o lindz o cait o jacky o jayme o poetry o profile

...no one knew that it was because of a glance in a jacuzzi, a joint shared like a kiss and turned to ash, a shock of love. when it is all over she will come to me and she will say 'live with me above the palm trees, eat chocolate eggs in hotel room bathtubs, dance like we are making love, make love like we are dancing...f.l.b.

breathe into my hands, i'll cup them like a glass to drink from

2007-09-15 9:07 p.m. another soft shoulder moment

time. is an enormous long river.

inspiration comes as easily from water as it does from wine.

i know it's difficult to believe, but try imbibing a cup of each and spending awhile with an inkblot. an inkblot is an unplanned fractal, an inkblot is a sensitive bleed, an inkblot is an accident, an inkblot is gravity and teeth against paper, it's spawn and seed, it's destruction and deconstruction, it's residue and instruction, it's nothing. it's a colored misshape against a fibrous surface.

water and wine will both tell you what an inkblot might be.

i have a wing-shaped piece of parian marble on my desk. if it got wet and cracked it would smell like sulphur, and the smell would come from the deaths of tiny creatures that lived long, long ago.

we live on a surface of here now and tomorrow. of public computers, of missed opportunities. of lost keys, of chance encounters.

of your peace and my peace and the pieces in between.

of i saw you and i love you and what what what does it all really
mean.

i don't keep much stuff around. i value my portability. but i will say that i have saved every letter you ever wrote to me.

the break.

the one you left on my windshield outside of that little motel is in the pocket of my old gate bag, from back when life was more social.

letters littered with little lewd pictures, drawn by the ghost of woody guthrie. who would use your big thick hands just to draw one or two for me.

i am inseperable from my memories. i am inseperable from my songs. i want the breath that i carry in me to do more than just to carry me along.

in that it is the writing of them

that tends to carry us

along.

and i dance to one of your old tunes, with my true love on her way, and your voice sang the way my heart would sing

if it finally knew just what to say.

she said by the firelight: i can only sing you so much ani before i start to lose my cred.

and i want to say back, whatever girl, you didn't have that much cred to begin with. at least not when you take all the cred the world's doled out to you and compare it to the galaxy you mean to me.

and then one day they were done worshipping the landscape and they just put up their hands and moved into the sky. they had barely said hello

and it was time
to say
goodbye.

what time are we upon and where do i belong?

tyindia - 2009-01-19
ARAMA dama ding dong - 2007-11-07
After reading "The Sparkling-Eyed Boy" - 2007-10-24
AIEIAIIEIIEIEIEIEEI - 2007-09-22
voxxxtrot - 2007-09-21

and if i hear one more time
about a fool's right
to his tools of rage
i'm gonna take all my friends
and i'm gonna move to canada
and die of old age.