Stilettos.

because i must take 

every precaution

to be sure that I won't fall. 

I have this impeccable sense of 

       balance,         you see. Not to mention

I've chained myself to

  the beam. I could hang by a thread

and never hit the ground.

Your only chance is to push me.

There's a lot of emptiness in the universe and none of it is symbolic.

And what did you think--that
you would wait here forever? That
after years and
           years and
              a couple of idle days,
that I would turn around,
flip my hair, and be

      yours.
That space. That one         right there.
It never leaves. It was always there, and
with good reason. Believing in
fates doesn't make them align.
The seat next to me, it may (not) be occupied;
you delight in taking maybes and
turning them into "signs."
Rights are not made of wrongs,
they are made of chances and

      train schedules.
That space again, you must have    missed it.
Rights are made in our heads--
polluted rivers of beliefs because someone
opened the dams and let the town be infected--

   it's such a sensitive subject.

If I write a Blog

in an empty internet
a b y s s  and
nobody
is there to read it,
do I still get
points for trying?

I'll just turn this into a poem.

10 days? my ass. it's been
22 now. I want my damn
patches, you slow
bitches.

On a separate note,
I think my brakes are failing.

Belly button.

Yeah, I decided to take out the bellybutton ring. It hasn't healed in the 13 months I've had it, and in the last month has migrated a lot. So I figured I'd beat my body to the punch and remove the piercing before my body pushed it out.

So that means it's time for another piercing or small tattoo. Open to suggestions, of course.

Class with Barry Fey

My rib cage, more like a fishbowl
filled with a cool liquid;
not Memorial-Day-at-the-pool,
like ice for that first jump. Nor desert-walking come-to-Jesus
life-saving nectar. More like jello cubes, perhaps.
they rolled
down my arms and
pooled at my fingertips.
My eyes
closed to cyan skies,
opened to walls made indigo by the
trespassing glow of a city before dusk.

This is what music tastes like.

hearts, not followers.

she's like a god damn puppy

the kind that can't keep her ass still

when her tail wags.

the kind that can't keep her focus

at the mere sound of the door opening

where you keep her leash.

the kind that, when she does

get her chance to be outside, 

forces you under her

wiggling, sniffing mercy

because it's so god damn hard

to tell her no. 

those eyes, they could kill

and she--nonsentient--

is leading me.  I

the 'wiser' being, am

mindlessly willing.

[if all were truly fair then

none of this

would matter]

How are you?

Right now?

where to start;

my toes are regretting their decision

to put up with the snow

and my lungs have never felt

bigger

and my limbs are

screaming obscenities,

the kind we keep to ourselves

until the worst of traffic. and my

heels are trying to forgive/forget

because they think I’ve

 been running for days

(though now I can’t remember

when I started--if

I ever stopped)

and my lips.  oh my lips.

there is no telling. no telling

of how they could feel right now

but the ‘could’ is making me crazy.

the sum of one weekend’s beatings

ignites whispers in my head:

 desire or

compassion?

I think I need to sleep.

Walking to the bus stop past the Center for Performing Arts.

The 'aliens,' 60 feet tall,
invisible against the sky
open lines and stringy limbs
It's much too cold for dancing.

The sky shakes her fist, but
her threat is less than dim. The snow--that
distinctive smell of white--
can't be convinced to stay.
It falls but leaves no evidence, only
wind, and a frigid walk
between stop lights.
the Walking Man imitates the dancers
but he is too persistent
(and too short, to boot). Tonight,
I see myself in him, for it is
much
too cold for dancing.

It's Wednesday, has your resentment begun to set in?

Mine has.
and 100 meters down in some small way
i may be jealous.
but mostly I fear the
wolves. The claws.
the teeth. and the missing
sort of protection that only
far greater talent than mine
can provide.

No one believed you in the first place.

Take that leaf you overturned
the passion that you lit
cradle the flame 'til it makes you
squint. Chuck it--
watch it burn.
10 points if it was a seed,
a thousand if it smokes.
If curly grey obscures our vision,
imagine stares through spinning spokes.
Courteous--a dial tone.
Banish the grape vile. Vines
don't just creep, they're climbing;
catch them before they catch you lying
(or sprint as long as words are white)
"Listen, I hope for the best."
Yes.
That doesn't stop the
burning.

Pr(a/e)y.

It is the same man
who preys on a peacock
that also prays to hold it.
Oh cobalt, oh green
a million brilliant eyes
(to mine, like blueberry toffees)
Behind that curtain sheen they
must
be hiding something. Of course,
have you ever heard one speak? They
abbreviate words and
abuse punctuation.
Oh Blue is me--pretend not to stare, for
she will always see.
I cannot insult the bold
or the berries--
Just please,
don't open your
beak.

phoenix envy.

 thank the likes of Stravinsky

and countless folklorians

for fantasies      for symphonies about

feathers blazing      red and orange.

the oldest of the Flighted

burn;

the brightest are pinned and

plucked.

for us, god’s math contorted, erased.

natural selection  tripped  up.

Is it better to be the bird who flies—though coveted—

followed?

or the blessed unsightly

who, given wings, must

waddle? 

In rain.

In rain—ironically grey—

the most inspiring of all conditions,

we fog up windows with our laughter

blow bubbles in our chocolate milk

and it makes the world spin better.

faster, no. just better.

Our function improves too

as we either run or stop completely

and let raindrops pat eyelashes; leave

blue kisses on red lips.

Umbrellas are so silly, anyway.

And you wonder if somebody danced for this--

because for all the wandering thoughts

that find guidance in the rain

I am wandering, too.

And yet I’m dancing all the same.

(Published in the 2009 Walkabout Creative Arts Journal)

The grade.

This here

this thing we're all doing

it's just a diorama. Not unlike what you built in

3rd grade with

popsicle sticks and broken crayons.

The difference is that this one--

you've been building it

for all your existence.

They're telling you it will be graded, and that

the grade matters to someOne you can't see.

They're lying.

Sorry you didn't hear sooner.

Bra shopping.

The following is an encounter with a nearly unbearably sweet little Asian woman at Ross today. Yes, this really did happen. Her English, however, was a little more broken than what I've recorded here.

Her: Excuse me, can I ask you a question?

Me: ... Sure.

Do you go to church?

...No.

Do you believe in God?

No...

So you're not Christian?

No....

Then what religion do you practice?

I don't have one, I'm an atheist.

Ahh, how old are you?

Nineteen.

So you're in high school?

No, I'm in college.

Well, I'm Christian and my church has a Bible Study group every week. I want to invite you to come sometime. We discuss the Bible and have a lot of fun.

Uhhhh... I don't think so.

Do you read the Bible?

I mean, I think it's fascinating, but bible study isn't really my thing....

It's a lot of fun, you should come. Just one time?

No, thanks, sorry.

There are a lot of things wrong with this; I won't even address them. Let us just bask in the idea that somebody cared enough to try Save me today. Savor it. It feels good.

But it feels better to be a heathen.

This is old.

I saw a store today called "Whole Pets."

I couldn't help but wonder where I would be able to find the sister store, "Partial Pets."

Upon extensive research (rather, four seconds on Google), I was unable to recover any matches to my query.

Which brings me to my original conclusion: the "whole" part ought to be assumed.

Hopefully.

Really, really hopefully. Fuckin' sickos.

Tongues, bite them.

I have been told by

two

different people this week

that they could

BLOW my mind.

One, with a tongue, and a

claim for love

(6 years in the making, i should

point out, as if that changes the story).

The other with curiosity and

a tongue as well

(but used for wit and less-adult teasing)

The first fueled by the Captain

but dared by that bitch, Time.

Desperation, a long brewed product of the

latter--then set ablaze by the former

Out it fizzles, replaced by yes,

desperation.

The second (that's you), however, activating a long-vacant

space. You're causing that part (you know,

the one that beats)

to sit in a stupor, wrestled into submission

by a brain that wants nothing more than

to sit and send signals to my fingers

to cause scribbles on a page

that--if more legible--

might mean something to someone. But the fact that it's happening

and that I'm blaming you

means more than you can imagine.

Waiting it out.

It wasn't a storm for me

but boy, they couldn't wait for it to pass.

so now, call

every night. Text

every night. I have a booty, yes,

and she doesn't answer to just anyone.

de-flower, de-wind.

I remember thinking,

when younger--

that once that flower died

my whole

world

would change.

That I would walk the halls a new--real!--

woman, not just loved, but admired.

Imagine my surprise when I learned

that wasn't love. Force and heavy hands

≠ anything (they only equal those two, sorry things).

And, (years later, different hands) I remember thinking

for hours and

hours [fearing] the day the string

that held us from ground to kite

would break. Snap.

It didn't. The wind just

died. Stopped the flight.

You can imagine my surprise

when the world didn't end.

I guess that takes a lot more than

flowers and wind.

Starting again.

I'm working on finding myself again. It's working pretty well. I spent a good deal of Thursday's anthropology class writing poetry and lyrics. I wish I could remember where I wrote them down, though :(

Slowly realizing that I need to post the things I write/record without caring who sees them or who will hate/judge me for it.

So here we go again.