: Anything's all right

i'm a joke. [beat]

whatever, i'm real.

you're not a joke.

you're a phenomenon.

i need to grow up.

i dont [beat] know [beat] how.

i dont [beat] know [beat] how.
i dont [beat] know [beat] how.

you'll know you've made it when you present a bowl

of house nuts.

S. Jackowitz

: "Two by two in the ark of the ache of it"

draw me pictures
draw me a bath
draw me a picture of a bath
draw me drawing in a bath
draw me drawing you a bath
draw me drawing you in a bath
draw me drawing you in
draw me drawing you
draw me drawing a door
draw me a door
then withdraw with me.




D. Levertov

: working hands

you scream your way inside

a deep breath.

my wind burnt cheeks

smile back, biting down with cold teeth.

you slide between fresh whites,

shimmy a light blanket over tight clothing.

i wonder,
how do you talk with so much hanging

from your neck, every word, gold.

: TGIF

move micro

wave hypo

thick nitro

type tightrope

ripe kite
pipe brick

wrip tint

shake trick

ridge cake
punt rack
lit tinge

prick nickel

germ business

: Raving

"Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—"

Take me down, ebony-backed, 

throw my shadow to the floor. Twist my soul

from its rest and I, complacent Nevermore.
"That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour."

I doubt— If there were such a word, I'd shout

my tongue forced to your core.

I shake the ground you thought so firm, 
irk the future from its form, 
Thrust my selfish expression 

toward moments stolen from before.

You safely travel out the door, say,

’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

-The Raven, E.A.P

: ode to Csikszentmihalyi

Your wildest dreams are your best ideas. 

Trust them.

: lofty

I discovered how to act like an adult

this morning. I paid a small bill

I discovered how to dream like a child

last night. I lived in Fever

Become your discomfort
as you inflame yourself.

Oh, my mother was right again.

We're all just growing wild to freeze what's already been frozen.

: matte

if he had worn a coat, no
a jacket. what's the difference?
fuck it, i sing when i'm sad.

thumbing at sore fingers,
thumbing at winter, i sing
through cracked lips and heels, through
a static mess, warm chocolate.

it hurts to be heard
laughing from across the ocean, i know
i know. those big belly laughs,
unearthing our abs beneath layers

of coats and jackets.
your blue wavy eyes, i crouch upon
your brown brow and
just barely wet

my feet
preferring pools.

: with an "i"

A story seems purposeful, predictable.
A story can shake a cycle

when read, especially when recited. So recite.

I love to learn
I know nothing.

Every day it comes down,
more and more it comes down, until

no matter what, it all comes down
to exposure.

This is the part where language breaks and chance

takes off it's clothing for an eager audience.

All we want is to be noticed

but all we can control is what we notice and how

we take more notice of what we've already noticed

and re-notice, and re-notice.

: visceral

the hardest is neither
your space in the bed, nor your things
on the things chair, neither your socks nor stray hairs
it's the impression you left

in all of it. as if you're returning
later today, but today will last

a season. so i wonder, will we see more days
that last seasons in our years?

then, and only then
i may learn to lend
your impression to the space

between time.

: mesofacts

it must be hard to choose

a faucet from a room full of them

without a sink to set it apart

as it turns on

and so its hard to choose

a lover from a room full of them

without a sign to set her apart

as she turns on

but it isn't hard to choose

a light from a room full of them

without a sky to set it apart

as night turns on

: elicit illicitness

i'll buy something very quickly, run
my purchase right down the middle of a second
to bury its permanence
sometimes i'll wear a shirt right out the door
by law, pulling its tags for the thrill only
to present them at the register
like a good girl

licking envelopes slowly
has become a corporate thrill, not
because of it's suggestion, but
because it's 2015
and no one fucks
with a wide rule or bids
on the postal service to carry their meaning

it is by custom we sit
in the den with our shoes off and
think almost nothing of the senseless itching at our soles





meditation on il•lic•it, for•bid•den

: diamonds of the dustheap*

you look so good in everything
you do

everything you do looks so good
On purpose

you handle, carry, look out
for objects as you 
handle, carry, look out 
for selves

tell me if I take care 
On purpose
will my objects and selves last longer in your hands?





*V. Woolf

: cacao

Of course there are instructions
for  How to load
                                   a dishwasher
and How to cook       quinoa
and How to expedite the ripening of an avocado
But what is currently out there on 
       How to mean better?

What I mean is,
       How to be less mean when meaning 
       How to learn if even I mean my meanness at all?

Resolve to mean with intention, 
touch with attention, 
reclaim energy lost to retention

And finally, to never suggest
        You know what I mean,
As if You should already be Versed in 
        How to load, fluff, ripen
                                                   without my instructions.

: rezzies one five

BRAIN

make more, $ave more

chill as hard as you work

write for sense

keep repping snail mail

BOD

hundy squats daily

namaste weekly

aeropress & bonk break

water, water, water, soda stream, lime juice, Titos

BEYOND
spark joy
dance to sweat
sing outside the shower
LEARN THE FUCKING GUITAR.

: mondegreen

it could be the green
but it's probably not.

we breathe more
purposefully

now everyone's lion
but no one bears.

dark before 5
and new times

are a comin'.

: propiniquity

fall 

in sight, developed only along the edges,

like a polaroid left to cool in the dark

we squint truth

image

in thought, weightless

as words that we keep

saving. try to control
versions by editing along the way

in which iteration shall i keep you?
you working progression.

: when we talk, so much is in

the press

angles meet 

and corners of bodies
                               barter,

the gaze

pupils split

and corners of minds
                              delve,

the move

muscles seize 

and corners of souls

                             pang.

: see what you did there?

yesterday the air was hands

running through and across

loose wisps and 

lips-

a smile smiled over itself
leading soles to dance

the distance 
from here to where

you stood-

see what i did there?

the tip is just 
to invent bodies
on top of bodies-
and to pre-exist.

: found friends

Never too overcast to feel 
for the fuse--

Cow corn called out
in Loud purples; yes, cow corn & one clover 
atop a shoestring stem

   [ Look at how they breathe
                      better than We 
                               ever have ] 

though it was everything like running 
through a field of sneakers and skulls

How unsurprisingly the corn and clover came 
at once, while we 
so obviously
struggled.

: of course

everything fantastic looks simple
elemental value and i am attracted to your step
your stray hair, your belt
loop, the border that lines your
moving mouth, oh
it has always been ridges--
ridges & ridges & yours, especially,
that move me.

: I know you love Manhattan, but you ought to look up more often.*

There's a place where the air
is fresh and the water
is clean and the scenery
is green,
              Who likes this shit?
The competitive
hill climbers are thin like rails, but strong
              What is wrong with these people?

Meanwhile,

 the city's hung with flashlights!
the Ferry's unbuttoning its vest!

It's like a locomotive on the march, the season
      of distress and clarity

*F. O'Hara

: with a mighty expectation of relief *

we eat words
before sunrise
chop fresh and fill to the line—
and we number new feelings
after noon-time

then wait
that familiar 
wait.




*L. Cohen

: notes quotes 2014

you need to start dressing like more of a bitch

[in which we people-watch in central park]

when I think of old people having sex, I think about rustling leaves 

[in which we spend time in brooklyn]

Budweiser looks like the pee of a well-hydrated person 

[in which we find a dive bar to become regulars]

boobs are fancy 

[in which we break for lunch]

at least i didn't poop my pants ten miles from home 

[in which we discuss running problems]

i don't trust you as far as i can fuck you 

[in which we find ourselves out on the upper west side]

can we go to a Subway with a bar? 

[in which we decide we should have some dinner]

this morning i made appointments for the doctor, dentist, and eye doctor. 

most people spend years of their lives putting that off and then they die.

[in which we realize that saturday mornings are for adults]

: phrozen pen

I still taste syrupy flesh
of peach from late-morning Friday
in the Fall-- warm, white

Italian man in peak season at Union Square.

Fingerbreadths of ankles bare,
coffee carts and a fresh pressed

book against my thigh, I
have everything with me now--

But today I swallow the pit, step over frozen spit

force faith in the impending Thaw and thank

the man who put that peach in my right hand
and in my left: A New, Free, Pharma Pen

: two pines

between two pines
I grew you
a set of dreams that shimmered slightly when you walked
up and down the pebbled path with purpose, sandy, damp.
among the stars
I knew you
looked up every once in a while and took a sip of winter
held it tightly, and blinked back twenty years of gazing, still.

this time last year we were premature and stressed
oh, now we've done too much
too soon, take me back to a June where the light stayed up late with us as
we drank to the heat, to hand holding, to heart handling, to hair tousling
to the same kind of tomorrow 
and tomorrow.

: oh may oh my

In the June hurricane I shivered about a sidewalk
bordered by discarded umbrellas and soggy sandals, I
squeezed the handle hard, headed for a new home and hoped--

In the June grass I rolled, skin stained and the skirt of my dress
We walked our toes to callous, drank our insides silly
Fire is alive and well, alive and well, and well--

In the June moon I saw two pairs of eyes strain
against the stars, swearing truths about the past.
Look at what happened. What happened? What happened.
We made it happen, we made it, we made
We.

: 9/11

Twelve years ago, I pressed my forehead against warm metal 
scenic lookout binoculars and watched the city smoke 
and struggle from across the Hudson. With each panicked saccade, 
I tried summoning the mesmerizing skyline I always knew. 

To this day, when I close my eyes I still picture those two iconic towers 
in their rightful places-- but this morning I walked to work wide eyed 
and marveled at our strength and resilience both as a nation and as individuals. 
We grow up, we move out, but we never forget.

What the Pave Meant (on August 8)

Summer showers cleanse indiscriminately
but we, persnickety, take showers daily. We take
those for granted.

The tar told me a secret when my cheek was pressed to it:
This is water, we are water
And when tears fell, rain fell harder.

Vital signs trafficked my pain
and life turned into Life: the game
of simply controlling the moments torment
to hatch a treatment from a threat.

Oh, I was in that summer rain.

: before we knew how they built skyscrapers

city unfolding
across my lap
wrinkled with use
and savory speech

we dine
in the prime
confines of fear
and fortune

we drink
at the dusk
of our prepubescent nights
windows open, shoes off

you're a firm believer in nostalgia
and that company keeps us
current and distracted while
we stay up, we stay out, then stay
late. we take care, we take more, then take
off.

will we remember the sentimental introduction
or only the new afterword?

: Ezra Blooms in July

I.
First, you get the sugar. It simmers around the edges, 
hot and sweet and smelling like fresh skin.  
When smooth, spread to coat.
You coat my self and we slide, slick confection.
This bakes and cools.

II.
Next, you get the flower. Tub of topsoil, blooming bathtub full of green, living earth.
We unearth each other, your eyes planted into the shelf under your deep brow.  
Your stare is oceanic and wide. 
This time I'm not afraid to dive.

III.
Then, you get the milk. It flows not freely, but with intention.
We surprise ourselves in summer's open oven, flesh reflected.

IV. A freshly baked good.

: CANDLES

Cunt-wielding girls will do
Almost anything to share their little secrets with the rest of the world, but
Nimble men with small nipples and soft bellies just shout words and they're in.
Do not come near my childhood bed,
Leonard Cohen, this one's for you.
Eat dick. Sincerely,
Some women.

: the ROM

Dear family,
We are packing up and moving
to Museum, for a lifetime of learning
ossifies into
        The amber
        The molar
        The fine-toothed comb.
They've all been burrowed in the bat cave
Since 1996
and their fingerprints are still
on the fish tanks, though the fish are dead.
Are you having trouble believing
          believe!
such unreality in all things marvelous?
          74 million years!
Fossils are concepts
           to grasp
           to trust
You must un-remove yourself to be
moved.

: ode to Montreal

it's four years of walking home
it's when the sky splits and the light turns green
it's no stranger than spring surprising us yearly
it's the spontaneous monotony of school, gym, shop, cook, work, work, drink, sleep, work, fuck, spend and savor the interaction -
it's action!
it's a matter of exposure, all of it.
it's four years of never learning French, of gaining and losing, of laundry and hangovers.
it's rationalizing, rationing, rashness.
it's haecceity, the thingyness of the thing, it's eye contact and brush strokes
it's so funny to me
it's backyards and balconies and bathroom chats and belligerence
it's prime and messy, rough and rude, free and limited
it's jaywalking and speed walking and sweet talking
it's event making and dance partying and so much brunch
it's a hunch that four years well spent will be missed in the best way -
thank you for being a city i can call
home.

go without

he's the kind of big who's unaware of how strong he is:
bone crushing intensity and then we're limp bodies on hotel bed sheets
night lasts for an eternal instant when
the entire universe condenses into your grip on the small of my back

let us depend on the pulse:
press push pull pant and pry
mouths from necks from ears
and lock in the look that says less than each of us wants to believe
silent fantasies that scream for freedom in another world, somewhere.

from the swollen membranes of brains
and from fingers that freely feign understanding
something isn't right if i can only write at the artificial tap
fresh form flows from fingers that firmly push a pen
but the trusty lefty smudge will always slant my words
closer toward that dream i had to tell the world about

: VIRAL

Voluminous teens take a lot of drugs
Inside the abandoned Thunderdome under the blacklights of winter.
Railroad summers, chain-smoking through ripped jean holes,
And buttholes, and digging to china, and who's vagina is it, anyway?
Lie to each other one more time, for the fucking finale.

: tropes and torpors

Sugar, she's not easily convinced
where wonder is unreality
don't stop until the morning breaks any possibility of beyond what passed
to have and to hold are not possessive
to want is not enough
to feel and say is weightless
to ignore is deceitful
to hope is hard
tell her what she already knows
another tab off another can of another frozen Budweiser
it's too cold for intimacy, too candid for the country
she wants to bleed, make the snow steam red.

: 2k13

create more, use less
write more, think less
play more, plan less
listen more, talk less
move more, hurt less
love more, lose less


learn 2 play guitar
send h0memade cards
s1mplify
b3 kind

: Dear Julia,

Tomorrow is THE election... By the time you get this I hope Obama will have been elected for another four years. FOUR YEARS. Why? Well, I guess because I want progress and equal rights and reproductive rights and free and accessible education and job security etc. etc. etc. but all of these important rights and beliefs that really, truly matter - all of it is still a backdrop to art, to life as we feel it and live it daily and personally. It matters a lot, I know, but we keep going. We'd keep moving "forward" if Romney were elected, too. Right? At least in time... We'd have to.

I don't understand celebrities.  They've been puzzling me a lot lately. The power they have over others, over the media, the money, the fame the attention and the audience- especially the idolization, obsession and the undeserved fame - how does that even happen?

I'd like to try it... Fame. Just a taste. Or maybe get knee deep and really fuck the shit out of it and never call it back. Who knows. Maybe one day, maybe in the next four years, our art will speak- our stories will be told.

It is November again. We should fall in love. I'd love to fall in love. It is destructive, like us. We'd be a good match for love.

Don't don't do this or that, but don't give up - we are surely allowed to be a little easier on ourselves, sometimes! Try it. I am. I am soft. Sometimes sad. Be nicer to yourself first - then let others in.

I love you,
xx
Rikki

: jew year's rezzies!

learn one new word per week in any language - use it.
spread helmet awareness: safety is sexy. and so is survival.
travel with intention: take many small trips to many new places.
be sensitive to the fact that most pain is invisible, so just speak up.
make an earnest attempt at drawing a self portrait using any medium.
poach an egg and like it, then make fancy brunch for a bunch of friends.
ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski. ski.
audition for x-factor 5773, sign a record label and become the next Jewish American pop star.

: long wind

open all the windows and doors
i wish it were possible to plagiarize mother earth
copy paste this sunrise, steal the sky and sight it
take me to the source of this autumn rain
the sounds that refresh pages and people and places
we carry on as if these things happen all the time!
well they do and they don't, really.
wouldn't you notice if it never rained on Friday nights?
turn off the lights
i wish it were possible to wish more specifically
i couldn't tell you if i tried, for selfish reasons, you understand.
proof is unnecessary because ive learned how to trust
just turn up the volume and draw the shades, please.

: SMUUUUSH

have you ever experienced any of these symptoms?

*the overwhelming desire to squeeze every bit of ridiculous cuteness that a creature possesses into a tiny little compact ball of cute and just throw it away in one quick, spastic impulse.
*the uncontrollable reaction to squeal, stomp, and shove your own fist in your mouth, then proceed with baby talk for a full, unintelligible sentence.
*the indescribable sense that terminal cuteness is real - a condition that renders humans unable to think clearly and function normally at the sight of puppies and (some) babies... and sometimes grown puppies and grown babies, too.

just: SmUuUuUsH. 
ugh, can't take it. 
too much. 
needs to explode.

cute attacks can be serious. protect the ones you love. be uglier.

: warning

[why does summer rain seem so innocuous?
there's just something about that moment when perspiration meets precipitation and we can't tell the difference because we spring from the same source, follow a similar cycle. 
we are full of it and together we evaporate.

summer showers cleanse indiscriminately and are superior to all

except for the ones we take. we take everyday. we take those for granted.]

the tar told me a secret when my cheek was pressed against it:

"stay magnetic, pull together"
so i softly whispered, weathered,

"this is water, we are water"

and when tears dropped, rain dropped harder

'til suddenly i knew to start

to heal the hurt and mend the heart

every beat and breath was mine
i spoke to hear words in real time

vital traffic signs the same
and life turns into life, the game
my mind controlled the dole of pain
oh, i was in that summer rain; we are the treatment and the threat, both at once.

: four years later

There is nothing more revealing than process.

I've always been fascinated by the idea of process over progress because I don't believe there is a firm trajectory for the evolution of one's own art.
Four years of semi-consistent blogging has taught me that it is not time nor talent, not patience nor even persistence that makes a poem. Personal expression will not always be pretty, sensical, or honest but when all three components weave their way into my words the satisfaction is ineffable - the medium speaks for itself.

This blog is a mess, my mess, where I throw pieces of poems out into the waters of the world wide web to see what sinks and what swims... but usually it isn't that dramatic. I can let all the crappy ones float around if I don't care enough to save, submit or share them. Posting online for no particular audience or reason helps me detach just enough to be able to recognize the difference between poems that clarify and poems that confuse. And this blog is a timeline of the most important part of my process: to just keep writing, writing, writing.

: backwords, backwoods, backwards

some flashback advice from 2009 rikki

give your eyes the attention they deserve.

be a guru.

moisturize your elbows.

if you try it, commit no matter what.

choose the selfish option sometimes.

hope harder than you doubt.

don't go outside without a coat in winter.

shove tissues in your sleeves.

put a pair of socks in your purse for prom.

don't seriously shop alone.

do yoga - ohm three times fully at the end.

don't buy tuna sandwiches at gas stations.

eat the cake.

fart and walk away... but then come back and admit to it.

trust someone at a time.

keep one small secret forever.

to sleep, shut eye; to dream, middle eye.

: $

paying for art is thrilling.

why? do i support the industry? no, i support me and mine.

i buy muses & time so that

maybe one day someone will believe me when i write

we are more than a reflection of a collection of

stolen albums. oh, itunes told me you'd be some kind of person but, guess what?

if apple falls, it bruises just the same.

: trundle beds

Last night I saw a small, silver overturned thimble in the grass. I wouldn't have spotted it had I not been staring at my feet while walking towards our meeting spot. When I tried to pick it up I instead sat down beside it and touched the rounded top and realized immediately that it belonged to you - but I just left it there because whenever you lose something important the first place you think to look is where you last remember holding it.
I could never move you,
so you left
and I stayed
put with your little thimble in the grass.

: over breakfast

Are there things I am sure of?
I love yogurt, cereal, and bananas.

Smile! We are still young.
The deer don't know us by name
But by our presence.

Each book is a brick
Though this home is one story
The walls are full of books, lives stacked as stories.

A physical mirror, a flesh reflection and
a semblance in an open alley.

: may-kus

1. creek

if we could only
share a laugh over a fart
in a crazy creek.

2. supermoon

supermoon was out
from behind the cloudy haze
she was really blazed

3. tourists

locals looking down
dirty pavement, kicking stones
Up! a new city

: osh

live music is a beautiful struggle.

some Osheaga moments:

snacking on fruits and nuts behind the little yellow inflatable man during of monsters and men, borrowing lighters, making small talk with too many torontonians and then getting a beautiful face painting from a generous, artistic stranger!

making friends with Momo the security guard between the two main stages, thus getting VIP access to sitting on top of the barricade when the other guards weren't looking - then watching Sigur Ros, Florence, and Justice from up there! (also spotting friends in the crowd behind me)

ermagerd! it's snerp derg!

a worthy meeting spot: Chevrolet sign, red car.

the perks of knowing that the porta potties up on the hill never had long lines.

the hose, sometimes.

shaking the branches of wet trees at the electronic stage after missing the hose, making it rain.

shade breaks, lying on the ground and feeling it move you.

the red string and the rain during passion pit.

going up on shoulders during the shins, there's really nothing quite like that perspective in a huge crowd.

sharing big carrot sticks with strangers while waiting for city and colors emo rant to end so everyone could ogle metric.

james vincents voice bringing me to tears and then the aftershow "James! Come here!" then realizing we'd have had nothing to say to him had he obliged.

hey, do you like films? (shove postcard in strangers hand)

security not giving a fuck that everyone was harboring mickeys in their panties.

the hilarious lack of stylistic diversity thanks to aa and urban, thus contributing to the major difficulty in finding anyone in the crowd.... and yet! the serendipity of bumping into people you know or recognize just a little and being overly excited. then bumping into people you know well and believing there is a god and destiny is real and fate brought you together and all is well and good in the world forever. being grateful for being able to know the difference.

letting oursevles take the escalator instead of the stairs in the metro home, just this once.

finally making it home alive and increasingly more dirty each night, knowing that your body is a hell of a lot stronger than your mind.