Tuesday, December 30




poetry that aj sent me

#1
nails and veils,
coroners and corridors,
a single glint of light is a casual sight,
asuale like the bed room lives of the polly-amour's,
and there it is,
me alone,
slightly stoned,
waiting for a ship to come in.

#2
love letters from a krylon army,
grapphittied love notes,
i love you or I think I do,
i suppose you know all that all ready

#3
i am here again,
maybe there again,
probably somewhere in the middle.
in the middle of the annex with lou reed fanatics,
in a diner both with hands clasped to my chest,
praying for coffee,

this is my altar with jesus christ crucified in coffee stains

#4
picks and passes wait to toch long,
what's on,
listen to kids cuss a song,
what's wrong?
a disheveled bed,
walking instead,
walking down the street till barely exist,
but these simple thought persist.
like a train,
on destination across the plains,
I mean aprroched with slight disdane,
'till I hardly exist

#5
one singular sensation,
some where between shame and elation
an ecstasy
only felt by two or three,
never four or more.
with a score
of years and a few more beers
I am sure the night will be ok





dear gerri,
what can i keep here?

spoonfulls of the angsty romanticism of ordinary things, painted with rhyming words in a scattered rhythm.
nothing one hasn't seen before. nothing i'm so proud of.

and for everything else: I’ll never forget you: that you jumped; that you lived.




what can i offer here?

melodrama. rhyming words. scattered rhythm. nothing you haven't seen before. nothing to be proud of.

Monday, December 29




nova jares celojn

  • forgesas amiko knaba
  • learnas esperanto
  • skribas libro

Sunday, December 28




Bonvenon!

Saturday, December 27









.


he whispered "once you've crossed some lines, you'll only keep crossing them,"
so i crossed my fingers,
and i crossed my heart

but once his body heat’s cooled on the bedding beside me,
and the dent of his head is gone from the pillow,
and the warmth of the wine is just gone..

once his smile has faded,
and my eyes have gone jaded,
and the candle we lit is reduced to a puddle of wax on the floor...
it's just like last time, and like times before.
i'll only want more,
and i'll only want more.

Tuesday, December 23




it seems like everyone else has a broken heart, and cold feet, and itchy hives, and too much to eat, and holes in their shoes, and horrible news, and bad habits, and worse luck. but not me. i'm home.

Monday, December 22




don't brush your hair if you don't want to,
don't change your clothes for a week,
and eat all the time if you want to,
and leave your mouth open to speak.

snort burp and fart in the open,
who wants a girl who's discrete?
make stupid jokes and laugh at them,
and claim that your puns are elite.

nothing you do could offend me,
and flawless you always shall be,
because whatever you do, darling mudpie,
you're always just perfect to me!

Sunday, December 21




here's to birth control
and advent calendars
and all the ways
i count the days
the separate the eternities
that pass while i'm in bed

Friday, December 19




And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me.
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile.
To have squeezed the universe into a ball,
To roll it towards some overwhelming question.
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead.
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, setting a pillow by her head,
Should say: "This is not what I ment at all.
This is not it, at all."

- ts elliot

Thursday, December 18




i washed the dishes and cleaned the living room with dry eyes while you were packing your bags to go home. i didn't want so much evidence of the time you were here after you're gone. you kissed me and told me to lock the doors and to take care of myself. you left the radio playing with a timer in your room. now i'm showering with the door open and playing the music you hate, just trying to remember what i'm like when i'm strong and alone.

Tuesday, December 16




"if it's for love, don't do it. the pain only lasts twelve, fourteen days. believe me."

Sunday, December 14




i miss you when you go away.
why won't anyone ever stay.

Saturday, December 13




it's good to be alone and sleeping the day away, feeling the tears dry on my face and my pillow, surrounded by all the warm, dusty, sweet-smelling rose colored, smiling ghosts of the people i have loved who have gone away. I'm feeling all the things I've been numb to today. With my eyes closed and a lump in my throat I watch photo after grainy photo of faded yellow smiles flash past on the back of my red eyelids. This is what things are made of. I won't open my eyes until tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, December 10




i have in the back of my mind some patterns of darkness and light.

Monday, December 8




mudpie,
how do i love thee? let me count the ways. i'll need to borrow your fingers and your long toes, and then i'll need to count in tens and i'll have to make up a brand new system for counting and i'll have to borrow blain's abacus and it will still take me a week and a half if i hurry and the number might never be big enough if i get lazy...

i'll buy a hundred exotic fruits so you can take a bite of every one, and you will be the fruit goddess, and boys will come from miles around to taste your lips and i'll fight them all off with a sword. (i'll let phil in for a little while, but he'll have to wait, oh yes, in a clausterphobic waiting room with boring bord games and sappy music and two year old magazines, and he'll just sit there, misty eyed, remembering the good old days before i had a sword and a waiting room, and he could take you for granted, and when he finally is allowed in he'll be so in love he'll promise you the world, but you'll have already have gotten it from me.)

i'll write a hundred songs about your cooking and your laughter and your lipstick and your smiles and i'll sing them on the radio and at open mic nights and i'll never do anything else, and no one will even mind that i can't play the guitar and my voice is weak and i don't hit all the right notes, because they'll all be dreaming, with their eyes closed, of you.

i'll buy film for your video camera, and i'll follow you around and record the way you walk and the way you sleep and the way you dance, and i'll project it on the sides of the tallest buildings in the city in slow motion over and over and everyone will stop in the streets and watch you, starry-eyed.

i'll write you a love letter and make a hundred empty promises and it will be the best love letter you've ever gotten and when you read it then you'll smile.
-but-ton

Friday, December 5




my sister gave me a yellow rose when she left. it's petals fell on my windowsill. i saved them and pressed them in a book my dead aunt gave me. i wanted to cry because nothing ever lasts.

Thursday, December 4




i watch you walk away. what's it like to have an audience? do you think about the way you move? what are you thinking when you shake your head? what's it like to be a stranger on the street outside my bedroom window?

everyone will be gone in a little over a week. i'll have the house to myself. i'll be very lonely, and very free. i must, i must use this time and space and fill it up. i can't keep just existing. i need to justify the time it takes to say my name.

my toes are curling around the edge of it. i had half and epiphany last night. i'll use the time i have to figure out just how to jump. (hypocrite's epiphany is a good combination of words.)

Wednesday, December 3




this is how i like to sleep; heart beat, body heat, your shallow breathing on my cheek. you've gained a little weight and i like the way you've grown soft around the edges.

i can't remember which of us is making the mistakes anymore.

Tuesday, December 2




i have the kissing disease, and a crush on my doctor. i slept all day and it was beautiful. i feel like i'm winning.




as a precaution, i think i'll go off the pill.

Monday, December 1




what do you get when you fall in love?
you get enough germs to catch pneumonia
then when you do, they'll never phone you
i'll never fall in love again

(i'm happy, anna)




i scratched 100 little holes into my skin
to see inside; to show my insides off
but then i found i let the cold air in
so with luck and silly putty
i'll seal them all over
and heal them all over again.




i love the blue light in my bedroom. when i close my eyes i can pretend to be in all of my old homes.

ever since i promised myself not to write about you, i've been writing a lot less. i'll give you five hundred miles, and when you come home we'll count the silver parts of the sky and remember how great our nostalgia used to be.

i was too relieved to see your smile to realize how ugly your words were. if i believed your truths i would be miserable. you tell me i'm wilting in the shade when i'm happy, and i'm coming into the sun when i'm sad. i think the ugliest person is the one who refuses to believe they could be wrong. whoever said 'nobody's perfect' was stupid and lazy, and if they don't see me, i won't point myself out.

i'd rather dance in the shade then burn in the sun for your applause. you were right about one thing. i won't get the right answers here.