on the table there is a knife and a small pile of *******
a lighter, a bottle of cough syrup, a shot glass
three empty beer cans
a worn copy of Hemingway's best work.
these are the times we live in.
this is our place,
reflecting our lives--
this is how we live.

we spend a lot of time
outside.

my mother does not believe in things that hurt her.
bad dreams
sad things
brain chemistry
i wonder
if she just has her eyes shut
or if she's opened them
and we're the ones in the dark.

take it at face value
2. feel it.
3. notice the hidden allusions. poets work ******* those.
4. apply it to personal experience
so it means something to
you.
5. don't ******* analyze the author's psyche.
seriously.
6. cry over it, float in it, smile through it
7. show it to someone else
8. don't tell them about it until they've read it
9. tell them what it meant to you.

how are you?
i am fine. i got wasted
last night. there is a boy here
in love with me. we are nice to each other
i suppose. how
are you? is it still hot
at home? do
you miss me?
i miss you.
i miss you.

last time i was here, we stayed
up all night together, talking
you looked like hell
and said you loved seeing
my face.
i do. miss it.*

i suppose i will come home
eventually
but i still don't know
if i will ever see you again.

what matters: your arms
these lips
our palms together;
laughing,
soft skies,
the sweetness.
ta voix
tes yeux
tes mains
tes levres
empty cupboards are filled
empty stomachs become full hearts
in this space with you
i am never hungry.

some places get under your skin
like the ink of a tattoo;
they force their ink into you,
so beautifully-- you think only of
how lovely it will be

to be here, love
to be lovely here
the taste of the sky, the length of the cathedral shadows
the cigarettes we smoked around the fountain
the plaças that we ruled with our infinite youth--
all this
i am leaving.
my own skin, i am leaving it here
to soak in the sunsets on the beach, to wander the tall stone alleys
to drink coffee on the ramblas
to dance drunk in steamy crowded rooms

barcelona,
i leave to you my heart.

once when i was seventeen i tried to buy cigarettes from the stop-n-save in the middle of the night
because the boy i loved
didn't love me any more
i wanted my mouth to taste like his, toxic, intoxicating
i wanted the stars to cloud out in the curls of smoke
the man behind the counter asked for my ID and i gave it to him and he said
sorry, sweetheart, i can't sell you those
and i said please my birthday is in a week
he looked at me like he knew how it felt and i said
please i'm dying for a smoke
he handed me back my license and said,
i'm sorry
and he really was.

I think I'll come back to you
But I need to know it first.
I need to know.
Know that you will finally stay instead of leave.
That you seek instead of hide.
That, finally, you will see rather than be blind.
How I feel isn't going away.
So don't treat me like I am.
But first I need to know that you won't either.

Shhh, quiet down.
I hate those sounds,
That escape your mouth.
Keep them locked inside.
I'm begging for silence,
From the monsters around me.
Please stop thinking.
I can't stand the words.
That are filling my ears.
They're truly my fears.
You've caused them to be.