10/15/2015

down by the ravine twisted woods,
By boxelder and sweetgum,
a timber rattler in the field over,

you say "those are dangerous"

"Mhm" all I mumble, stifling in the memorial of that sticky sunny summer in the forest

you say sooner or later
"Barely is enough sometimes"

9/25/2015

I remember the tar stuck to my shoe, penny and patent,
a hot summer

staphylinid female with
wiry rotten acorn hair
swollen fingers red running

through the autumn dirt
the forest floor
Japanese maples, Douglas firs

purulent nailbed and
the window rolled down:
air whips like a riding crop,

I close it back up

9/16/2015

lately I've felt the pink **** of my metal cranium

swishing with every throttle

i close my eyelids touch my skin

i dont feel real

in the end of july i felt like a disembodied heart on the streets of

bowery and village

vowed never again to the pink drying milk

undated

Autumnal leaf air,
with the historical cut of princetonian guile
I walk toward the dull exonerated street
she looks heavenward; asks for a cigarillo
   tahiti bean
we never questioned our being,
        we just floated and
the capsicum katana slicing our
      corneas into julienne,
I tell her I can't, I quit,
never knowing quite what to do
smoking in june outside a wedding with the boys
she cuts me off, fast it's back to
thinking of  melting flower pots and broiled
   confectioner's sugar in my tiptoe mind-
   my toes are flat on the ground I walk with a gait,
          lifting my heels as if i myself seemed an aristocratic soul
                                                             I look up
                                                                  she has walked away
                                                                                              toward the
                                                                                                          candy store
to buy licorice

9/10/2015

It was raining when you called,
stupid blood girl waking up from livid vivid dream.

Brackish Atlantic beach bars
screaming drunks and vitriol sweat
down your templeflesh

far away unlike any other summer

New York in the middle of the festering Thermidor heat– hot
and hazel,

She poured sweetened milk onto the concrete cracks

2/24/2015

  The magpies sang up in the rushes– it was the second hottest day of that winter, the gilded winter specific silver sun (for the light seems brass or golden other times) parading through the glass of cars and storefronts and painting people's faces as they looked through.

  This light seems to be extremely influential in visual memory– in fact, I daresay if it were not for the light I would not be writing this.
  Wallace Stevens stated plainly and succinctly once, sweetly ochre, that the origin of love is one often hotly pursued, but its fluttering fashion has so distinct a shade, at its birth, that one can immediately tell.

  And so speaking on the similar topic of distinct fluttering things, Adrienne Rich said herself that love is given much poetic attention- that lust, too, is a jewel. And is it not? It seems more at times that *** removed from love or emotional background is more interesting.

     After all, weren't princedoms in the past running to the brim with more ******* children than actual heirs? Weren't steppe chateaus and inconspicuous inns in the ravine crawling cities put in place for politicians' mistresses?

     Digressing, these were all thoughts sitting on my shelf sitting in the Mitsubishi backseat. "This space is... surprisingly big eh?" I remarked, puffing on a perique, and he'd laughed a little, and I didn't realize what I said, and so then I laughed more.

   Is it possible to separate the after *** phenomenon found in one stemming from casual circumstances from the one in an emotional commitment? The sweet subtleties came to the surface for the very first time since I'd last loved.

    What subtleties? It may sound puerile, but a particular kiss– we were discussing the epitome of innocence in nature and I said that the range is the only place I feel a riveting sense of Puritan complacency. With this he was so struck he kissed me- no more nor less than 3 seconds. It is a very particular kiss that cannot be described- not a ****** one, but one that proves humans are physically social animals.

   It took us both by surprise. This casual sense of security and flushed faces and closure that i hadn't felt with any other casual passive passing people, I felt, was closely tied to a platonic love and admiration.

  Dopamine and oxytocin are released upon ******. It goes back to my Freudian beliefs of human reproduction being exclusive Machiavellian. The reason that oxytocin is released specifically is because it bonds- in fact, it makes the partners want to physically stay together, so in the eyes of biology they can make more children.

  Funny how science works, and funny how that's the way things were programmed to be, however humans as insolent as always found aways around. But the body prevails and so the sense of casual confidence and closeness endured.

   There has never been an instance where I have been more sure that I am not romantically interested in a person, and yet I feel this platonic adoration as strong as my romantic feelings- of course there is something tweaked, if it wasn't, It wouldn't be platonic.
  I have to ask myself if platonic love challenges romantic love, or it is a completely different name all on itself. Or perhaps I  should consider that the reason I am looking at this so hazily was because of the silver winter light.

9/15/2014

I

Poor-

  Is it poor manners to remember very well?recalling each recoil

with a frightening penchant

for reliving many chances.

II

The trees bawl at their own nakedness like the boy who asked if I was

  ***** once.

Foliage constantly in my line of sight

once is finally beginning to change

  it begs the mirror for one more than just a reflection

It misses its adornments because it is ugly now.

III

I had marveled to myself sitting in the middle of the gravel

   today at five.

I'd painted the very first day of spring in my head messily:

  lacking tact- like chalk that takes days for the rain to wash it away.



IV

When they asked for my name

I'd reluctantly give in to everyone, everything

the days they were unbelievably hot

  and look at me now, almost not believing

the choking ravines of newly **** brambles had sent a chill down

   my spine

     last yesterday



         just as your voice over the phone had done the day before.

8/18/2015
Harlem, NY

metal-mouth:
The wire sticks into my gums,
legs like quart of milk
and whipped  browbones
gaze up ward into the light

blood runs onto the sheets

8/13/2015
Canovanas, Puerto Rico

cobble street San Juan
yellow walls and drunks at the
bars on Wednesdays
the glass plate says CHRIST STREET
calle cristo

and i have to ask my father:
what day is it again?
all I know is sleep

and I fear I must retire after writing
these words.
goodnight.

8/4/2015

"It's,like, the Jersey
theme song," he bubbles out
excitedly

conjuring up images of
driving through the parkway
Down the shore

where they'll say
"Hey, buddy! Whadayya think yer doin!"
Well they blew up the chicken man in Philly last night,

I wish they'd blow up my house, too
on the steps of a granite building called Clio
Princeton's lost its golden air as said before and

the Sourland crepuscule
of rock and woodchip
under my feet seems

to be just woodland landscape no
longer some powerful nature scene or something
i have friends, but they are in cities

looking through high still air i say
and declare the sourland scene dead the
vague Appalachian terrain the parkway by Princeton

i go to sleep.

The Smiths
were playing in the background,
I couldn't tell if it was in the bar or in my lager smelling dorm room dappled with posters memory.
Princeton windowpanes dusted with clusters of snowflakes pressed
against the dark wood in the bar basement.

and so, she said, twisting her straw,
*i used to have a problem with morality, you know?
and *** and stuff?
i was just a kid then.
then he'd tell me stroking my hair
'babydoll, i love you though,'
and i'd say 'i know.
there'll come the day that you don't,
though.'

that shut him up, real good.'

7/28/2015
"It was a queer, sultry summer; the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York."* Sylvia Plath

I used to  believe
not think, that word implies
there is effort,

that I was stuck in a bayou of
twigs that stuck into sand colored
thick dirt. that the hallways at school

sunk me with every step.
The sun stayed up higher the
later it got and soon I

realized that no matter how hot it
shone i just felt embarrassed
for it like a ****** woman you

see at a bar late at night in a city.
the city was
my frequent companion, yes

six times in two months
I counted: I had been only
four times last year

I still did not know
where I was and why I was
Even the amethysts and
little emeralds in the street signs

seemed sickly to me after a while,
seemed dull and tiring and
i stood in the sidewalks in alphabet city,

Villanti eating a peach on a stoop,
and the subway grate below me pulled me up with its twirling vines of ***** air

and pulled me down

7/27/2015
Wildwood,NJ

It's as if the brine
of the water is something
I have never experience before:

stepping,dizzling,stumbling
into the path to my apartment
I am on the balcony at 2:

a drunk man yells
"heyyy whaddaya think  you doin?!?"
some great trespass either his
or against him

I beg for memory's forgiveness,
twisting my sweatersleeves
i spit out a pick of hair and

Narrow my eyes down some more.

7/21/2015

sitting on the wooden bench in the middle of the park the
couple across from us rolls something
to smoke the “hooligans”
(who am I? That was me months ago)
congregate on a bridge overpass
a dog lies down

your tears do not fall steadily and well
practiced like mine,
in a cacophony like an abscess
in a concrete dam wall

clutching your shirt, cursing masculine dogma,
my fingernail pushes a little orange seed of water and you
blindly take out a pack of menthol

you offer me one– you never do
I take it, light it, burn it out after five moments,
I press my face against yours so our tears blend, this nodule of saline congregating merging like a bacteria

as it falls ahead on the ground
our tears, one
hit the Silent concrete on the grey New York

fat rats  play on the nettles behind us.

7/14/2015

"I mean I just don't get excited
anymore, you know?"
but even that
statement drains all the life out of me,
grabs a spot in my ribs, twists it, pulls it out like a dandelion ****.

I decide walking on 3rd avenue in
a Brooklyn neighborhood that I don't
need energy anymore
or, I've been doing well with the scant
supplies I have of it.

The day before, blow dried hair sticking to my neck because the windows are locked,
I had listened to the radio
Billie Holliday: oh lover man where can you be?

I know **** well where mine is,
unfortunately across the hudson
but I think I am happy for him because
any sane person would be otherwise in
princeton after a while

I count and recount the oaks and pines outside my house and the cardinals and bluejays and mocking birds, try to find something, don't find it,

Read a book, and I yell to myself:
"'That’s funny! there’s blood on me.'
- Frank Ohara."

“’Have you ever seen a man?’ I knew he meant naked. He disrobed.Then he just stood there in front of me and I kept on staring at him. Then I felt very depressed.”*
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Afternoons while the dog sleeps
turned over on the side and i wonder what organs i push on
liver? spleen? clean the bile for me, please

and then I  shall leave extra gratuity.
Please don’t cry, I feel a hand on my hipbone
my eyes pressed against the olive cushion

The green and the wood of the trees blur into one outside my
june july window
much like the book of Esther i look for a place inside

myself to stop the killing of decency inside myself and
i cannot muster it much like anything else.
I wish i had never asked that December night to go

I stop the disgust cut it at the bud
find a way to necromance up my personality
the outside is smelling of charcoal

i stare at his flesh,
then at mine then
at the floor.

he says we shall wait all i want and
now he is looking at me with doe eyes and i
nod. I nod. I feel i am ok now.

7/1/2015

"you will remember, for we in our youth did these things:
yes many  beautiful things" - Sappho's fragments

Greenwich Village, NYC

Only the 24th of June and
Simpson and i already
tire of the summer weather.

I always seem a little thinner these months
i note, i bite a strawberry candy and show her
how to light her lighter

just hand me the fork
no more callousness
both on palmflesh and human dealings

the building facades on Charles street
as in the southern Chawellsss....
she explains alcoholism runs in my family, you know?

i nod. no other problems i presume?
the community garden nods and
people who will always be richer,

prettier, strut past with tuesday briefcases
and their children's wheelcradles with ethiopian
and guatemalan hands on the handlebars

follow a block behind.
But we're from Joisey, and **** proud of it!
Lobster rolls and jimmies and johnnies and

boardwalk planks Erin dreams of
broadway instead and neonatal nursing,
who doesn't?

the only youth on the street that day we
teetertotter past all the cafes and pubs and
laundrymats

*you know, if this was the school year we'd
get picked up for skipping school

5/13/2015

There happens to be a tremendous peace in a spring night late in the season, sultry humid mornings and days seem brash in comparison to this light blue thing clouds crawling across the sky to the tune of mourning doves and woodpeckers. I cannot remember primaverial scenes before last year's. It seems spring is the shortest, the frigid isolation of winter is so permanent and branding that I can recall every individual one since perhaps '11. Fall and summer always seem to blend into a purgatorial gloaming paste. Throughout all these seasons one always feels he is a single pedestrian (or is there another name when one is wholly alone?) walking down winding drives and straited cremated avenues. Perhaps it is not so common– perhaps it is me, but even when walking in deltas of human life one in winter feels alone. But writing this by the Japanese oak under the beak of a woodpeckers I feel the same apprehension. It is me, I have decided.

6/17/2015

"It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn't know what I was doing in New York."
– Sylvia Plath

the green monet blur of
blades splay across my window
like a ***** on a bed

the garter on her leg:
purple asterids
and buttercups.

i realize something inside me
has changed:
i no longer am accustomed

to the looks of campus on foot
however the way it looks
driving past, splattered dead

on my glass.
I balance on the smog settled
Sidewalk

"I cannot remember things I once read  
A few friends, but they are in cities.  
Drinking cold water from a tin cup  
Looking down for miles
Through high still air."*
– Gary Snyder

a cloud like the tower of babel
behind me, and the sun rides high
to my right on the handlebars of
six pm.

she cried to me that she missed
getting smacked little blows in the face
i told her that isn't a relationship

but it's only a little bag of dust,
she proclaimed and i wondered why
we are, ultimately, all made out of dust

our bones art frames for our
failing livers and kidneys and
me? well my lungs are perfectly fine.

the best compliment she ever told
me: i am the anne to her sylvia.
i sit on the deck of a street bridge,

the gurgling mountain creek
below me vomiting into a pit
of mud and tadpoles.

the cars brush my hair with
every pass or maybe it is the
storm wind from the tower cloud.

i am her anne, she said
she is my sylvia, she said
it is june and i am not tired of
being brave, i am

tired of waiting for her to be
saved.
Even gas ovens are made of dust,
somehow.

6/16/2015

last june
the grass seemed a little
more alive, more like it was willing to
fight, you know?
i ask her
and she just nods.
i think you think too much, but
the sky was bluer
and clouds were shaped differently i
suppose.
I take it as it is...

Null

6/7/2015
princeton, nj

now, I don't often
go on walks by myself
anymore like I used to when

I had things to think about but
I don't exactly spend time with others
Like I used to when I was trying to

Pretend I didn't have things to think
about,
Stepping out of the church doors
early,

believing that Fresh Air and sitting in a nice nostalgic bath will do me better
than prayer, as my father insists,

Turning round the rotunda by the Chapel and Firestone,
stopping like a ***** to take in
every single detail of the virginal church panes

Church glass wiring miser.
There is three only three
students I have counted on my walk

One walks with a hand posed as if
he held a cigarette but he does not
have one.

with every step the phantasms of
men calling me from dorm rooms
and crawling around town asking
for cigarettes,

Dressed for parties,
the overall wintery sadness of it all
escapes me and all I am filled with

A very real sense of loss
for a thing I do not want again
I say "I surrender"
To the garden of prospect.

6/4/2015

you pour the milk in first
In the bowl,
like a kitten mewling for a
meal

Milk is poisonous to
adult cats.

Not fondly
not with hate do I recall
My friends would ask,

The crystalline creeping February
with all its rushes and frozen rivers
"So, how was he?" of some man
I didn't care for

He had one job:
to make me forget for
1 hour
or maybe thirty minutes.

"...Surprisingly big, right?"
they'd finish it for me
Smiling and grinning
like my heart, I suppose
and my depth,
I suppose

I would not say anything to them
just smile
and light a match

5/31/2015
5/2/2015

sitting in the darkened 10pm stadium
with a six pack of beer and a pack of reds

talking about our lives. She asked me how my poetry is going
"Well," I took a swig as drunk princeton students messed with the announcement system

"I don't have time to express listlessness I guess."
there was a very particular feeling I wanted to convey though and
*oh, I can't quite put my finger on it.

5/31/2015
the first week of april

we sat on the baby boy blue
carpet of the bank, laughing until
we cried in our short skirts and heels

smelling of Valentino and Chanel
the beige ceiling plates curling and twisting in a spectacular show for us

Rockefeller college waived by us,
and everything in Princeton closes so **** early, like...

calling one night stands like
hhhhiiiii, can you buy us cigarettes?
running like my dorm room's free and I got beer and when we finally

got to Henry hall:
we were too young. We just laughed
And laughed and considered maybe
it's a sign and then we went straight to bed, our bodies warming the bed.

5/31/2015

lately I have found
mostly everything
of mine's simplified

and my breath rattles
three or four steps at
a time, keeping in uniform

with my eyelash batting
and i have so much to say
like speaking of the G train

or the wooded ravine
in Prospect, the sandy
spurs stabbing shins in cape may

and so something that
would have been so
delicately put only

some months ago
seems like only a wasted
little movie reel in my head

as i sit sedated,
suicide watch girl
grey and sleeping.

5/30/2015

today is your birthday
and although it seems just like
four words strung together, a
part of me wants to say happy birthday, we haven't spoken in 5 months, but it's ok, because you're not who you were a year ago anyways.

what a hallmark card.
I have spent the past 48 hours staring
at the beams trying to imagine
a happy death
because of unrelated events.

i woke up with dried blood on my
face for some reason or other today,
in the cavernous trash pit of my room
and I declared this a sign.

5/26/2015
may 23rd, 2015

night of my birth
black brackish lapping at the boadwalk and the painted
hermit crab shells for sale with ****** fencing cages on the boardwalk
i can relate to them

holding your hand was nothing i had to consider
i just did it
and as we look out onto the wild woods
on the top of the ferris wheel i glance at the moon.
1/4. last time it was a full moon

5/10/2015
Brooklyn, NY

the smarting sun on my
neck nape (this was built for me)
and the crook of my back
building subliminal ponds and
dripping little monsoons of salt

and you held me while different
little ponds were flying this time
out of my tear ducts and it is monsoon season in the countries they get salt from, after all

the heat of the sun on my skin of
course and the unfairness of it all but the security like a little latch or something. Lots of water today everywhere except the dry sky.

5/6/2015

may 2nd,2015
Lying in the dried gutter with White
by the 11:30 light of the
may moon

  It seemed, to me,
a quiet sylvan scene
the dried out cat tails in the mooreland
bordered by the soft tufts of forest grove.

I drop my cigarette stubbed now into the half empty Heineken
"Yeah I finished it" throw it at the cemented bank
its ember stained glass church body
shattering into pieces
"just a smattering of a
headache," she says, her cigarette finger pressed against a bottle (multitasking)
"the surgery is next week," we lie down on the grass now which is cold.  

Since when do we care?
"i kind of hope i die." a million stars
dangling over the heavens
I envy the ones who burn out unspectacularly.

5/2/2015
In the golden light through the window
Of July I could imagine how I looked quivering and the premonition of my betrayal months from now a maelstrom.

Green tufts of grass always return in
the spring, right?
ave maria through the open window and a lost notebook
Lots of little breaths here n there
   hair flip. Things seem to be dull
sedation in dogwoods and the blossoms I wonder if I'm already wasted.
I was given youth at my dawning

4/23/2015

March 14 2015
He hands me a bag.
He is 22 years old and has a
puerto rican accent (bronx)
"What are you doing in town anyway?"
I stay quiet.
he shifts around in the front of the pick up truck
"Visiting with boys?" snare snicker smirk.
I stay quiet. He sighs.
"Be careful sweetie. See you later."

I
"We spoke of men
as often as of poems.
We tried to legislate away
the need for love –
that backseat ****
& death caressing you."
–Erica Jong

ah, this side of paradise!
there's no comfort in the wise,
no comfort at all. I roll it up how I was
taught to, half cancer half plant,
wait around for the next one.

ever feel like a ******? I'd asked her
once, waiting on a corner, fishing for a lighter.
no, but I feel like Sylvia Plath.
I had responded: can I be Anne Sexton?

it seemed right, that is, my severe rejection of emotions via denial, via wanting to tear out my hippocampus,

stomp on it, trying to forget every walk to every room and back, to every house and back.

she herself was severe, though, this friend, more sad in an intrinsical way, more dull and rotten than I, via bad chemistry, while I was just a
case of depressive charlatanism gone bad.
Right?

I searched for acceptance in every bed cover's crease and dollar bills I handed them to buy me smokes.
I searched for it, hands on me, and then before then I had searched for it while he asked what's wrong?
You need to tell me what's wrong!

I love you! You need to tell me! Are you ok?





You are funny if you think I responded.



I likened my staring state, I fixed it in my head as a piercing quixotically sad one, once.




My silence was a story in itself.

II*

"You loved a man who spoke
like greeting cards.
'He ***** me well
but I can’t talk to him.'"
– Erica Jong

It was ultimately guilty,
this time removed from pleasure.
The whole situation, blows to the face
and little slaps of course,
I felt the need to send myself into
a sort of temporary sleep so I forgot
but then would wake up again
because that would mean they won
and this is why I concussed myself once.

He tells me he cares and it's not
that I don't believe him but
it's that I don't believe myself.

I apologize for my being a burden and
he asks me why.
I suppose I am used to it

and if I could stare at him
it would be the same old stare.





"We shared that awful need
to talk in bed.
Love wasn’t love
if we could only speak
in tongues."*
– Erica Jong

4/23/2015

There's a ***** little trick you oughta know.
he lights a perique blend.
We're both at different stages,
he'd say
But not different enough that we can't **** like rabbits.
alright, alright.

What's the trick?
It's nothing.
What?
Nothing. That's the trick.
Are you kidding?
No. Never.

i changed my mind about that, you know,
I was hoping so. I give him the money
for the cigarettes.
He steps out in the February rain
(Me too)

And comes back with red 100's.
He tosses them on my lap.
Alright. I'll get you going home now.

4/23/2015

Just because I think of you often
does not mean I miss you.
the plaited faint gold leaf of
the air of one in love
I know it now
I guess I can give you that credit.

"love is an illusion, and we're all going to die"
romantic verses for me
from you, a la Byron, a la Keats, a la
Kafka to Felice.

and why do you despise  normalcy? I'd ask in the stuffed up German car in  October brusqueness thinking of
Leaving before being left. But I can't predict the future.

Remember before you hate me
that you told me once
It was like death never existed when you loved me but

We haven't spoken in 5 months.

Are you dead?

No. You are not.

4/19/2015
dedicated to the girl I used to be

crushed right next to the
broken glass.
"I don't write
nearly as much poetry
as I used to,"
I tell her in the orange light
of the German café
this time it is shining in through.

"Like you used to
before you were sedated?"
No.
I suppose it must be the weather.

I remember dancing to morrissey
in my darkened room at 3:43 am
on a January tuesday,

it was a good lay, good lay,good lay
Like some sort of charicature of teenage one dimensionality

I remember picking up a half empty
Heineken at a dorm room right before
winter finals like some sort of charcature of teenage pretentiousness and

putting my tights on, "my mom thinks I'm shopping, cute, right?"
Old floor crushing my shins minute before like some sort of charcature of teenage indulgences

"Don't you sort of miss the cold?"
I ask, picking at the cake and
the girl I used to be this time last year
infinitely more innocent weeps at

confrontation

4/11/2015

Today I woke up
after a long tribulation, got up
found my way down

and remembered how to
make myself coffee.
I couldn't help but feel

a longsword in my lungs
when I looked over the ridge
and started to see green colored oaks.

4/8/2015

Lying within the breadth
of le petit mort
i, accustomed to being

escorted out, sat up and out
of bed, the golden glaze of the
whitman skylight probably
shining around my brazen cheekbones.

"Come here," He said, the student,
and I was filled with a tender repugnantion, I was reminded of how
post coitum I would not let my past

lover even touch me for a while.
and so with this resignation I
crawled up next to him in the
Old beige wallpaper surroundings

The prestigious institute.
"You know," I told him, burying my nose into his arm
"I was named after a seductress. She would poison her father's political enemies after ***."

He shuddered a bit.
"How long does it take to kick in?" He feigned concern, eyes blinked on and off rapidly then

"Ah!" He clutched at his gut. "I feel it! The poison!" he closed his eyes and went limp. I laughed. Then he laughed.

It was a scene tender with beatific memories of vague sentimentality, quaint regard.

"It is time for you to get going now though," he stood up. "I have a paper to write."

Null

“I conversed with you in a dream.”
Sappho’s fragment 134

"He said 'no worries,'" she said
when she hung up. "I love when people say that." quaint little town,
they say of us – quaint little smile, I
say of her.  
"When you drink, i..." another plantative little contest the context
ringing and you can tell that the "i" is not a proper noun.
"Were you alone?" it surmounts up and climbs down the treacle gavels of sensibility
this question suggests concern.
and a boy who wants to have *** with me calls me kitten. His hair is brown.
Two conversations at the same time:
"Where I'm from, twenty a gram's a ripoff!"
Standard prices.
and
"Princess, if you were my girl, you'd always walk funny."
The ice is
thin under my oxfords
the murk of my conversational devices
Lake bottom:
vices.

3/26/2015
after Frank O'Hara

The golden green buttress of
agrimonia lined sticky river water gnat towns
hasn't been seen in so long. But je pense beaucoup
quelle est que tu pense? beaucoup

An unwashed strawberry on my palm, bleeding. Ruby shards, shooting red bloodied streaks that could crawl down my forearm  and drip into the floor. My innocent hands and they
near the fainted wisps of maroon wiped on the idea of the golden green Prospect house Ivy arches, trimmed agrimonial foothills and lilies in root beer bottles.
I trip on the curb and find myself looking more like the ones with the clean hands sin shorn hands.
Can I start again…?
Spring here in shy steps is making itself known. The Arabic signs of Bay Ridge Brooklyn beckon me to buy hats.
It is fogging glass and what am I thinking?
Beaucoup beaucoup.

3/16/2015

When I awoke,
too depressed to leave my bed,
too caught up in the fact it was Monday,

I decided to take my liberties with
attendance and questioned when
social services would end up at my door

but that's for later. For now I stood
up and went downstairs, and the first
thing I took note of in the panoramic
window

was the fact that all the snow had
melted, seemingly overnight
and I saw how grass looked like

I remember close to a month
ago I had spent a blessed day
in town where the birds chirped

seemingly out of place for a
February sunday. But I smiled
and smiled and I still felt like

Every single vein was ripped out
and I was watching my blood stain the sidewalk

And  last night I had a dream about you for the first time in months and I was happy to have you back even as a subconscious hallucination

Where I drove my car into your work
that little funny store where we ate breakfast the last day of summer

And you just stared at me, red in the face with a reviling hatred that
I am used to at this point.

The snow melted when I had woken up but now the ground is so hard to walk on and the sky seems blue today bluer than usual but I know it is mocking me.

3/15/2015

Around me. Around. Everyone around me. Around me they're *******. I figure if I had something equally stupid to ***** about I wouldn't be so bothered by my mom asking me why her secret boyfriend hasn't talked to her in a day. I Don't know. Divorce dad first. I wouldn't have problems I wouldn't mind, something to cling to. Something to tether myself from. That's her problem at least my life is in order. But I'm miserable. And I'm not well dressed. Everyone is *******.

3/15/2015

everywhere I roll
on the bed there's a
glass bottle waiting
to be crushed under weight
and bleed shards peppered with
red chrysanthemum petal

excuse everything I do with
"I was manic back then"
everything was beginning to get
tragic back then truthfully

first baby december days
and here we are in March
we haven't spoken in three months

and we will not forever.
I know when you say
Never Again you mean it because you had said to me earlier I Love You with the same vehement strength and I knew you meant that.

When I think of it,
butter knives pry my ribs open
the pain of the cut still hurting me

such a long time afterward and
nowadays I spend my days sitting on steps smoking a pack, kissing men trying to replicate something. And what?

it seems I am so detached from love, now I am trying to replicate me leaving a dorm room looking around hoping no one noticed

and sitting on a bench writhing because
I have so much to say and not one soul really truly wants to hear it, besides from men who've seen me naked and read my poems and

I only find that thoughts of dying,
not suicide of course just dying
are the only accustomed ones that I enjoy

I ***** onto the sidewalk
(hopefully my weaknesses my desolation right? Like the black humor of plague times)

blink my eyes
(Patients of severe depression are said to have melancholy, heavy grazing eyes. See Ian Curtis)

check my phone
(last call I made out was 8 hours
ago. no call back)

move toward nassau street now,
the long term suffering victim
of too much love,
and I can understand
why people **** themselves after

ten year long relationships.
however I am not so vexed,
just resentfully doleful and I

decide I shall blame tonight's
little dorm room nightstand on
sweet hypomania.

3/7/2015

I've met a few good men,
a few good men, this is why
I am so vexed.

The springing pantomines
of careful youth rings around
the green, as it always has

the campus store sells
cigarettes and muffins and condoms
as it always has, and

although the mood is different than
the one on early semester Halloween
night,

The grass is as green as it always
has been.
I need to learn to let people

and things go, but it doesn't help
when you live, when half of those memories

happened in towns where George Washington and Witherspoon got
drunk off their *****,

and Madison lied about men in the woods. Sitting dully alone in the stadium

the vast Powers,
I am one in 23,000
and I do not know how I feel

about that and the lost
days when I used to chain smoke
voraciously in the parking lot

in a car that smelled like
burnt tobacco
and run through

the rain in Murray dodge,
write on the walls at the Pyne
arches and smoke

drugs with friends
in the freezing rain on Wilson's
grave.

This is all gone now
and
I need new trivial distractions

now that all of mine are gone
and I see the summer sun getting
closer to my bruised memory.

3/3/2015

"Hard when all my friends are
addicts, down low people, you know..."
caught her own thumbs.
spring'd only come in calendar form,
it hit her astonishingly coldly like
"Please don't let her do anything that could hurt her.." From the others and the don't worry I won't that came with it.
"I don't know my value," adjusting her skirt
"and I guess I never will"

3/3/2015

At three years old, my
mother's grandmother took my
hand and proclaimed:
She is a nervous girl.
my hands shook. my hands shake.
in my younger years I stripped the
skin off my hand with my teeth,
in the ides of my youth I swallowed
many a perique blend–
all to cure the shaky hands,
that came with having to ask
if friday plans were on every day
since Monday,
exclusively listening to Joy Division
because jazz makes me nervous
and screaming music makes me rattle.
'You've said that 3 times already'
I know I know I know, I'll
never be able to live here
'you're so nervous!'
a wind is going to knock mine out
one day

3/4/2015

so much depends
on a
single droplet of

pure water roaming
down beatific
skin

and the lost hour
at midnight
sprung forward

the dewy pine
disregarding the
dead cold.