12/6/2015

"my pill is white.
It is a splendid pearl;
it floats me out of myself."
Anne Sexton


a dose of one
i douse myself with cold
exposure therapy. extreme temperature.

too late
i already did that last year
smoking new ports down to the stub

in 15 degree weather,
frost bite settling in
oh well time to go back inside

and I begin to think a little too fast
one foot in front of the other
my head pulses, a cardiac muscle


on its own,
the nerves pressing my cranium
I wince,

think,
decide that that is disgusting
take three pills and

it is like being held
i almost never feel this way
entangled in a sort of woolen comfort

synthetic tenderness that
lulls me to sleep
forces me with sharp hand
to count the sheep

9/2/2017

Now johnny hartman
using the same excuse i do:
i just dropped by to say hello

oh but how destructive
a few words could
be!

two and a half at night
god should i be asleep?
should i drive into oblivion?

i'd like to disappear into the mountain
driving, turning into a ravine, melting into the night's rocky tiers

god
id rather be anywhere
but here:

East Maryland, or Narrangansett
you know, whatever it is i  want
i'm not sure this place has it

1/16/2016

The days drag themselves
succinct, akimbo-
spitting out the day in spurts and
steadily vomiting the night.

I am never afraid of death in the winter.

And so when I sit in bed
and out of the corner of my eye I see
it- death has always been a sort of

white rabbit, I once felt I was one
crushed in a young girls' hands,
having to carry that burden for the rest of her life

I don't want to say that
I missed innocence, in fact,
I want the pleasure of losing it again (Fitzgerald)

I read so much Fitzgerald that year
perhaps because I felt my life was
on some sort of side of Paradise.

Was clumsily and unbearably in love,
Princeton summers,
Was quite unloved
New York autumns,
Was throughly confused
New York winters.

The men come at us,
fling themselves like a screeching
jungle animal of a kind

But we don't care,
we sit in the park fermenting
like we usually do

but still the men laugh
still they come at us
while our skin sloughs off our faces
and we tell them "I'm dying, don't come any closer"

I felt like my face being ripped off once
but I didn't try to do anything about it
of course.

11/15/2015


i am fetid and
spewing rabid motions rapid little

impulses
I want to debase
I scoop my iris out with a spoon

2/6/2014
the third poem I ever wrote

You were playing with a cloth napkin-
what was it you said? I loved you before?
Yes, I acknowledge that.
What was it you said? Back then
When we were young?
That you were sixteen going on seventeen with the body of twenty and the face of eighteen?
What was it that you said?

My sensitive romantic Byron soul's bruised like a peach.
You are a caregiver- Lillian to Gerard.

I am a person who cannot believe what they are seeing.
I am taking a drink by a window.
I am a sociopath looking for love

The unspoken union we held
in the past with shaky fingers
god, man, do you have to bring it
up in front of my friends?

It is the twothousand tens and it
is easy now to know the blood
behind the rind and then meet them for the first time.

i am the obituarist
and still am shocked when they die
a sort of dull plodding preparation
dressing the dead presents itself in memories
of you
as dead as you.
I loved you,
O, how I loved you! And you to me.

snow covers sod farms, it reminds me of purity.
Sickly i want to burn it with cobalt flame
so that i may wash my torn up hippocampus

with the rain water.
and the question i sleep to and wake up to:

i used to be like the snow
so why did i melt it for you
when i knew i would be washing your corpse with the water?

3/2/2016

It's March again
and I'm lost again
wondering about the Delaware

Feeling like a child
who got more than she could
bargained for

colds bitter
good, it was a short winter
I'll never be that wholehearted

girl again,
but it was a short winter
My writing is disgusting,

Only good when I'm suffering
and the thing is I'm suffering now
and I don't know why nothing is

coming out
The year is grey, egg washed and egg white,
Painted and glazed over with

typhoid
I don't walk anymore to the reserve
don't see a point in it

There's no motivation to
see the world
try to find beauty in things

I'm trying to find where
I went
and trying to find where

I put my sanity,
Left it in a biohazard box
picked it back up ungloved

I put my hiking boots up
feel bad for the unloved agronomias
and I think it always gets better

but since my poetry's getting worse
I can't say with certainty
my world won't either.

"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.

4/7/2016
tw, suicide

you were five eleven
i thought it so elegant
you hated it though

i still see you walking down the
linoleum, sad halls
with your gown

and though you swore you
were ugly i thought you reminded
me of one of those pre raphaelite

girls.
you're dead now,
so i heard

i knew that the system
had failed you before
you even knew

you were defective,
you felt the need to be recalled
back to the mill

before you even knew that.
i saw you for a week
that's a funeral i wont be invited to

but i can't help but
think what your last
thoughts were

if there were any
i wonder if you said
goodnight to your

sister before
you did it
but i also

don't want to think
about it- the fact i
know a ghost

2/21/2016

I am a
horrible human
being.

But I knew this
already you see?
The difference:

A year ago I knew.
In fact I embraced
it sitting in alley

and smoking cig stub
I don't really care what happens to me,
didn't back then either.

I saw with you on the knitted grass
and reconsidered dying,
again

dying. again I
dying- again
dying, again

find what makes each one
different than the other.
I am the unsightly scar

she tries to hide during ***
  I am a syphillictic.
"Why can't you get over one night?"

because some ribbon
  snapped in half
as did my brain

I live not looking when I cross the street
I am a horrible
human

being

2/11/2015

"Never though, my mortal summers to
such length of years should come
As the many wintered crow that leads
the clanging rookery home.
... I remember one that perished
sweetly she did move, such a one I do remember
whom to look at was love.
Comfort? Comfort scorned of devils!
this is a truth that the poet sings,
that a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things."
- Alfred Tennyson, "Locksley Hall"

Something about the florid, languid grass that
cooed in place on the turfs and greens,
stagnant in their newfound summer discovery.

The malleability of the universe seems incredulous to me certain days
the days before future people, sanguine
nights in the weaver fields wherein blocks away or a mile

they slept, before prior meetings.
So with this i am curious as i write
what lies in the field of frozen prospect garden?

where agrimonias will soon sprout jaundiced hairs
and I will sit around alone as i do in town
maybe, publicly intoxicated, slurring

along to a Ramones song with my friends
as empty as campus after a year
**** it. **** it?

11/1/2014
   Every time I go into the library basement I think about the fact: at one point I would have taken a very soft rubber bullet to the ball of my foot for him. Now, at this point, i'd take a very real bullet on the occasion we had to cross paths. Sometimes, walking through Rittenhouse square, I would get this urge to give him a tremendous hug.
  But with the same intensity, a feeling of unease would creep on me when we drove in his car down the hill, humming and rolling with the quiet effects of German efficiency. I wondered. I couldn't possibly be scared of him.
  I'm sure he thought the same things. But mere rejection of Mariology at our young age'd contributed to our mutual apathy. I hate writing in parks. I had to write my Joycean riddles facing the door. I couldn't come to terms with him or anyone reading even a word by mere coincidentiality, right-place-at-right-time.
  Truth is, naked and embryonic, that none of this happened. This is just a cute dream. Philadelphia park dreams with the one who took my... innocence? I more like confirmed that societal pressures are *******. Like my friend Francis Scott said- I just want the pleasures of losing it again.
   When I sit here doing my AL 2 homework and he is doing a University research paper, the fuckedupedness hits me like a brick. Born too late or born too soon, easy come, easy go. I realize that I may be scared when i'm in that car.
   Because the truth is that yes,I do have to write in front of a door- but... I never thought that we'd every really be together in the grown up love future. Capable of loving someone that much I know. Old letters prove it.
   And where am I left? He is saying things to me he probably will say to someone this very year- and i've never said any of them to anyone in my life.
    I close my textbook, yawn a bit. I know there won't be a grown up love future- an apartment. But I just have to make sure the fantasies expressed by him are copacetic.  How will a day in the apartment look like for us?

He'll forget, if I don't first.

2/3/2015

funny what people remember
chainsmoke Marlboro in the Mitsubishi
3°f windchill parking lot Princeton waitin’
killin’ some time last day of January

More than a year since we met? Really?
Pull on the black n mild
I stubbed my cigarette
yeah really
Time flies when you’re having fun!
Well…. arguably- i want to say but i don't

Remember that time we stayed up almost all night talking? You’re a smart kid
Of course I remember.
Where was my man that day?

I know where he is now, but back then when things were
all wholehearted I am shocked and appalled to see I don’t remember!
must’ve been a dry spell huh?

anyways, i smile and realize the car's time's off
joke like what a good friend
sing along to some songs and

now i'm back where i started walking to campus.

10/9/2014

   It might have not happened,
for fear of it happening long ago.
   I can remember it well with varying
degrees- I cannot at the same time.
   It was hot? Sweltering? The Hoosier lake
that after independence day
   Everything lived cloaked in ambiguity for me
but I just knew I was happy
   O, how the score was settled for me
That summer day
   at Ken- Ray.

2/3/2015

I'd written a poem about a
man I kissed once
real cool cat
digged the poetry,

memory smell's like autumn.
"How topical," he said on the phone
when i showed him.

11/21/2014
to every person i've ever loved
who loves the party more than me.

You down a 40oz
I write it all down
on a friday night.
But where              is the difference.

I'm feeling pathetic
you're putting hands down pants
But where              is the difference.

Haha.

And in my head, maybe yours
It's recited:
"It's ok to feel tired
Ok to feel bad, Ok to
wish you had things you
can't always have.

Ok to go to parties
Ok to go to school
watch out, babe!
the drool from
those boys- i still see it
on your neck
even today!"

Clearly, you're wrong
40oz liver kid and not one mixed message
on my drunk message phone receiving center
either you don't think of me

when you have no impulse control
or you are disciplined.
i'm not sure which i prefer
do i want to be an impulse?

Maybe. But it's because
I know and you don't
God, i just want-

Looking ****** never getting called pretty
except for when you're weird
and you're sit here
not beered up, BUT riled up

When today your grubby hands
slip n slide down a rusty zipper
while I sit and write on a friday night

but the jokes on me
because come tomorrow i may just
live happily

and let those grubby fingers hold my
hair or maybe
i'll be the one touching the zippers.

with Bolt velocity,
  no moment's hesitation
I got a thirty eight on my math test
but you go out all day three point five gpa
still saying you miss the trees and bees and

(please, I need a vacation.*)
you've been having a bad time too
but it's ok i don't believe **** of what
you say or do
but i'm leaving it up to you like you know I
like to do if you know what I mean

Laziness is interegral of me
so is apathy
and so is envy
  but what's the difference?



do i care?

she never actually knew what
she was, living in a sort of
twin peakish sourland town

by the river by herself
she painted her lips black?
was it black?

cut her bangs uneven and then
some.
no one really likes going to lambertville too much.

her friends stopped hiking
or maybe they stopped inviting
her or it's probably the summer is gone

a whole block of time
makes you wanna **** yourself huh?
anyways no one ever goes to Lambertville.

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.

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.

"When we get to New York City, I'm gonna ******* like you've never been ****** before!" - Charles Bukowski

2/5/2015

weeks maybe even
a month? two months?
ago I'd crossreference
you in everything I wrote
As if my thoughts were some of
My pieces.
Actually, upon retrospect...

Remember when we snuck out
That June Tuesday and remember
When I told you in November
We should sneak out to the city

yeah, and make out in the middle
of the street and make
everyone uncomfortable*
you'd said with a smile

Yeah. Tell me something about new
York.
And so then like in the letters which Id tounge in cheek proclaimed Fitzgeraldian

You'd give a sentence like those
Elementary school games finish the story and you'd say

"brightly lit apartment"
the place is **** but the rent is cheap and we get by with our degrees.
"lots of flights of stairs up"
I Would read the idyls of Daphnis and Chloë at bed
"Why do you like that book so much"

Never quite got to finish that story,
But it's cause it reminds me a lot of us
I'd always say with no elaboration

But remember I said I used to
Always write about you and now
Did you know I forced this?

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

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 *******.

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

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

--

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.

--

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.

3/29/2017

steaming july days,
screaming at me that I certainly did not know
what I got myself into

i couldve slashed my throat and
bled onto the connn-creete
and it wouldve boiled

no, you dont understand
no, you dont understand
no you dont understand

you understand? no, dont
you dont understand, no
dont you understand? no?

no...you'll never understand.
twisting our car-seat conversation
back and forth like a rivet

you were right
i didnt understand and i never did, an ingenue
you see back then

i was young for my old age
and old for my young age
who are you now

youve grown your hair out
and youre as woman as me?
a better photographer, too

but youre odd and always will be
i didnt know the indications of looove
i was what i was:

just a
little
girl.

The dew drops off the brown brick still
I am not there to watch it
Back home everything stops
It is hard to imagine my life without me
In the gray city, I lie in bed
For what reason?
Why am I here
As the rain comes down
And washes the garbage away.

1/8/2019

an argument down below
i get up,
gaze down

from the 16th floor
black sheet over window,
punctuated by this:

orange and white
the concrete of the street
i hear voices

they feel something
i can't find them
i hear them rising with passion

all i can
think is
i agree.

i sit back down
stare at the wall
remember where i am

i
keep
forgetting

/

I wrote this in November and was not happy with it;
"
I heard passion on the streets of New York City
the sea foam of the sky hanging on the Persian shield watching over us
the gloaming brings retrospect
the healthy green pendant of the six train matches the bushes in the square
in Little Ukraine
it is dark
we bounce as we step
I know when I move I will
be on my own
she tells me she hears yelling. is it happy exclamation or anger
I don't know. I say. I don't know"

12/25/2016

On the sidestreets of Little Ukraine
men smoked cigarettes and said *pryvit
and KNL said it's because you look slavic

but i'm pennsylvania dutch! i laugh
shoofly pie, not sochniki
off the 33rd street stop

and it was getting to be dark out
the sky heliotrope and true blue
I heard a noise

did you hear that too? I say to her
It was angry or happy? she asks, more like states
I don't know, all i said.

*But it's passion.
It's passion.
On the streets of new york city. That would make a good poem, right?

4/3/2016
"The hurt is not enough."
Robert Frost

i lay in a swathe of linen,
not having left the house for days,
not having showered since the 31st
oh, back to my old ways.

sitting up
i read a letter i locked in a box
when i was fourteen.
it was meant to be open when i turned
twenty

a paper grasped in the throes of
sticky fingers,
sticky with isoprophyl
i wished to clean off all the impurities
i remember i showed three times that day and then some

you told me
you know how i feel,
but no one deserves that

you told me that day
you didn't know why you didn't hang up,
didn't know why you were bothering to comfort me
you know i still think about that?

spent every hour trying to pick apart that week
i still haven't come up with anything and my friends get good marks and alexander understands his schoolwork and i still stare at the wall anatomizing that week

whoever said fate exists was wrong.
i was a girl who walked on unsteady feet,
trying to not make eye contact
awkward, but somehow

happy.
now it is as if i know too much too soon
nothing thrills me, no.
i have been reduced to a glacous experiment

for gods' spindly hands-
their metal prods scooping out my corneal matter
and my grey one.
i remember i once told you

that i felt like a grasshopper in a sixth grade science class,
bathing in formaldehyde
how ironic- i had considered that notion alarming back then.

i remember you said "no, you're not"
"how awkward, being manhandled by the tweezers
of liebniez."

you smiled and told me
how much potential i had.
those were the antediluvian days,

the letter went on to describe a man i had talked to some months
before
who really i have forgotten about til now.

he swears gatsby is the best novel of all
time and tells me that he is writing a novel about a
Brown Law man, 1955, who lies about his life.

this seemed oddly topical to me.
we would talk about writing for hours,
life seemed to me a roman a clef on its own,

like its plot was vaguely familiar but
i was not myself, but the names
were changed.

now i speed through the antiseptic tunnel of
apathy, i wait for alexander's calls and tell my friends
i am sorry they feel that way or this way

i fail my tests,
i try to sleep,
i don't.

i write another letter now
and i hope to be able to open it in a few years
and i hope that i will feel better
i hope i will feel anything but this
this blindfolded hike, this set fetter.

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

4/3/2016

i fear i will never get that year back,
that lying down on the grass
that turned into loitering on alleyway fire-escapes and
dont you think this town is a little too small for that hahahaha
i tried to recreate it, the futility drove me to
smoke camels i found on the side of the road,
i haven't smoked in a year and i feel worse

i felt a very real grease back then a very real
bad quality
and now it is just vague, glacous- a night without sleep,
a cliffside leap.
it has been six months since i sat on a shackled hospital bed

and i dont think i ever really left.
my mother threatened to bring lawyers,
to halt my detainment
and i did leave
but i didn't really
and i don't think i ever will

this is all because i tried to recreate that year
and i failed
and i tried so hard
but the scalpel and cauterize of live's uncouth events picked me
apart, a biopsy
to the bone,

accidentally severed my torso and killed me
so i linger a downy ghost in a grey colony of moss
wishing for better days
that are far away
and will always stay that way.

3/27/2016
Montreal

It was at the Peel street station,
i was late to something i forgot what
or it seemed like it.
my first time in the city and its
lack of rats had surprised me,
encouraged me even.
the city seemed to lived for you,
like no one else was really occupied until you entered
the room,
static little figures.
as opposed to new york-
where i feel
infinitismal

11/21/2014
1
It is a november night,
and the chill in the air is a colder one at that.
Do I offend it when I lock myself in my room?
  perhaps it says
     'Do you not want to be with me?'

Dearest,
It's not that.
          Definitely. It is not.

But when will the wind learn?
for it only feels  the tailends,
never verbalized.
go on wondering
why people run from it.

2
But when the wind is about to
    lose its mind from loneliness ,
              it screams.
                   This is called a blizzard, or in the warmer months,
                   a hurricane.

3
It doesn't make it less lonelier.
   In fact,
     it only makes it worse.
People board up windows,
go to cheap motels inland.
That's why it always rains softly
after the storm passes through.

2/26/2017

Prince Street, NYC

the bright white heaven of a
terrace chair
you touched my shoulder, you thought

i cringed
a longer pause—— i didnt
i tried to freeze the spring

in its tracks and dead as a doorknob
stopped decomposed and quiet forever
the summer then swelled

to a crescendo
i sweated out what was left of my
humanity in battery park city

my art used to be found in suffering
and yet i wrote no poetry that week on
wall street

there is no nobility in this,
the suffering art
i mean.

Anne sexton: I never seemed to like the
spring for what it was but for what it could've been.

Princetonian fields, mausoleums
foreign to me, a brief reintroduction in
January only to be murdered again

How tragic, this
did the Witherspoon spring
the Nassau nights

mean nothing?
I revel in the past's
futility

null

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.

1/3/2018

Paling to think
think what?
oh, just to think!

It hurts,
but
it helps

Time escapes me
there is nothing to do about it
papermoths and gnats of memories

And i'm not sure i dislike it.
*** and orange juice,
laying on the cold floor

Laughing about myself
and what not.
everyone laughing

Because we've made it
another trip round the sun
excited because

I've picked up a new habit:
never sleeping!
sickening, the state of my writing-

Sickening, the state of the night
it is so beautiful, so cold
bruised blue-and-black all over

So that i want to watch it forever
the light hitting my shoulders
and hands

Holding them
up to
the window

9/2/2017

my last september–
in princeton, that is
the late night talks

soon to be replaced
by the real business.
two am

i sit on hard floor!
phillip green and his orchestra
softly in my room's air

watching the door, weaving,
like penelope, my memories–
almost tangible.

i raise a finger follow the light
from the lamp, think:  

god!

someone should write a book about us

they  already have:
the beautiful
and the ******.

overpoured
emotions carried
along unpredictable courses.

then left memories.
the two
were compatible

*"O Lord, thou givest and at thy pleasure takest away."

10/25/2014
”darling, it’s frightening! when a poet loves he might be an unshrived god enraptured.” - Boris Pasternack

The late october sun hugs our faces with a looming brilliance.

We are propagandic youths emblazoned on a poster in orange tint.
Looking forward to our victory– our war efforts, living in pride

followed around corners and sidealleys

by a most vague sense of wrong.
and when you turned to me to look–


I realized, with a horrible feeling,
I was in a sort of strange complacent love. 
 It’s not to say i was in love –
That had happened months before when I’d refused food and drink at the Independence day celebrations

smiling at chinese invention gunpowder in the american mideastern 
sky.

But to say I was good with whatever was, albeit jaded, but i would never dream to say it.

And as we sat in the car rolling over dead leaves that were on stems months before

You asked me “Do you still like me?” 
“well,” i replied – I had just lain with you 

in a hushed affair with whispered I love you’s

how could i not like you?

Carnal wanton needs— hell of a thing.
But, I added

things were easier before that.

Now when I think i am to wait weeks until I see your face 
It seems wrong

and this poem is far too long

to just be saying that I love you
so perhaps i do not.

Null

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.

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.

a very old poem i just found.*

3/1/2014

I’m going downtown
with my friend named after human faith
in two days.

I’m going to wear 6o dollar jeans and a white striped
T shirt.
I’m going to entertain the fact that I’m hearing
college boys on the rowing team

shout
Hey Ladies
and How Are You
and Girls!

At us on the street,
And we’ll smile and keep walking and if a particularly nice looking one
offers to sell us his sweater for 150 dollars or asks us for our numbers
we’ll stop and talk.

It’s the Friday tradition,
though it seems unhealthy.

We’ll sit drinking large coffees and flan cupcakes by the window side
have people tap on the glass,
and laugh and we’ll cross our legs and hold on to our phones and seem
like we have better things to do but we don’t.

This is how we spend our weekends, and it’s not particularly wicked
but it’s not virtuous.
Just harmless fun.

Maybe she’ll have one of her boyfriends come over and
oh ****,
his friend has the same name as-

Well what can I say? It’s a common American boy’s name. They’re the same age and the same eye colour and the same hair colour,
and I guess I’ll walk around the park to tell my other friends on monday

“the other day I walked around the park with-!”
I see myself calling him by his name and closing my eyes
“--, come here and --, how are you and --, what do you wanna do now?”
“you like the sound of my name or something?”

2/28/2015

There is a sweetly tinged contrast between
the yellow of a primaverial agrimonia and a dead winter bramble,
the tingle of cola the burn of coffee
wild wide scope of memory, waiting
A wholesome night... For once!
Entirely sweet and just
the juxtapositions seem to interlock at the parts of the line; this line:
"I don't want to go," rawly stated in
a vulnerable trap, always with the sweet sun of confrontation
scheming through the panes.
So perfectly set: like an animal caught in a groundhog  cage
"I don't want to go to school" and
"I don't want to go to the marines,"
sweetly tinged contrast of  ingrate talk with hopeful interlocking at this:
Both said with an exasperated acrid breath that makes me think of the mirror stare phenomenon.