my hands are cold
they're frozen really
my fingers are stiff
barely moving, barely able

her hands are warm
they're pleasant really
her fingers are flexible
always moving, always able

she wraps my arthritic hands in her own
kisses my palm softly with heated lips
she pretends that it doesn't hurt her
that it doesn't sharply pierce her skin

the reality of the situation is that i am far too cold
the most electrifying of touches will never help
i am beyond saving, cannot be thawed

the smell of cigarettes and cheap cologne
the length of legs, the depth of eyes
more medical trips and taxicab drives
blood tests, x-rays, candy bars from vending machines
visitors in lab coats
questions
touches
from cold metal, cold skin
antiseptic aromas
waiting in cold rooms, in backless hospital gowns
a flash of skin from the hot patient
next to me, an inviting smile
a ***** of crotches
a wheelchair comes
to take me
away


*Dec., 2002

Breathing in the hot drowsy wind
that then sits, stagnant, in the lungs
of the weary figure (mine own)
and exhaling long, the lazy summer air
as she waited (I sat for hours you know)
for the afternoon to decay
even though time itself seemed to be drugged
slumbering in the African heat.

I have never believed in the principles of physics because they do not apply to girls like me. Girls who disobey Newton's straight-mouthed rules with scarlet leaps of blind faith, girls with hopes soaring past our pastel heavens, never weighed down by any mystical force of gravity measured by dead men. The audacity of the physicist's rotten rules anchoring themselves into thick velvet skin-- as if to stifle the daydreams that keep twirling unpredictably even if acted upon by an unbalanced force. There is no way to silence my momentum, I will keep blooming-- slender hands outstretched toward the flickering sun, past all of the white numerical lies and formulaic cages that ache to confine me. What a perfect contradiction, that a soft-spoken girl can rise at the break of Einstein's miscalculated morning, illuminating the sky with the poetry of her defiance.

She, who loves gracefully without friction. She, whose bones cannot be broken by the laws of heat. She, who keeps herself warm when the cold mathematical wrath of their graves fails to keep her quiet.

There Was A Long Month Called January
Which Filled All  with untold constrain and worry!
Tired of her scotching haze right from her beginning...
everyone ached for her end that was never beckoning
That Hell of A Long Month Called January

The time of the year where
it's too hot for long pants,
But I am fat and a cutter
so.. I can't wear shorts..