My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovreign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Opon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let it’s pleasure through...
-Emily Dickinson*

And I do smile, the white bright Colgate chiclets
stretch under my lips. The crooked thing, the
clever turn of my mouth,
we all pass a point in life when this is a means to an end.
Stop. Do not collect 200.
Again. Again, I thought "Send me straight to hell"
because it's not fair for me to feel this way any more.
I want to shoulder the brunt of it and throw it up and down,
white linens to the wind.
A dramatization of who I have come to be,
fueled and fired by alcohol and lack of sleep.

A stuck Lipton in the vending machine,
"I want to start a social movement of direct experience"
Sure. We'll do that. Let me get back. . .
let me get back to this blue screen for a bit. I want a change.
I want to see some change! Let's throw our
phones away and start over. Depression falicitates our  
efforts, but I had my pleasure. I had my kicks though.

Long yellow rushes bending
above the white snow patches;
purple and gold ribbon
of the distant wood:
                       what an angle
you make with each other as
you lie there in contemplation.

Picking a wound,
knowing you the way I did.
It was like,
I can't get my words right. It was like, knowing I
wouldn't be able to open the doors to the house
I used to live in,
like wine rings on the hardwood never disappearing,
ringing in my ears after standing next to the speaker
bump, bump, bump, bump, bump
I'll dance on you, make it look like I'm doing you a favor.
I'll kiss you at the corner again,
and leave your hand on my face
for one last time.
Pull away, knowing I will think about this fuckery
a month later.

O sister, and young wife and her groom.
the anguish, hot candle wax spills like tears.
the older brother. he is the strong one, the family
knows they have won,
"he beat me in everything, he got married first,
he found his calling first, and he left life first"

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?

I know I require something deeper because I don't have *** dreams,
but my fantasies involve being held by someone who makes me feel small, yet important. Precious and desired, wanted (coveted) but secure in a trust that only can be described in my subconscious as warm. he's warm. fact: he loves me so much that he waits for me to get off my shift, kisses my neck and cradles me to him like i'm glass.
I wake up missing something I never had a grasp on. I lazily pull that feeling out, examine it like an antique scarf. Thinking, *what a life. what a life to know that i could make someone feel whole, and they could convince me that my presence is necessary for the world to continue turning. that all Life needs is tenderness in a person, in a human connection that could go on for Ever.

Here I am, dancing,
plastic wine glass full of that purple
dream, that cabaret sleep. By the deejay yelling
requests to be played.
Then there's photos, there's selfies, there's
a hand on my *** because "What? It's funny!"

Alone. Again. So alone, I fear that I might go insane
from want, from jealousy, as they waffle their fingers
together, cleanly. I watch. I dance some more,
moving my hand through my hair because I know how that makes
some men feel. And you? And you. Not here, but as loud as the
wind that wakes me up the next morning.
Not here.