funny to us both, we would like it all & it would really get along quite well with us.

"Judas!"

"I don't believe you. You're a liar"

"Play it fucking loud!" Bobby D. said that. Said that to his band after being heckled by members of the audience (for breaking from his folk roots & getting too rock & roll-y) at his 1966 Manchester concert. Then, Like a Rolling Stone hits hard.

 bob-goes-electric, I-go-electric.  

rambling:

I'm not an 'f word' user. Though, I have said it and twas a thrill, it left a sour taste on the tongue. But I love the, the punch-in-the-gut feeling of Dylan yelling it, off mic, to his band. 

I want to play it stinking loud and I'm standing on the stage, eager-beaver to blast away the nay-sayers. Wanting to leave my addiction to sadness behind & get electric. Feeling fine most days, working hard for too little, enjoying nearly all the moments. A spark in my heart (more than a muscle twitch), curious again about faith, love (God). My heart has been so hardened & my mind so resistant. Talking to my brother about this. Feeling right feelings about it again, like it's never left my mind/soul/heart. 

My heart has been ravaged by a love that I wouldn't let go. While I still hold the hem's edge of my heart-breaker,  tears don't come as easily when I think of his face, his hand moving my hair as I kissed him from above & his, 'we are like two puzzle pieces that don't quite fit.' I've quit fighting for answers, I am feeling peace. It isn't easy & my heart is a slow mender (also a foot dragger). I start each morning bleary, eye-gunked up, but once I bespectacle my morning face the day has arrived & I'm going electric. I've turned the knob, opened the door & confusion-doubt is heading out. Realizing half a cigarette is enough & we shouldn't smoke on the fuel dock. Nearly ready, anxious to love, itching to give, open to hear (can't wait to talk again brother)...going electric. 

  

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VYvyfDfM9cM

for m

Why do you exist in here?
The tone is dark, the tone's not clear.
there's a creaking, like a twist;
of the plastic straw you sucked and kissed.

Like the feathered wreck,
you hook and catch.

Your shadow made on greasy walls,
kicking concrete lines; with grime you brawl.

The steps you take you synchronize,
with the eerie timbre you harmonize.

Torn and tattered, sallow faced,
your watered eyes are crescent-shaped.

Biting lips till blood is drawn,
with meticulous steps you patter on;
to meet the next waifish wisp
bowing brow and finger in fist.

Your breath is caught by no one great,
like the ones you imitate.

Eating cigarettes.

Prostitute pirouettes.

You pick your teeth,
then the pick you bequeath,
to the greasy newspaper fold,
under the plate of chicken gone cold.

 You are (not) alone,
in the little room of your shabby home.

for n

 lump in the rug,

 smudge.

freckled face,

hair out of place.

flickering light,

tearful night.

last patch of snow,

last square to mow.

minor chords,

creaky floors.

a glow,

much more

nor(a)

she closed the book...

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. She had had too much caffeine and the backless chair she perched on had numbed her backside. The same paragraph had been read and reread countless times-- in that caffeine induced ability to be focused and completely blurred at the same time. The book was boring. It was Dickens.  She thought a novel of his would be appropriate for the 200th year of the author's birthday. The book was in large print and thick. She had split the book in half as to carry as few of the pages as possible. She was still on the first half. Yes, it was Dickens' birthday this year, and she would take the whole year to read his story.

She stood up and sighed, she had only been reading for ten minutes. She was sweating under the wires of her bra. Her eyes were itchy and the eyelids were flaking-- pushing her palms in the dry sockets was a temporary relief. Her thoughts wandered, lazy but flighty. She thought about how odd a wedding dress would look on her, wondered how soon that same song would be playing on the radio again.  She stared ahead. Walking through the door could be walking toward another goodbye. They were meeting soon. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would be letting her down. She was fifty-point-five percent sure he would ask her back. One-hundred-one percent on tenterhooks. Shiftless and alive, that's how he made her feel. They were to meet in ten minutes, his reception, she thought, would be telling, "If his initial embrace lasts a moment past average I've got this in the bag." She moved through the doorway, walking to meet him. She was nervously sweating and smelling the pit perspiration made her more tense. She skipped a few steps to lighten the mood. Passing the crumbling pink house with all the cats, she was only four minutes away. Turning the corner, walking down the alleyway, past the dumpsters filled with rotting food.

 She saw him sitting at a table in the sun, reading, he was always there before her, she never had to wait. Looking up, he saw her, smiled, and stood up. She grinned, and as she approached him he opened his arms wide and held her tightly (for an average length of time).