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don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others

rearrange their

juggling mates

confusion is

and it will
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their

for they have
failed completely to live their own

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
is my

I am a dog walking

I am a broken

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of

put your sympathy
they say
water held up
to come
you better be
nearly as
good weather
is like
good women-
it doesn't always happen
and when it does
it doesn't
always last.
man is
more stable:
if he's bad
there's more chance
he'll stay that way,
or if he's good
he might hang
but a woman
is changed
the moon
the absence or
presence of sun
or good times.
a woman must be nursed
into subsistence
by love
where a man can become
by being hated.
I am drinking tonight in Spangler's Bar
and I remember the cows
I once painted in Art class
and they looked good
they looked better than anything
in here. I am drinking in Spangler's Bar
wondering which to love and which
to hate, but the rules are gone:
I love and hate only
they stand outside me
like an orange dropped from the table
and rolling away; it's what I've got to
**** myself or
love myself?
which is the treason?
where's the information
coming from? broken glass:
I wouldn't wipe my *** with 'em
yet, it's getting
darker, see?
(we drink here and speak to
each other and
seem knowing.)
buy the cow with the biggest
buy the cow with the biggest
present arms.
the bartender slides me a beer
it runs down the bar
like an Olympic sprinter
and the pair of pliers that is my hand
stops it, lifts it,
golden **** of dull temptation,
I drink and
stand there
the weather bad for cows
but my brush is ready
to stroke up
the green grass straw eye
sadness takes me all over
and I drink the beer straight down
order a shot
to give me the guts and the love to
from "poems written before jumping out of an 8 story window" - 1966
I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
And that's when I look into
Your heart filled with despair
That I can't quite grasp the words
Coming from your mouth
Telling me you love me,
But the truth is you hate me
And I can tell when you **** me
How you leave bruises and bite marks on my body
But I'm sadistic that way,
I'm addicted to this pain you cause me
That I can't even breathe when I look at you
And the thing that kills me the most is I still love you,
I can tell when I taste your lips sweet as wine
And when my hands shake as I reach for your buckle
I can feel it in my body when you finish
And I know you feel it too,
But there is no way to mend
These cuts and bruises of our souls
But I will still pray for you
He brought me 76 roses
One for each sunrise we’ve seen
The snow falling
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real

He brought me to an art gallery
Where we carefully took notes
Graphite stained hands
Touched and shared thoughts
On this painting and that
Joking at our intellectuality
And he bought me a poster
Of Dali’s Persistence of Memory
And an ebony frame
Which he helped me put up
Onto my wall
Above my bed
So I could see it each day
As the flowers bloomed

In August was waves
Where we held hands
Perfectly sculpted for one another
And watched waves roll by
And sand tickle toes
Not a word exchanged
No need for it
Our scents mixing
Into the fresh air
Billowing by
A hint of lemonade
And beer from down the way

He took me on a picnic
In the middle of October
We sat under the stars
While the trees carefully
Cried tears of leaves
On us
Entwining us
Bonding us into one
As we covered ourselves in blanket
A makeshift house
To guard us against all
And we could hide away
Just the two of us

Winter came once more
Lights dangling on front doors
And that night
He took me to a café
And we sat until 2am
Reading our novels
Though it was hard to concentrate
So instead we ordered
And talked the night away
About nothing and everything
While snow fell
Not in unique patterns
But awkward clumps
But I like them that way
They seem more real
And with him
I hoped everything was real
 Jan 2014 grace elle
Kate Sims
You told me that you were too wide-eyed for flirting at parties. I agreed. Thought of your eyes. How they reflect starlight. Depths so unfathomable that nothing shallow can survive. You breathe truth but trust nothing. I don’t understand how the two coexist.

The boy down the street celebrates “Darwin Day.” Calls himself a humanist. Proud-wearing his secularism. On his sleeve. I laugh at him. Don’t answer his knocking. Philosophy taken too far is no better than religion.

A woman buys apples and four rolls of toilet paper. Tells me: the only difference between a poet and the rest of the world is, poets tell jokes and leave out the punch line.

You take an astronomy class. Start sleeping under the stars. We sit on the balcony.  You smoke Kamel Reds from Russia. Imported. Talking of matter and halogen. You claim the moon to be a mirror. You can tell how the sun shines if you look at the moon reflecting its light.
 Jan 2014 grace elle
Alaina Moore
As you lay next to me I can’t help but think of you.
You lay sleeping, and I close my eyes and envision you taking me.
To the place that only the weight of your body on mine can bring.
Your hands moving across mine, light as feathers
Your breath on my neck, slowly become more rapid.
The look of love in your eyes,
A look you couldn’t hide with all the will power of your being.
I want to spin with you, lose control, devour the moment.
I crave to make you writhe, twitch, grasp the sheets,
To arc your head back and gasp for air.
Have you lose all barriers and be truly free.
As you lay sleeping, I envision reckless motion
Feelings words can not personify.

Anytime I look in the mirror I see the reality of myself
A reality once only could manifest, yet now is actuality.
My own image brings up feelings of imperfection,
A figure that I am not comfortable with,
Self-esteem that I can not seem to find with out you.
You are my world, my sun, my universe.
My every thought orbits around you
My mind races at the thought of you
Despite all the time that has elapsed
I long for you, I beg of you to wake up
To say balderdash to rest, REM, and energy
And expel it all unto me.
I want you to take all that I am; consume me.
Fore when we connect I am completed

As you lay sleeping, you toss and turn
Growing ever closer too me
Were your eyes open I could tell you
Tell you to take me in any way imaginable.
Not out of primeval hormones,
But for a cluster of fireworks in a darkened sky.
A lustrous swaying of beings that few experience in a lifetime,
But with you it is constant, predictable in a joyous sense.
I am broken, though the patches I’ve created hold to me well,
My mind can not help but regress to old patterns and vices.

At times I wonder if the feeling is mutual
If when we intertwine my experience is the same as yours.
Are there fireworks, or just the "great value" ****** any girl could give you.
Your love is undeniable, however, your anatomy has a satisfaction guaranteed
Though still I wonder about the fireworks
When your inside me do you feel flesh or do you feel alive - the most alive you’ve ever felt.
Does your mind forget, just for that moment, that anything else in the world exists
Just for that moment, are their fireworks?

Because my world changes in those heated moments
It is the only time I feel beautiful.
I worry that because I have changed I can not satisfy you.  
Your former mates eclipse me,
You’ve been with those who are beautiful by textbook standards.
You’ve been intertwined with those who I feel I do not compare.
I want to make you feel the way you make me feel
I don’t want you to just ***, I want you to have an ******
To feel that explosion of love and satisfaction.
I want to know that the fireworks are not duds.
Because, I would do anything to make you feel beautiful.
Still a work in progress, this is my rough draft. Any comments, sugestions, things of that nature are most welcome.
 Jan 2014 grace elle
the carpet is orange with little gray and white specks
like television static
the ceiling is off-white with the occasional stain
like snow the neighbors’ dogs have ****** on
I’m filled with the sound a plastic trash bag makes as it’s being *******
suffocating out on the curb in the ***** snow

car exhaust staining the ground
oil dripping in little rainbow pools
they look like tiny universes, cosmic filth
the rings of saturn are only flecks of dust
each of my eyes is a planet for you to explore
each of my hands is a nation for you to invade

the stars are visible in every glistening patch of snow
the sun and moon are the eyes of god
the solar system has lent me its gaze

— The End —