XXIII: let's go get slimed

There must be a discoverable way around law- otherwise The law would never have been created. Of
course, one year later limits under said law
render humans responsible for their own. Oh, how foggy this is! How much louder does one's fingernail need to be painted
bright orange for you to hear the headline:
"The Nickelodeon generation elected the first black president!"
Be careful not to offend anyone in public, but still try your best at invading
their thoughts
and screaming
their secrets - that is your job, damnit, so do it well. Or
KaBlam! not a slimy, single-celled someone will notice.





*Quote: JennaG

XXII: traffic in a can

This weekend I learned that 80 to Wilco gets you home in time for the back porch premiere and some crucial block busting. To what? To laugh tracks! To always knowing when we're supposed to be enjoying ourselves! Until then we can wait in contended silence and there is no Iowa. Egyptian cotton pillowcases are better than the sheets, especially tonight. Don't say you cant wait, because you've been waiting way too long to be considered Classical. More often than not the yellow light means doubt - But do not believe it. If you'd only ignore the hue you would know when you were supposed to know why.

XXI: blank plank

Tip-toe to the edge of the ledge-
A silent letter must be learned before it is recognized,
sometimes.
Crossword puzzles taught her that everything she needed to know could be discovered within a finite set of clues - & nothing more. Black boxes became shadows for her unknown, so Fair & Square. She took advantage of permanence and inked her answers, always!
We worship the Clock
forever, But for this moment she simply stood
at the edge of the ledge
on her tip-toes
laughing.

XX: the caffeination nation

From the bottom up, making rich the flavors of somewhere far, far away... Music carries the people like cream carries the coffee. Coffee carries the people. Music is the cream.
A morning mug! An earplug! A sunday song
in slippers and a bathrobe, while sipping on freshly brewed bean.
Wouldn't dare ask for anything more in this here America. Oh, gimme a
heartbeat and a drumbeat - coffee with a tad of cream - I am living the dream.

XIX: homeward cloud

Could a cloud make a comfortable home?
Cloud kitchens and common rooms, Cloud couches and comforters.
Imagine! If the cloud canopy in our sky became our Always sky... We would never have to leave our comfortable cloud homes because clouds could completely cover our heads at all times - We wouldn't be able to escape the rain... Would you even mind? Clouds could cry on our shoulders, too.

XVIII: mayhaps perbe

Maybe if the Process truly mattered it would condense into a compact, dense inner core - Fe! in composition like a burning Sun. (Careful not to think of ours) A differentiated Sun, with a core Process that makes us all uncomfortable. Why? Why do we shift awkwardly in our seats while the Process erupts so obviously, splashing and spewing molten minerals into the inner cores of our eyes, which connect to our souls - (If we have them). We sit and stare as the massive bodies collide and form planets which align just so, & our lives diligently rotate about an axis which orbits around the Process - yet we ignore it so easily! (But still, uncomfortably).
Perhaps the Process does truly matter. It dark matters; we don't realize. we cannot see. so we ignore. But like most obvious Processes this one creates something more important than itself, hurting some and helping others, Continuously.

XVII: nightan

Took a bath in warm songwater,
Sank neck deep beneath a blanketed wave.
Lyrics lapped- and lips, too. The Night
tinted everyone's cheeks with shadow's inverse. Basking in a soft glow, thinking, The right now is fine... even better than The before. Why is there always a need for that something more?
Soaked in song and sated with sun, we sang
the words, "The right now's night is done."

XVI: seasonal aura-gies

"To follow with the eye- while resting on a summer afternoon- a mountain range on the horizon or a branch that casts its shadow on the beholder is to breathe the aura of those mountains, of that branch... For the aura is bound to his presence in the here and now. There is no facsimile of the aura."

When I breathe the aura of imperfect silence at the peak of a steep pitch, I stare in awe at the painted canvas before me and realize, not quite for the first time, how utterly small I am. I am humbled, I am excused because I am limited by human proportions. I cannot track every peak with the edges of my skis, but I can revel in the aura and respect that which is unconquerable, that which is larger than I.

When I breathe the aura of the hopeful thaw, as winter kneels in kind submission, I feel simple tasks are more easily accomplished when the sun is shining. Metaphorically, yes, but literally: Sun out, Sunshades down, Chin up, Purpose within. I am prepared, I am present because I am human. That summer dilly dallies at the end of the block makes me sprint, slow to a jog, then sprint again. I am free, I am more naked now that the sun clothes me!

When I breathe the aura of heavy leisure, an idle heat hangs from the crowns, I hear high pitched giggles emanating from the park across the street and concentric circles of happiness reach me in my bedroom, slowing my slumber. So, I borrow a few circles! I lace up my sneakers, I run to the park and I don't plan stopping. I run, the soles of my shoes conversing with the asphalt, until the heat halts me. Head home, it whispers through the light breeze on my face. I listen to the ebb and flow of exertion, and lay in the grass where no appointment is necessary.

When I breathe the aura of impending academia, I smell fresh plastic binders, rubber erasers and smooth inky pens, their aromas beckon me to restock, as if owning equipment alone will foster success. Success is elusive, I am told. Yet, it's comforting to know that September always schedules a holiday, right around Labor Day, celebrating the notion of motivation. A fresh start, a new beginning, invisibly marked on each pupil's calendar. Zenith! and the bright stars still hover in the sky, remnants of a summer that soothes us.

XV: planted

I miss the salty smell of play-doh. Sometimes if I focus on it I can bring the aroma so close to my nostrils that my eyes water, and to think! this reaction, only by forceful thinking! I am not wearing socks and I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling red play-doh into a ball between the palms of my hands. I am nineteen, but no one is looking. I rip a tiny piece off, I look left, I look right, I close my eyes and put it in my mouth. I still carry myself as a child in my heart, but until when? I swallow the play-doh, the small seed, and hope.

XIV: picking and chewing

As soon as I bite into this apple I forget it is an apple. When my chops break the skin of this red delicious I am expecting to taste red velvet, with cream cheese frosting. But the sour flesh instead reminds me of the time my mother gave me an apple, with a candle in it, for dessert on my sixteenth birthday. I was sick, so I made sure it was the most delicious apple I ever enjoyed... until this red delicious. I picked this apple on Sunday, (was Sunday yesterday? Yes...) and it was the only apple I wanted, the hardest one to reach. I trusted that my sister and cousins would pick enough Granny Smiths, Fijis and Golden Delicious' for a small army so I wasn't worried that it would be my only. But this one would be only mine.

XIII: the cove

I suppose right now is what it feels like to walk barefoot on soft sand, hand in hand with someone in the summer. I spent four years wandering under the same stars as you, would you believe it! That same sunset swept across our canvas ceiling and vibrant figs freshly torn open would blot together a luscious sky. It's as if nature was spreading a colored quilt over us before bed, before the nightlight faded out as we did. Even now as I spread my toes my polished nails fan out like a peacock and I clench those soft purple sheets with my small feet. My head heavies into a cool pillowcase, a summer breeze whispers to my cheek. Soon, I close my eyes. All I see is soft sand, all I feel is your hand.

XII

At the end of yoga class, during the relaxation pose Savasana, I felt my entire existence shrink to the size of a camera memory chip and slide neatly underneath my left eye socket (behind the bone where my eyebrow begins) and I just hovered there as I inhaled and exhaled. I am telling you this was the most intense mind fuck since we back porched 3 blunts on empty stomachs before Yom Kippur. I wouldn't call this a hallucinogenic experience... It was more of a meditative state where I completely escaped anything resembling "real" thought and entered my breath through a narrow doorway leading into an empty room with windows for walls. I was only breath; nothing more and nothing less. It wasn't until after I came to that I realized that the localized spot I was concentrating on was the exact same place where my head often throbs incessantly after a bad nights sleep or a long while reading myself out of the present. That emotions can cause physical pains without legitimate medical explanations is why doctors don't diagnose diseases like obsession or heartache. There is no syrup that will assuage a broken heart nor syringe to alleviate a relentless dream, just a silent scream, Savasana.

XI

The ladder is an illusion, but the rungs are a reality. Even from the nosebleeds I could see your toothy smile; Do you believe me? No, I don't have super vision, not even 20/20, (in fact, lately I've experienced the sensation of what I am self-diagnosing as 'astigmatism,' and I slip into and out of living a blurred existence.) Wow, 11:11 lasted longer than one minute tonight. I do not love when that happens because I feel as though I have to prolong my wish for the whole longer-than-usual minute and I end up adding unnecessary clauses to my trusty, constant hopes. I am in a perpetual state of hope. I hope you believe what I am telling you about the ladder... it just doesn't exist. But the rungs! The rungs, Oh, they intentionally separate the steps we take to get to the top- But I am on stage and you are in the nosebleeds, every single damn day, until one.

X

Sometimes when I stare into the tummy of your guitar I envision myself diving straight down the rabbit hole into another dimension where I could find you, really. Really if I could crawl around in there I bet I could find your friends, too, guitar picks wanting what I want and slipping into your abyss, changing your sound. 'Sounds like quite the adventure, Alice,' you'd say to me, unaware that I was already so far gone. Gone are pieces of plastic you used to play for/to people... no, into. Into the circle that's partially responsible for the seductive sound you create to control the crowd, we go willingly - what is wrong with this picture? Picture the capacity for change, a single sliver of six-string silence. Silence you know not of, out of choice.

IX: semi-found

Blank stares bring me beyond where I should have gone.
When I explore hidden coasts from my living room chair I can still hear your voice. I don't just tolerate your diction, I revel in it.
In our advanced theories we were forward looking.
We said we'd work more, earn more, live more, have more fun. But we didn't - We did some of those things but not all because everyone always has to make sacrifices.
I chose to stare directly at space.
You went to work while I went to the moon. I curled up in a crater and power napped. When I woke up I no longer tolerated anyone's words but my own. Instead I listened intently to my professor, the newscaster, my friendly waitress, my flight attendant (who also happens to be my yoga instructor). I am patient in my attempts to translate the words of experience and knowledge of Other into
my own loose language, all the while making sure it makes perfect nonsense.

VIII

Someone should write a play about this because it actually happens in real life.

VII

Sometimes when I look at old writings of mine I re-write them or tinker out some images if I feel like it. When I re-read the poem that was here I did not feel. So now it's gone.

VI

She is just impatient because she wants the final product without the difficult means, but that is so often the issue. Can't we make her a little more complex? Okay, so the woman is completely infatuated, blinded by her devotion, but she is so young! At 18 or 19 she should be able to move on. Bold statement. "Well what do you mean by love? How do you define love?" ... "I don't think I am ready to answer that question yet." Solid response.

V

I know you don't believe me but I saw Sky blush.
I get the feeling he didn't mean for it to happen that way - for me to see him in that state, a flush spreading across his cheeks and settling into the horizon. I couldn't help but stare! My eyes wouldn't wander and the moving bus window tinted Sky from noticing my impolite fascination with his embarrassment. I saw it all from the beginning: Sun was tiring of the constant demand for her warmth, light, happiness and beauty - the Ultimate provider! And Sky? What does Sky do but hover endlessly and bear all emotions, showering the public with their intimate details. Sun was done. Sun up and left. Sun stained sky a gauzy red
and I watched.

IV

At times I can finesse a situation just so,
just so that a pristine puzzle is perfectly completed at its outcome.
For example, an accurate allocation of time for both book buying and coffee consumption prior to class, which requires guidance counselor-esque scheduling skills and Sherlock Holmes-like accountability for long lines due to week 1 semester demands, Oh I did not account for either if any of the aforementioned whatevers. Sometimes time times itself accordingly, perfectly. A dance of sorts, (a picture of sorts!) timely art.

III

Let's unknowingly try not to run into each other. That way neither of us has to cope with confrontation. How ideal! As 1:25 lets out a student packed sigh I see you see me seeing you see me. We make this one a quickie and hold [our] breath until the next.

The next listens and never comes.

II

I am expecting the fullest fulfillment of fulfilling fullness.
Satisfaction in satiation, but not excessive - basta ya.
To acquire each necessary book and taint the pages upon consumption is the solution to the grumble. Thumbing through you I fatten with genius.. And you were free! Oh, library.

I

We are backer than before and it's as if we never left.
A great(est) city for four years, we will live in -
We are living up someones dream, as if there were
no tomorrow in Montreal. The billboard tells us the future is simple. I stare at it blankly, at the advertising beady eyed monkey, and enjoy that idea for an evanescent moment. Cars already honking, anticipating the second when the light turns green, hinder my trance. I push the pedal all the way down to the floor just to make my heart beat fast as I crash into that simple future.

new yearz rezzies!

.....drink 2 glasses of music every day
...........v0lunteer to spend time skiing
...........g1ve 365 poems to charity
....learn t0 play the decision

also,
find a better genius, overcome my fear of muses, dance like it's the 50's and spend more time outside than online.

faboo

an under discussed phenomenon is the blameless innocence of the forbidden dream scene, starring your professor. your floor fellow, don, residence adviser. your teachers assistant. your boss.
if it happens, your subconscious "betrays" you(or, more likely, reveals itself in a satisfying and safe way), your perception of the situation and the person changes. what now? you think, in another dimension we shared a flame, a cigarette, an ice cream sundae, a bed. And now, only an entire face of the earth. every time you cross paths it's as if you predicted it, made it happen and forced fate under your control. reality is obsolete. plus, this game is much more entertaining. the vapid monotony of coincidence evolves into something much more complex: the lingering memories from the dream scene.


... to be continued.

assimilation now, assholes

We cleaned up for an hour and a half last night. Jussayin.
We are now free to be as simple as they seem - but how great is it that we can wake up in the morning, waste the day away, and still feel more fulfilled? No, not more fulfilled. Not really even that fulfilled at all... but the potential to fulfill is throbbing. How fun! Good thing we don't do this often.

softer than the moon

Hold on tight to the blades of grass, lest you fall of the face of our planet! Sixteen shooting stars painted the sky many years ago - but tonight! we witness! A
glorious time to notice nineteen more lamps from our past spilling liquid light across the dome of our solar system. I could lay here forever with you even though I am actually always alone. Our universes collide in a Big Bang but - 100 seconds later it is done. Lemon juice drops from the sky, it burns nicely. Many thanks, then.

finish later

i am a self-proclaimed logophile.
i am running my the last lap on the teen track.
i am tying my shoes for too long.
i am tripping.
i am flat faced and cuddling the cold pavement when a sudden jolt turns the globe inside out and i am rolling around the inside of a transparent blow up beach ball - i see the world in frosted plastic pink and it reminds me of the jelly shoes i used to wear on my feet as a small child. i punched holes in the straps to make them tighter around my ankles. i had weak ankles.
when i realize i am running again, faster and faster, and that this is my last lap on the teen track - i know the wings on the back of my jelly shoes are almost strong enough to lift me right off this pavement.
i cant wait until yesterday.

keypers

Lost friendship, lonely highways and the northern valley. I can see it all from here.
From this ribbon I made a keychain and I put home next to here next to journal next to mailbox... it's all the same now. I tied four keys together but I only use two of them. The one I am missing cannot be replaced. When I brought that key to the locksmith last Monday he told me it was too complicated to copy. Too complicated to copy? What makes a key complicated? The ribbon slips through the top of all keys just the same. He tells me, the locksmith tells me, it's because of the ridges. The ridges? "Yeah, the grooves, these things," and he runs his thumb over the part of the key that fits perfectly into the lock. I can tell he works with his hands because there are white cracks at his knuckles and a callous on the inside of that thumb. How come some keys seem like they fit, they slide in easily but don't turn? How come other keys that aren't the "right keys" slide in, turn and open the lock? How come a flimsy bobby pin can do the work a complicated key does if the right person is behind it? If the right person, or the right key with the right ridges will unlock what it is I lost the key to, can you? The locksmith said, "Yes."

"Who says I can't get stoned?"

yyeeeeayeyayeayeyaaaaayeayeayeayeayeayeayeayeayeayeayeayaaaa.

february 27th, 2009

he says things that are spiritual in nature like,
"she looked into me, saw me, i know she did."
But these things, said too often, lose magic.

I am no magician.

But I've experienced some:
pulling into driveways as the song slowly fades, a seamless weave of time and tune.
A winter's day that hints at June.
Who's to say whether or not the rain will come?

I am no weatherman.

But I've sensed the coming downpour, seconds before it breaks the clouds and I've thought snow ahead of the falling flake.

Do I believe in coincidence?
Must there be a reason for the seasons, and
who can explain why we yearn to run barefoot in the warm summer rain?
or why we're tempted to walk in the tracks of a train?

I am no conductor.

But I've driven myself mad with regret, only to forget that
"i looked into you, saw you, i know i did."

empty.

I go walking in my sleep
to a place where the script doesn't meet my needs, so they change.
I heard my teacher say, "This is important. You'll need to know this. Maybe it would be wise to write this down or put it somewhere where you'll remember it."
And then he told a story about sushi and love. When I realized that his lines, straight from the script, were permanent I got all nostalgic about that time we went for bad sushi and I didn't like it - but I ate some of it anyway, and even took the rest of it home with me in a to-go container.
I never ate it later.
As the screenplay continues, line after line, I stop typing. Space, space, space, space I stop typing.



I'll need to know this.
I'll write it down.
I'll sabotage everything I ever thought I'd figured out.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
This is what happens when I don't eat.

skittles

When I really concentrate, I can taste the rainbow.
I don't even have to close my eyes!
Are you jealous? Don't be.
Are you interested? Listen.
All you have to do to taste it, too, is concentrate.
Don't take anything... don't take anything too seriously, silly
it's only a game - BUT in order to win, or feel as if you're winning, you have to pay really, really, close attention and repeat after me:
I can taste the rainbow.

What if I did not?

Questions fall from his lips like the last leaves of autumn,
hardly even pressing ground.
Our ears press into the ground while the earth animates what is behind our eyes. I like it hear. It has been one year and I
don't have much to repent for -
just the guilt that accompanies not having any answers
for you
before
I left.

ew, love is gross!

She squirmed in her seat as the projector clicked
photos in front of her face, and the other faces, but mostly only her face... she only knew her face. Actually, she couldn't see her own face, but from what she could feel she imagined it looked the way she imagined it would look.
Shocking! Each slide more shocking than the next! Shocking!
Blackout.

late parades

The only gift I have to give is wasted
time. It is, yes it is, too late to take back what I wrote yesterday.
As soon as it peppered the moleskine it came to life in a destructive
beginning. And it was good.
It paved an understanding of seasons: it's almost apple.
Apple crisp leaves - crunch.
The sour proximity of the first snowfall, so soon.
All I ask is that you return the favor, send me some spare minutes
of your
time. Anything, check under the couch cushions, just make it quick -
I don't think I can..
I don't want to wait
for the mailman.

wordflow

buy a day, pay in catch coins, cheeky change, yes.
i missed. i'm missed. you, miss? spokes spin, tick-tick-sick
i see the soccer team, trotting two-by-two
i missed a goal, i miss goals, i miss the goal-
keeper. keeper friend: that's what you are.
stay in line with me, two-by-two. you are the goal keeper
you are my goal keeper
and my keeper friend.

barntrees

Come into my world.
The grass is soft and the shade trees perch in places here and there.
I can be here while you can be there... this works. I promise.
Outside of my world is the little blackbird, a pencil and a spoon. Also, you.
You keep coming and going as you please, leaving the door open.
This isn't a barn. It only looks like one from the inside out. Not
from the outside, that is. Red-handed, Rugrats red, painted white. The stains
on your hands and knees from the soft grass give you away.
You're inside now, Go change.
and close the door behind you, gently.

metallic ride

Is there anything beautiful
about subway train poles? Back and forth
we grip. I wear gloves in the summer, I am sick. You
wear gloves in the winter, too, but you are just cold. We are moving and we can't go back.

Tell me what you think about miracles.
Has one ever happened to you,
or someone
you know?

Instead, you stand clear of the closing doors, your gloved hands a gentle woolen
barrier. Welcome to: Feedback.
All we ever do is talk about 4 things over and over again.
When you see something, say something. That is enough.

this is it. self-sabotage

When she slips in the shower I slip away from her,

leaving her uninspired.

She has no idea that she has no ideas.

Until she sips on her morning mug, 

brewed battery black, 

and the ideas she doesn't know she doesn't have don't come.

And while her pen hovers over the page,

a nervous parent,

caffeinated words jitter into corrosive lines.

At this time, the grandfather clock whispers to our bellies.

I apologize for leaving her empty-headed, the grand piano watches in silence.

After we feast on green grapes and ginger snaps

she is full of me.  Her pen spills.

self-sabotage is a serious addiction: draft two

sometimes i slip away from her as she reaches for the green grapes

her stomach grumbles as lips purse around sour sucklings

she cant possibly communicate and masticate at once.

hordes of decorated humans speak aloud about 

the weather

and the traffic

a careless hard-boiled egg toss of phrases;

what a shame, all this rain

she has no idea that she has no ideas

sated bellies settle after the hors'derves   (sp?)

i apologize to her

we cheers with glass after glass of fermented reds

we nibble on grape after grape from the fresh fruit plate

until finally the feast of words ensues,

she is full of me

and filling you.

following, check

what are you doing?

you must tweet at a time like this!

no need for tic tacs when you communicate

through

touch tones and texts

no touching, no context

we are going no where

we are going insane

we are going internet

the now networks cater to Generation immediate gratification

i have it in the palm of my hand

i have it in the pocket of my jeans

i have it in the purse on my shoulder

i have a palm, a pocket, and a purse -

but i have no idea what i am doing.

what are you doing?

commet modernation

i miss being really really young.

kids menus and booster seats, OH to be

smaller sitting higher eating less and getting away with more

childlife.

it's been some time

some time it's been

let's make some noise

deep from within

almost a squeal

not quite a yelp

rurf muff rawrf - -

if they say "hey babe,"

just stay away...

we should paint the sand different colors

to let the world know where we've been

here, there, everywhere in between

sand dunes and looney tunes

i saw your face in the clouds

the man in the moon told me not to trust you

so i told him to make me

a

peanut butter and jelly sandwich

and he said "hey babe,"

and suddenly i was no longer hungry.

sestina edit

i do not like waiting to gather speed

patience requires that my attitude turns

over like a coin, facing away from a focused direction  

as i slowly break my concentration to feel

myself settle into a steady cruise-control

toward a destination i sometimes pretend to call home

every time i leave said home

the time i spend away tends to speed

and swirl into a small concentrated pocket of an out of control

instant. i think, where am i now? and as the world turns

i find myself signaling left and right but can only feel

left alone without rights or reasons, without direction

this is when i know i have to ask for directions

otherwise i worry i wont find my way home

darkness, my hands navigating the walls to feel

for a light switch, no luck, my heart rate speeds

my palms sweat and then suddenly the light turns

on, my luck turns over, and once again i am in control

the coin toss can be a measure of control

or a signal that i lack direction

but i understand how to slow down before making turns

and i try to leave footprints to follow back home

so what usually varies is my speed

and if, how, or what i will feel

so i clench the steering wheel, it feels

firm beneath my grip and i am in control

i press the pedal, increasing my speed

and i slap the lever, using my directional

signal the second left, the brown and white house

upon completing that familiar turn

just how many times have i made that turn

but this time, the different sensations i feel

convince me that this is no longer home

the carpets, kitchen counters, remote controls

it all hits me at a dangerous speed

i turn my back on what was home to finally feel

as if i am in control of my direction 

and the speed at which i travel to my destinations.

sestina

i do not like waiting to gather speed

patience requires that my attitude turns

over like a coin, facing away from a focused direction  

as i slowly break my concentration to feel

myself settle into a steady cruise-control

toward a destination i sometimes pretend to call home

every time i leave said home

the time i spend away tends to speed

and swirl into a small concentrated pocket of an out of control

instant. i think, where am i now? and as the world turns

i find myself signaling left and right but can only feel

left alone without rights or reasons, without direction

this is when i know i have to ask for directions

otherwise i worry i wont find my way home

darkness, my hands navigating the walls to feel

for a light switch, no luck, my heart rate speeds

my palms sweat and then suddenly the light turns

on, my luck turns over, and once again i am in control

the coin toss can be a measure of control

or a signal that i lack direction

but i understand how to slow down before making turns

and i try to leave footprints to follow back home

so what usually varies is my speed

and if, how, or what i will feel

and if you can understand just how i feel

because we drive each other crazy for control

in this relationship we cant seem to agree on a speed

or even a direction

could we settle, together, in a home

what remains after the leaves fall and the seasons turn

now i believe it is your turn

to explain to me just how you feel

because i cant make your home my home

and i cant determine what is real, control

the cruise, take direction

because we are barreling toward nowhere at an impressively dangerous speed.

or maybe there will be time to turn around, face home

and feel at ease, realizing we can always travel

in control, with direction at a steady speed.

 

ew, that gum was gross

i was going to write a villanelle

or perhaps a sonnet

and as i got lazier i thought about writing a haiku

or just a lonely couplet

and then,

i thought

fuck it

i am ill

senioritis stole my brain cells

and all i want to do

is 

abso

fucking

lutely

nothing

and i almost dont even feel guilty about it.

every man has come out of a woman

the nape of your neck

sometimes

screams

sex

but someone answers.

taboo!

what the fuck?

please, go home;

put on a turtleneck and -

read 

many

books.

a feeble intern is barren by habit

maybe it's the weather

or maybe it's hormones,

but it's definitely time to go to Canada.

you should always wear a helmet

if you don't know what you're doing,

especially in purgatory where teachers mess with minds.

you know when you just get that feeling

that this is the time you'll get caught,

well, make sure you remember to release your emergency brake.

perhaps we should go outside

and walk around barefoot until our soles blister

to match those inside.

it hurts so much to sit on hard chairs

the body aches with boredom,

and the hint at impending esophageal cancer. 

is it messed up to believe that you're certain you will be

the token sick friend,

of whom everyone asks, why her?

do you wish it or do you believe it,

because there is a difference -

there is a very, very, very vast difference.

i am working on a series

i am working on a series

the makings of it are sloshing in between my ears

lapping upon the ankles of two wide-stance piers

swirling through seashells at both ends

held up to my face by my honest friends 

who understand what moves me,

& what swirls around in between 

my ears. against the seashells in your hands on my face -

listen closely, you can here the ocean from hear

if you press

but you cannot taste an ocean's salty tear 

unless 

you blink a gentle wave upon your cheek, 

let roll a damp trail, 

taste the first word on your tongue,

and turn it into an entire summer series.