last night I saw a hooker dropped off near my house
she counted her money
she wore white heels
and then I dreamed that I was summoned to a whorehouse
she was the madam
she was angry with me
said I'd been fucking around too much
said it was bad for business
4.11.07
21.10.07
p: 10.21.09
it bothers me
you're a story thief
and traipse along parasitically
I can't mind the question mark.
It's a shadow with more than twenty years' history.
don't try to gift me
with relatives after
a sifting through pasts
still comes up blank
If you can choose the convenient,
I'll choose to be an artifact:
dusty icon from dead language
village of vanished people
sliver of petrified wood in yr eye
you're a story thief
and traipse along parasitically
I can't mind the question mark.
It's a shadow with more than twenty years' history.
don't try to gift me
with relatives after
a sifting through pasts
still comes up blank
If you can choose the convenient,
I'll choose to be an artifact:
dusty icon from dead language
village of vanished people
sliver of petrified wood in yr eye
p: 10.21.08
Famous for its own sake:
O that must be pretty
A kind of circular logic
Where ostentation's the object
And beneath all the decorative
Is blank stagnant space
That smells like the air in a tomb
O that must be pretty
A kind of circular logic
Where ostentation's the object
And beneath all the decorative
Is blank stagnant space
That smells like the air in a tomb
p: 10.21.07
You shimmer with lack,
its lustre is blinding.
Trips and traps that promise gold
end in dead-end holes.
You are pretty, but it's
an undelivered promise.
I wanted your viscera
to shine just as bright.
its lustre is blinding.
Trips and traps that promise gold
end in dead-end holes.
You are pretty, but it's
an undelivered promise.
I wanted your viscera
to shine just as bright.
p: 10.21.06
guess I'll find out when the way
that this rubs is apparent
I'm skinnier sinews than ever
a tall tree to be knocked down
by hollow winds whistling up from inside
that this rubs is apparent
I'm skinnier sinews than ever
a tall tree to be knocked down
by hollow winds whistling up from inside
p: 10.21.05
capacity for survival
volume for existence
burned kettle
blackened throat
I would have more
than the fuzzy wall of
my reflection
in your eyes
volume for existence
burned kettle
blackened throat
I would have more
than the fuzzy wall of
my reflection
in your eyes
p: 10.21.04
things that
have moved me before slide backwards
and I wonder if I've grown
steel for bones, like other folks.
but when
the fluid of empathy jostles my organs
I move to wave my arms and
still the waters, like Jesus.
can I
make up my mind, or will I
straddle the line always?
have moved me before slide backwards
and I wonder if I've grown
steel for bones, like other folks.
but when
the fluid of empathy jostles my organs
I move to wave my arms and
still the waters, like Jesus.
can I
make up my mind, or will I
straddle the line always?
p: 10.21.03
paradise is an entrance to guilt feelings
it's preposterous to assume that pleasure come without price
I love fucking you, but the pulse in your eyes grows weaker
please. plurality won't leave, isn't just a phase,
someone else's dead moon on the purple horizon
I'll leave, again and again, for the plush of a different person
I'm playing you like a piano and the keys are hot as hell
it's preposterous to assume that pleasure come without price
I love fucking you, but the pulse in your eyes grows weaker
please. plurality won't leave, isn't just a phase,
someone else's dead moon on the purple horizon
I'll leave, again and again, for the plush of a different person
I'm playing you like a piano and the keys are hot as hell
t: 10.21.02
Swollen with sad -- it's clenching my jaw and haunting my head with you, and hollow sounds like echoing hallways -- this won't work out, it's all soggy wood and termites, I can't afford time for rebuilding. This house moans like old bones, clattering together as they knit faculties to rise.
t: 10.21.01
He has clinging spiders for hands and they are building slender webs on my limbs and torso. I'm annoyed, they're messy and they weave us together -- everyone sees them and I feel like an imprisoned fly, though I know I'm not. I'd like to scream at him, "No. Not ok. Not fine to just tangle me up in sticky webs of claimed territory. If you weren't insecure you wouldn't need to throw your safety blanket of fibrous affection over me like a net."
25.9.07
p: 09.25.02
spine curves like a road beneath me
why does your back remind me of home?
voice hangs in the air like that question
as i rub your skin with small hands
why does your back remind me of home?
voice hangs in the air like that question
as i rub your skin with small hands
p: 09.25.01
four quarters in a dollar
four dollars in a latte
sip it for four minutes
while you tell me how tough your life is
it's fortunate you're able to ignore
that hobo with the empty starbucks cup
four dollars in a latte
sip it for four minutes
while you tell me how tough your life is
it's fortunate you're able to ignore
that hobo with the empty starbucks cup
21.9.07
p: 09.21.01
You can't own a cat.
She'll slip mercurial
through your grappled arms
and hiss into silent memory
before you know she's gone.
She'll slip mercurial
through your grappled arms
and hiss into silent memory
before you know she's gone.
28.8.07
s: 08.28.01
scanned the headlights for a name for a song for something to write on for your tears and angers and i couldn't find what i thought i was looking for when i went around your lives i found pieces of harbours that had collapsed i wrote a song for your ashes your sweet fair hair and i couldn't imagine where i had left you
24.8.07
p: 08.24.01
waspnest
their mandibles buried in my ankle
i screamed,
thought thorns, then horseflies
before i saw their yellowbacks
all heads and flies
through socks and shirts
could tear into me with venom
a scene from candyman.
we ran.
their mandibles buried in my ankle
i screamed,
thought thorns, then horseflies
before i saw their yellowbacks
all heads and flies
through socks and shirts
could tear into me with venom
a scene from candyman.
we ran.
10.8.07
p: 08.10.01
I
I envy men their facial hair.
If I had a beard,
I could stroke it;
men would think me wise.
But I'm not so lucky.
I don't have a y,
I've been double-crossed,
and well, I'm downright cross
about the whole thing,
actually.
Most of my heroes have dicks.
Femininity still doesn't
quite stick to the ribs, for me.
I sorely wear skirts,
mostly ironic, for tree climbing.
And sure, I'd scrub out
all those walls between me and boys,
those toyful laws that govern how and when;
to merely be friends,
without having to pay dividends.
II
I envy these men their crooked smiles,
taking from ripe buds
of slowformed flowers the sweetest kisses,
leaving them nectar-naked in the sun,
running gracefully from ruined gardens.
I imagine their own bodies wilting in me,
as I'm sure they see too, with those watery eyes
and tentacle hands. I'm not sure that I always
understand the appeal of my soggy tits,
my thorny lips, my trunky thighs.
Most of them do,
and with eyes wide open they devour me,
suck me whole through pupils for the swallow.
Watch my mouth move hollowly over,
and believe I would, or should be in love
if only that means coax their snakes
out of grass, or offer pieces of ass
for perusal. Where do I go for a friend?
They have mouths like hedgeclippers, and I'm
just a slippery bush that needs pruning.
III
I envy men's bodies, rising to the occasion.
Mine only flutters breezily
while I stutter pleasure in flat, flattered tones
and low moans. I don't have
the dense, thrusting intensity
that's necessary for strict attention to the act;
instead, I study their mapped faces,
running my fingers over unfamiliar trails.
Flesh like woods, or tundra, or stone;
all tell tales. I feel alone in the landscape,
Most of them do not share
my love of geography. Their eyes hood,
blank and blinked, walls of awkward
fingers painting question marks
on my breasts. I'd be a damn oak
if I could, grow large and unchanged
and impervious; unfortunately, I'm not
so oblivious, my continued
watch makes them nervous, so I
stop thinking about it, for a moment.
I envy men their facial hair.
If I had a beard,
I could stroke it;
men would think me wise.
But I'm not so lucky.
I don't have a y,
I've been double-crossed,
and well, I'm downright cross
about the whole thing,
actually.
Most of my heroes have dicks.
Femininity still doesn't
quite stick to the ribs, for me.
I sorely wear skirts,
mostly ironic, for tree climbing.
And sure, I'd scrub out
all those walls between me and boys,
those toyful laws that govern how and when;
to merely be friends,
without having to pay dividends.
II
I envy these men their crooked smiles,
taking from ripe buds
of slowformed flowers the sweetest kisses,
leaving them nectar-naked in the sun,
running gracefully from ruined gardens.
I imagine their own bodies wilting in me,
as I'm sure they see too, with those watery eyes
and tentacle hands. I'm not sure that I always
understand the appeal of my soggy tits,
my thorny lips, my trunky thighs.
Most of them do,
and with eyes wide open they devour me,
suck me whole through pupils for the swallow.
Watch my mouth move hollowly over,
and believe I would, or should be in love
if only that means coax their snakes
out of grass, or offer pieces of ass
for perusal. Where do I go for a friend?
They have mouths like hedgeclippers, and I'm
just a slippery bush that needs pruning.
III
I envy men's bodies, rising to the occasion.
Mine only flutters breezily
while I stutter pleasure in flat, flattered tones
and low moans. I don't have
the dense, thrusting intensity
that's necessary for strict attention to the act;
instead, I study their mapped faces,
running my fingers over unfamiliar trails.
Flesh like woods, or tundra, or stone;
all tell tales. I feel alone in the landscape,
Most of them do not share
my love of geography. Their eyes hood,
blank and blinked, walls of awkward
fingers painting question marks
on my breasts. I'd be a damn oak
if I could, grow large and unchanged
and impervious; unfortunately, I'm not
so oblivious, my continued
watch makes them nervous, so I
stop thinking about it, for a moment.
2.8.07
s: 08.02.15
badass rolls in with bitches, spit!
an exclamation point for the phrase
I AM A BADASS, PAY ATTENTION!
an exclamation point for the phrase
I AM A BADASS, PAY ATTENTION!
p: 08.02.13
So much potential smokes out in the colds,
with the moon and a low morose melody
for lost souls and haunted hollows where I
could perhaps slip my tongue between your lips?
That's a slippery melody already traversed,
but I'd gladly try again!
with the moon and a low morose melody
for lost souls and haunted hollows where I
could perhaps slip my tongue between your lips?
That's a slippery melody already traversed,
but I'd gladly try again!
p: 08.02.12
a demolished bed of hay you'll be
cigarette kissed snicker simper to the last
when your tired old skin remembers softer years
makes minor jazz melodies in your ear
cigarette kissed snicker simper to the last
when your tired old skin remembers softer years
makes minor jazz melodies in your ear
p: 08.02.11
am i just a character?
what am i now, a girl who puts on voices
when she's passing a cigarette along?
a toy actress,
a posturer for smoky kisses
in grasscoloured sprinklers
what am i now, a girl who puts on voices
when she's passing a cigarette along?
a toy actress,
a posturer for smoky kisses
in grasscoloured sprinklers
p: 08.02.10
men and not boys
not images etched
stone patterns of memory
now dire and intense
were three foot shorter
with no snarling look
watch wary and tired
like carrion eaters
slim starving lions
this land is in famine
this valley has made you
feed on our flesh
not images etched
stone patterns of memory
now dire and intense
were three foot shorter
with no snarling look
watch wary and tired
like carrion eaters
slim starving lions
this land is in famine
this valley has made you
feed on our flesh
p: 08.02.08
gangly and awkward
in the form of a girl,
i am what i am, after all:
still an actor
still a kid
but growing up to bursting forth
through the top of my skull,
taking stillframes with my camera
and my eyes
in the form of a girl,
i am what i am, after all:
still an actor
still a kid
but growing up to bursting forth
through the top of my skull,
taking stillframes with my camera
and my eyes
s: 08.02.07
So today while walking under the mezzanine in the South Building, I start to sing 80s pop like it's going out of style. Past the too-cool hipsters and their pink back pocket bandanas. Past the sullen pierced-lip punks with their fresh-from-smoking pitchfork glares. Past the security guard who probably had a billion other places he wanted to be. Out the doors and into the ether.
I don't have a style. I have a mandate, and it works for me.
I don't have a style. I have a mandate, and it works for me.
s: 08.02.06
february
One February morning, haste-flowers died in a late frost; these were early whispers of a dead spring. That was the day you first asked me to marry you, an ironic and pathetically phallic gesture you made without really thinking through or over a wall of blind affection. I smitly ignored; in the cold sunshine of pines I squeezed your hand yes.
One February morning, haste-flowers died in a late frost; these were early whispers of a dead spring. That was the day you first asked me to marry you, an ironic and pathetically phallic gesture you made without really thinking through or over a wall of blind affection. I smitly ignored; in the cold sunshine of pines I squeezed your hand yes.
p: 08.02.05
clubkids
pound of heavy bass finds
children in dark corners,
busted seedpods mouths
spilling ungrown lust
palm-eyed and
groping for alcohol
full of stories and
jeering laughter
pound of heavy bass finds
children in dark corners,
busted seedpods mouths
spilling ungrown lust
palm-eyed and
groping for alcohol
full of stories and
jeering laughter
p: 08.02.04
writing outside
under bruised clouds and rusted trees
by the twin moons of lamps my fingers purple
under bruised clouds and rusted trees
by the twin moons of lamps my fingers purple
p: 08.02.03
god damn you
your heart's sabbath:
a stick and a stone
intensity, propensity
cast-iron scale
stick out your tongue:
your temperature in
degrees calvinist
your heart's sabbath:
a stick and a stone
intensity, propensity
cast-iron scale
stick out your tongue:
your temperature in
degrees calvinist
p: 08.02.02
busmother
the sound of metal creaking
the low gurgle of the engine beneath
the hissbreath sigh of too many mornings
spitting flesh and blood into the world
the sound of metal creaking
the low gurgle of the engine beneath
the hissbreath sigh of too many mornings
spitting flesh and blood into the world
p: 08.02.01
afterward
i traced your name in silvering strangers
in rooms with doors that locked
alone i kept your created vigil
watched these worlds crumble all over
hoped for heaviness
hated for health
i traced your name in silvering strangers
in rooms with doors that locked
alone i kept your created vigil
watched these worlds crumble all over
hoped for heaviness
hated for health
22.7.07
t: 07.22.06
He blamed me, but he didn't stop fucking me.
Most times, I didn't mind. I really couldn't mind -- he was the only other set of human eyes in the world, and it was dark and dead compared to Eden. We still got along all right, but there was a distance in him that was just as bittersweet as our first time under the tree.
After his body had spit into mine, he would collapse into my breasts, sigh my name once in resignation, and go tend to the fields.
In the Garden, he had been happy, and I had been happy to come from and be part of him. Now, he had withdrawn; I was a chestless bone wandering besides my flesh and blood.
The children had his Eden-eyes, the eyes he had before they took on the dull dust of Earth. It reminded me of the mossy patch beside two cores of fruit and knowing that we could die for these sins.
Most times, I didn't mind. I really couldn't mind -- he was the only other set of human eyes in the world, and it was dark and dead compared to Eden. We still got along all right, but there was a distance in him that was just as bittersweet as our first time under the tree.
After his body had spit into mine, he would collapse into my breasts, sigh my name once in resignation, and go tend to the fields.
In the Garden, he had been happy, and I had been happy to come from and be part of him. Now, he had withdrawn; I was a chestless bone wandering besides my flesh and blood.
The children had his Eden-eyes, the eyes he had before they took on the dull dust of Earth. It reminded me of the mossy patch beside two cores of fruit and knowing that we could die for these sins.
t: 07.22.05
closed eyes draw calligraphy on
parchment skin
sleep like feathersoft quill
watch you, watch sleep
in difference, alert
flickersoft, eyelashes
are calligraphy of sleep on
parchment pale skin
alert lids are ajar
are lips that suck
on silhouettes
are shaping endless
archetypes on
slumbering form
parchment skin
sleep like feathersoft quill
watch you, watch sleep
in difference, alert
flickersoft, eyelashes
are calligraphy of sleep on
parchment pale skin
alert lids are ajar
are lips that suck
on silhouettes
are shaping endless
archetypes on
slumbering form
t: 07.22.04
slavery in a modern context
working to buy things you "need"
even though for the most part need is illusory
everyone once had dreams that drowned in practicality
suffocation of aspiration
working to buy things you "need"
even though for the most part need is illusory
everyone once had dreams that drowned in practicality
suffocation of aspiration
t: 07.22.03
divine right of kings
Elizabeth II
put an oak between her legs
and made herself a lion for it.
Elizabeth II
put an oak between her legs
and made herself a lion for it.
t: 07.22.02
O say, what is truth?
I can't find it. I'm trying.
I have no dead stories, no tapestry to read from
anymore, no one to firmly
grasp me and pull, or anyone to whisper
gentleness to my listening.
So, I listen with open eyes
to all crossing pilgrims,
their firm resolve a looping journey through me.
The paths they forge so proudly
crust over with time, become vaguely treaded grass.
They say it is truth.
I can't see it. I'm watching silent.
It never takes root in my tongue.
I can't find it. I'm trying.
I have no dead stories, no tapestry to read from
anymore, no one to firmly
grasp me and pull, or anyone to whisper
gentleness to my listening.
So, I listen with open eyes
to all crossing pilgrims,
their firm resolve a looping journey through me.
The paths they forge so proudly
crust over with time, become vaguely treaded grass.
They say it is truth.
I can't see it. I'm watching silent.
It never takes root in my tongue.
p: 07.22.01
found you curled up in my socks
a faded mouseman
married to the wool i wore
married to the shoe i stole
eyes full of death
tripped on your little corpse
a shocked lovelace
pattern of your broken skin
pattern of your bones dug in
blood of an accident
a faded mouseman
married to the wool i wore
married to the shoe i stole
eyes full of death
tripped on your little corpse
a shocked lovelace
pattern of your broken skin
pattern of your bones dug in
blood of an accident
11.7.07
p: 07.11.01
father deals with fear in anger
coils quicker than a snake to strike
his swearing falls on shocked ears
and his insults curl
flightpath of a boomerang
to strike him in the head
coils quicker than a snake to strike
his swearing falls on shocked ears
and his insults curl
flightpath of a boomerang
to strike him in the head
6.7.07
t: 07.06.03
how long til all these lines blur together
infinite curves in thick oils
sliding from moment to next
lubricated against the friction of difference
infinite curves in thick oils
sliding from moment to next
lubricated against the friction of difference
t: 07.06.01
i think about thick skins grinding gears
people who think they know and like me
i switch like a mad cat, don't i?
you don't know much
people who think they know and like me
i switch like a mad cat, don't i?
you don't know much
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