this Saturday

Seams of calm next to imprinted tan leather
Embossed with a name for me
Filled with coin of a place I'll soon know
Embraced more tightly this time
I'm really lucky.

it's today

pushed through a kind of forcing i never wanted to know

(or did, but was too afraid to go alone)

alone i am and have to be

most would scoff at my unease

the beginning has always been the hardest

and

after a significant amount of ticks and tocks

its seemingly harder to start

things are never as bad as they seem

she's always told me and so

i've always seen

but

here we are

the beginning

i don't wanna be adjusted but

i will

if it makes things easier

I knew it would return, I just wasn't sure when

Round crown'd metal chipped with stories
Found under the door's shadow (and a few dusty towels)
Looks the same since I saw it last
Just a few more tales I couldnt see
In it's lacking

confessions v.1.3

lashes are next

I've mentioned that I have fixations
My left eyebrow takes a toll
Bunching and rubbing the wiry strands
Pushing hard
They are different from others
Each makeup the width of two
Hardened and coarse
Needled into my pores
Back to where they sprouted
At the hand
Of my pressured finger

confessions v.1.2

feathers have always grazed my lips
I even used to suck my thumb to them
often
satin ribbons and the smoothness of
that white blanket stained yellow. though the best will always be
the bunching of the silky short strands of the Siamese;
who lent their bodies to my fingertips
twins that laid in hearts and linked kink-tails tied inside
and the other blinded left from birth
behind those names that rhymed with
fling song and basha.

thanks, you guys. I miss you.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

confessions v.1.0

sometimes i like to hold soda in my mouth so that it can eat away at all the leftover food bits stuck in my teeth

iii

Broken in three. I had a flash of blue while washing the dishes. It was so bright and instant I was sure it lit up the room so brightly that it wouldn't go unnoticed, but when I turned around everything was in its place, including Him. I asked him if he saw it matter-of-factly, and always off in his reading mind he asked me to repeat myself (with one sound).

My room is tidy like it was on December 31st 2009. I can think of five people who can vouch for this.

Soon, I am going to a strange place that shares the name of a past of mine, followed by four more stops in vacant images in a continent I've only flown over. I'll be among a family of long missed faces and strangers with accents. Mostly, I'll be with Him. I get to watch his first flight. His first landing. His first adult experience than will render him a child lost in fresh curiosity. I get to be alone with Him. Walk through cobblestone'd streets and see his familiar face against the freshness of a new air. We'll speak to each other through a different sounding babble, we will walk through the streets and and stand on bridges and breathe in silence.

at least i hope we do.

can you read this?

.

how

How?

How? How?

How?

How? How?

How?

How? How?

How?

11:46 pm

Untitled testing breath on my shoulder
Good night. It's still before midnight.
Sorry I missed the beer and the laughs
Eyes Burned a hole to my brain
Chest bare and cold but
Comfortable
Toe sweats in shin hair while I watch a movie
Quoted "peck juice". ...
I planned on having rum but I stayed green instead
Awake in this heavy vessel sprawled out
In the black
Of this box
Cluttered-but-wish-it-were-clean
Feeling
Tomorrow, maybe.

P.S. Your leg is cold, but your foot is hot.

m

I've never seen your face, sparing that one moment you left it up and sent it to only me, I saw your eyes, though out-of-date, i saw, i looked, and thought really just how perfectly fitted to their canvas they seemed. I imagine what they've seen. Where they drift to when you are listening.

I suppose i saw them That One Time, when he drank the white russians and I drank the gin, i was wearing stripes and red buttons. Puffy shoulders - and i still liked to straighten my hair. They argued in the living room. It was a mixing of the host's two facades, i don't even know if she was aware. I certainly wasn't at the time. We were all just being honest, at least as honest as we were capable of being then, even to ourselves. The music was bad. You stayed in the kitchen, he spoke to you. Had I known you were there (now) I would have. But I'm glad I didn't. I would have been embarrassed. Still, I wonder what got you out of the house then. Surely now, it would be a much better trip.

You have a way. I can feel you. I felt you before you ever directed your text toward me, or rather, before I asked you to. You never speak unless spoken to, and you really only give and never ask to get. and I know you have heard this before. You are one that receives praise a lot, I know. Though your own honesty and alertness for your surroundings prohibits you from feeling this truth from others. I know you think their applause is their way of keeping you up so it hurts less when you fall down, but... if you only knew. Really.

I love your alliterated words and the way you piece sounds together so that they evoke a sick sensation even i can get myself to feel. I feel so flowery and flowing and fucking fantastic, really. Words very rarely touch me, despite my over-eager willingness to purge, I rarely feel a thing from others'. You don't know the weight, but I know you will, one day. You can't see the beauty of your own language, just yet. I will make you see. What is it with me? This eagerness to pick up what i deem broken and mend and stitch and, I swear, I don't want the credit. I don't even think you're broken. With the others, thats what I thought it was, but I don't. I promise I don't. Not with you. I just want you to feel beautiful, for a moment. Beauty is only momentary, after all. I want you to see beauty now, see yours. I know you can hear it. You know its there but you don't even know you create it. You will see. Even if i have to kidnap you (i will), you will see. We will sit in a room walled with sound from option and fingers and you will watch, apprehensively at first, you will want to dive in, i know you will want to. And like the time I walked into that back room of my house on the hill and watched them tap on things with the lamp on, amazed by their willingness to exist that way in light; you will, too.

It wasn't until i'd emerged from the dark that I realized I am still afraid of it.

From a different world you and i, and him, and her, especially her, i know how much you love her. Funny how often your name is mentioned in your absence. Or, is it absence? Surely it feels like you are around now. I don't know that you can be absent when your body was never there, or, here. But you're here now. At least we like to talk about you as if you will be, soon. I want you to know that I will never pretend to know your pain, but I will always be willing to distract. Your willingness to sit and listen is one of your many distinctions. So few are blessed with this rare marvel, and you have lent it to me so much I would willingly give you a limb. I would cut it off my self. I can't count the amount of times I've cried. Honesty. You are honesty. Perturbed little piece of stink in front of you, that of which you talk about so often, the make up of yourself, as you so bluntly think. That furry little set of eye balls that watch your every move. I've never seen him but I know he's there. (I was just kidding when I said I didn't believe you). I am so glad that he's there. I know he is glad for you too. I am glad for you. Even if i never see your face (i will), I will always be glad for you. You think you have seen every inch of you but I haven't seen your mouth move, and I know it will move differently from how you expect, I know I won't be disappointed. I can't be. I want you to meet her. I want you to meet me. No, I want to meet you. I want to touch you. I want you to show me all the things that are broken about you and I want to watch them mend. I want to sit in silence and watch you struggle to find the words. I want you to look at us while we see your face realize that we don't need any. That we'll never need any.

I miss you today, and I don't even know you(r face)

(but i know you).

over the weekend

...and after we drove in surrounded by stone

and bodied-trees dressed in

flowers

i breathed out

thinking we're surrounded by people but only our hearts are beating

foggy eyed

i once ran down an escalator going

up

after a foggy-eye'd mistake

to go against the grain in this manner

particularly

i'd just

rather

not

(if you know me you know)

i am still

not sure why i did

moving stairs got-me-to-thinking

i like when we can move ourselves

instead

or at least

want to

i like real cases

no matter how long or wide

you can walk or

stand or

incline or

decline

you can even sit

still

for awhile

less choice to more doings

i was drunk enough to try

no static stairs in sight

so i thought

and with the red pump i made it

somehow

only to my right spotted vacant

peripherals i see the shadow of

a real case

climbing up

or down

in the same way that i came

like sounds

He couldn't hide his words
In fuzz soaked
Metaphor with no meaning
To it's mother
He could only say what was
And what he knew and
What he hoped
And
She doesnt coat her words either
In fact
Mostly she doesn't use words at all
Only pushes of gut wrenching

betwixt-ing's

archaic

sounds that sound

like themselves

whats that

onomatopoeia

I can't stand to be topless
When you won't hear me speak

i never want to like you when you're sorry

its tough though

you never take your eyes off me

hey

remember that time?

i'll tell you in the morning.

Sandwich at 12:00 am

Heavy breath on my back
Ribs squeezed fisted knuckles
I can feel his heart and
Hear his hum now
Knees wrapped into the pocket
Of mine
A kind of holding that is giving
We always share our warmth
A kind of holding not of habit
Necessarily; but
Out of comfort and fitting
Perfectly with our zigzagged forms
As I write this she arrives
She can smell us touching
Settles herself in on the other side of me
Sandwiched between two briskly besting hearts
The only warm bodies I usually want to touch
I never have trouble sleeping
When they are near
Having them both is a real treat
When she moves - it's closer
Purrs deeper each time

Stretches out and says
I'm not sure
conversing with his
other mind

Returns his Arm
Each
subtle movements
(on my part)
Responded with an instinctual
pressing of my back
Soft and barely
There

My favorite kind

i want to go here when i die, or before:

Like her

I wish they were all like her
Talks like hushes and
How she licks my salted seeping nose
It hurts but that coo is all I need
The scratches on the emery and
How she walks all around us
I'd let you wake me up for nothing
I appreciate your concern

(somedays, not today)

Kiss me again because
I will always choose your neck
To nuzzle

over my left shoulder

and just now, he said as he held her:

you smell like dirty feet; you must have been sleeping in the wrong socks.

g.

i see a simulation

i hope in stream

sweet scenes of

sweet bees

regurgitated worms

into baby's mouths

their ignorance makes

yours

shine

and, thats fine.

i just want mine to mean something

even if only

to me

From over there

I'd always been fascinated with down under there, the farthest place from me. Fascinated by the people, their twangy tongue and sun-kissed locks. As a child I'd expected they'd be the most different from me, how could they even live in this world? I'd selected one from there, and a few weeks later I received an envelope that I'd previously imagined mail from there would look like, security patterned blue seeping through on the inside with red checks along the outer-edges. A strange footed animal on the stamp, the envelope fluffed outward with the items inside. The words were trivial, but not to me, then. She listed her hobbies, asked me about mine. We shared a love for animals and I was jealous of her living on a farm. Of course she did. She was on the other side of the world. Years later I'd get close to there, but I'd stop at the Indian Ocean, only looking over towards the islands where I'd heard a familiar movie was filmed. Hot white sand, hot blue water. Boats with handmade sails - that too was how I'd pictured it.

We met some from there, as I'd imagined we would (somehow); spent our last night drinking the resort dry next to a fire we built beside our feet. We traded accents (or attempted to), and i went to sleep that night with the cat I met.

We'd write a few times a year sending photos before the phenomenon of inter-connected addresses and screens and instant mail were the norm. She wore a green fleece next to a white horse. The landscape in the background mimicked what I saw in my mind, thought one day we'd ride together over the sparse brown flicked with green, looking out for snakes, and bird-eating spiders.

I was ten when we first spoke, and there were others, Finland, Singapore, some without return addresses. Still, her. Even when the letters stopped, still, her.

We almost saw each others faces in real-time, ten years ago. He was supposed to go for the sport, I was supposed to join him as his sister. It wasn't his time, and in turn, it wasn't mine either. (He eventually took me much later, close, to the hot, white sand and the hot blue water, stopping at the Indian Ocean).

Once that strange phenomenal world settled among us all - up here and down there the same, we spoke sporadically, once confiding in lost relationships of the same span. I don't think it mattered to either of us but we both played the part - we seemed to be in the same spot, from all the way over there.

I've always been privy to strange friendships, despite the flutters of self doubt and fear of the eyes. I go through with what's asked, though, at least the once. I'm never disappointed. I hope they aren't, either.

Recently I found out she was here, in the city, where I live. She'd been over here once or twice, but never here. She wrote to me on my phone. I stared at it for a long time. I felt her proximity. I thought about the green fleece and the white horse. I pictured her wearing it but I knew she wouldn't. I saw her smile, her ten year old hair and the dirt on her face.

I asked him to come with me. I asked him too. He didn't know where we were going, but he didn't care. That's what I like about him. Nearby where they stayed, we spoke to one of the many in this place who always ask to get but never offer to give. One of the Assumed Entitled's. We obliged, somewhat apprehensively. We should have known, with his shirt reading a big black FUCK OFF. I don't know about the others but it was kind of a rush. Almost immediately, I spotted her. I knew it was her by the way she stood, even. I'd never seen her flesh or her hair or that smile except in that photo but there she was. I ran over and embraced her. I think I even skipped. I hugged her's. We introduced. The Assumed Entitled was a great ice-breaker. We walked. Later, he told me that the clutch set up the ease for the rest of the night. It made me feel in control.

I mentioned to her the photo, she referred to the green fleece and white horse. She mentioned her name. She reminded me of my first letter and the phonetic spelling of my last name. She still asked. We drank and talked over skipped silences and cased guitars. She talked of her fear of moths and how she didn't mind the spiders --despite their ability to kill. A hundred times the size of any one found here, I stared and asked. She told me about their webs mimicking unraveled steel wool. She smiled when she talked. I thought of how often I'd pictured her voice. Soaked in surreal as her soft sound bounced against my right ear. She was so gentle, and I trusted her. She felt like part of me, I wonder if she considered me part of her. I'd forgotten all we talked about throughout the years. It seemed like she knew my family. She talked of roadkill, and her love of the unknown or unseen (squirrels). We reminisced of the time we saw one twitching under a tire. She asked the best spot to seek out raccoons. I told her to look behind her.

I didn't bring the keyboard --I didn't care. She pushed all night, though. The other. I was somewhat vexed and a little hurt - after all, this was a Once. I don't think I told her that though, so how could I. After all, I never do. I just tip-toe, I've always tip-toed. Starry eyed and light on feet, I am commended a lot for this but also condemned. I don't blame them. She could wait, we had hours, after all. And she did, happily.

I met her other and he was everything I'd hoped for. They seemed like old friends. He shared the same name as an old pet. I wanted to stay there all night. Our time together axed their Tourist plans, but, they didn't seem to mind. We parted as we part most hands - with plans to have another, I thought they might pan out, but I wasn't entirely shocked when they didn't. We took turns cradling this time, even her other, even my others. They made their way back, we met the ones who were waiting.

garden friends

I spotted him on the porch behind a trail of wet. He spotted me, too, I think. Or maybe, he was just spotted. Long eyes, pretty to look at. He was slow, very, slow. So slow in fact, we didn't even notice him move.

I sat there for awhile, taking photos of him. he moved, but not fast enough to affect the capture. Once provoked he'd curl up slightly, shrinking his size to almost half of what he was capable of. I was warned the lights might scare him. But, he wasn't going anywhere.

I'd never seen anything like him. I scooped him up, careful not to harm his soft body, placed him next to the tree at least six times his size. He chose to stay on the vessel. I went into the kitchen to find some leftovers. I handed him a cooked glazed carrot. He latched to it, like it were his last meal (and maybe it was; how would I know?), and we watched the orange shrink in size ever so slightly, much like his body had moments before. I think he liked the dirt and the succulent sweet of the vegetable more than the hard nailed wood, but I can't be sure. Perhaps he was long on his journey in search of a new home.

None the less, in the morning, both he and the carrot were gone.

....:...

please see:

fished from the past truer words

than the present

but you should know:

the only true extension of myself

is bound in yellow

(at the moment).

SEEDS - november 2009

and when you spoke about

the whales just now

and how you cried and

smiled

my heart welled

and my eyes would have too

but i am pretty good

at hiding it

I am sick/sock of your d's.

A note from you

We can all be silent and faceless if we want to be
I thought he was you
I don't find it insane to pretend to be another-- it could be fun
Something I would do in my teens and
The constructed emotion I see from you often
Shakes the saliva from my sixteen year old tongue
I am there (most of the time)
And when i'm not

I can't explain why

and I wish you wouldn't ask
We will get there one day
I think
And if we don't you will find another
That will remind you

where i am

(here)

You miss me when I'm there
I miss you when I am here
Interesting block of arrangements
I tear in thought
You hired someone
It should have been me
I won't blame you, no
I won't say a word
Interesting blue blurs on a header
A tonbstone near my knee
Eyes roaming above and
There you are
I remember when we put you there

I am sorry for not visiting
In form; often or
Ever
you're there
Often though
Here in this space
I was your only.

she said you'd appreciate a visit

from your only

(after)

Your still only
You didn't care and
That's what I loved most about you

Long

So long sweet sailor of mind
Guts and pined-for feeling
Wool hats (of knits and trilby)
Water specked with white dots (feathers)
Out this train window
Home for the holidays
Familiar faces in tow
New families
It does feel like that, doesn't it?
A family ....
I can tell he is from a small town
Sweet curls under sweat-soaks
And smelly feet under toned
Calves
And they are all from the same place as me
But we didn't know when we were there
Even him; who is mine
And to him, I want to start kissing him hello
And goodbye
Even in front of them
I want my hand held with eyes
Watching and
I'll never grope you in public but
It'd be nice to know you wanted me
To

i write most with a cloudy mind

or clouded lungs

phone ramble

i almost lost my hat (again)

nearly flew off in a hot underground wind

i remember why i never introduced

it to my bicycle

got on the wrong way

so sure

how often do i feel like i am going

the right way

i feel we could all be him

J - we are all so simple

why are we so afraid to show

simplicity pure

we were as simple as him

simpler...obviously

why isn't it beautiful when we say it?

is it because we are alive?

He has all the answers and

we only just have to listen

women are the niggers of the world

fat old mother hen

unworthy to be our friend

if you don't believe me take a look

at the one you're with

just do

you've heard it before, and before

love is the answer.

happy birthday soon

you would probably despise me (my love

for you)

but

i would love you the same

and her the same (too)

as i do

GOODNIGHT

toes touch so slightly

effortlessly

ever so lightly

seemingly robotic

but smooth

in the doze with your soothing hum

finally here again

its nice to miss you sometimes

he never cuts his toenails but

i'd rather they scratch me

than not be here

at all

29 helens agree

promptness is important

i haven't looked up

once yet

is it still an iPhone addiction

if i'm writing words in a

"notepad"?

(constantly)

...and that time...

more of the early aughts; or not (do you even know what the aughts are? this dictionary doesn't).

drunk scribbles from that time (and that time...

and that time...

and that time...)

SAAHS lets just go with it.

you don't want what we can have you want what i can

give you

not to share

but

what i have given you is

what you wish you could have

in your bedroom

and, i can't lend it to you

anymore

i came to the conclusion and told you about it

but i never meant

this

but my denial should have told me

and

well

i am not surprised at all.

i am not surprised at all

that they are with you in the woods now. i mean, was it anyone else?

no.

it was always them.

and thats okay, it was fun.

We all talk in our own language, and, really

those few minds i put to bed nightly

and

those who own the lighters

i hold in my back pocket are the only ones

who can sound out the s' in my slurred tongue.

they can pick the tufts from your hair, and i know that they want to

thats the thing

they want to

and i don't

i can love you from a far

and

its the only way

it should be

and you want it that way

even if you can't

admit it

and

you know this

and it was fun pretending for awhile

and the ones who don't need

to ask

of

anything

and yet i am

willing to give

i'm a dreamer

i'm a dreamer

but i'm not the only one

but

we are one

you have me

i just can't give you all of it because

i know i'll never get it back

and the ones who don't need

to ask

of

anything

and yet i am

willing to give

its taken me this long to realize and

i don't mind

its just nice to know

theres a reason you're there and then you're not

you're afraid to show all the ones who

love those eyes

and, i guess i don't blame you

i mean, i don't know

(what its like)

i just think

the coward in the corner will be called on

soon enough

and i wish

you'd just give something real and flawed

and ugly

because you've given me everything

except that

Have i ever mentioned how I much I fucking hate time?

once i had to say goodbye

or rather, once,

i was given the chance

instead i buried my face, afraid to water

a different kind of spout

shielded by a smile

and my age

i left and didn't look back

(though i do look back

daily)

his mother hates to say goodbye

in fact she refuses it at all

this time i know i won't say it

again

not because i am afraid of

the void

but because i know

it will follow me

or maybe because

its already

gone

thoughts for later

i want someone to ask me on my deathbed

what does it feel like to be dying

i would like to think

i'll be able to answer that question

honestly

and i would like to think

i would reassure

that we all are

all the time

but i would like to think

i could be asked

and i'd like to think

that i could answer

so that

i know

i can do that

for someone

so that i know

just how it feels

myself

and i hope

i am able to make

a dick joke or

two

here on earth

early in the aughts

i met you once and i thought you were something special. Darty gleaming crystals shot violently across the room. You packed your little thing with such conviction I remember feeling sick with envy of your life. The act was small but I saw your being. You had a confidence that I craved. From then on everything reminded of you. Snowy owls and the mini stripe of the jeans. The amount of time I spent in bed to the feather I put in my hat (which I later lost). I once saw an owl while driving on the dirt road with A. It swooped down in front of my headlights. It didn't turn its head, it plunged forward in false ignorance as if mocking our reaction. I watched it then as I watched you before. That makes more sense to me now.

Your mane is fiery now. Once round and white, you sometimes frighten me with how much you float when you walk. I remember the time you were there, I remember the time you weren't. Where are you? I'd like to watch you when you're alone, I'd know then. Maybe I wouldn't want to, but I know it'd have to be better than the truth you think you're spouting.

Remember when i spoke to you and later heard it, singing to me. It may have been my voice but at the time i meant it for another, and now I know it was my mind asking me to watch out from you. Gunshots out my window, sand scratches on my nails. Forty seven bedwetters and thumbsuckers and forty seven abandoned glasses of water at my bedside. You're sometimes there when I need you to be, but more often than not I'm scared to see you.

Do you know how often my teeth crumble my sleep?

I worry for the people who worship. Someone who worships anything is mildly frightening, to me. Those who worship fleshy beings are the most intense. I worshipped you for a time. Maybe my old mane is returning. It was never this wild, before.

Sometimes I think she'll get it, and I hope she does. More often than not I'm pleasantly surprised by her despite feeling decades older, still. I hope I get it.

I hope they all get it.

I'd be lying if i said I don't enjoy my time in the clouds. The sky is vast and I enjoy jumping in. But I stopped believing in God when I was young and I know the board spoke from our fingers, the same ones that made our dolls rub up against eachother; the same fingers that picked our noses and licked what came out. I'm ok with out them. Sometimes I just wish they'd all join me back down here on Earth. Though maybe its my fault, afterall... I don't much enjoy being unclothed, and, eye contact really does freak me out.

I just think It could be dangerous up there, all the time.

index

I once owned a hat.

My dad bought me this hat on Boxing Day. One of the few times I can recall all four of us taking a trip to The Mall, we stopped into a store and all tried on this hat for a joke. Everyone looked ridiculous. My dad put it on my head and stopped and said, "I need to buy you this hat." He did. It was Forty-six dollars. It was a dark green with a black strap, one hundred percent wool. Kind of stiff for my liking, but they convinced me I needed it. I fell in love with it. It was strange to love a hat so much. I felt comfortable in it; hidden behind its brim.

We went out for lunch after that. I wore the hat. My dad stared at me and said, "You know, your eyes are the exact same colour as that hat."

One day, I lost this hat.

I left it at a restaurant, and felt sick with guilt when I finally realized I didn't have it, forty-eight hours later. I called people who may have seen in me in The Hat, I wrote a CraigsList posting in desperate attempt to send a word out about The Hat, I told everyone I knew that I lost it even though I hated even speaking of it because it made me sad to even think of it. I went back to the store where we'd purchased it. Only summer hats for sale. I inquired with a salesman about The Hat.

"Oh, kinda floppy brim, leather strap?"

"Yes, that's exactly it!"

"I bought the brown one!"

He told me they'd come in late August, they were big sellers, after all.

I've always been inexplicably hurt when I lose certain inorganic objects. I create life-spans for certain objects of memories. Even slight memories. Even memories involving people who couldn't remember. I get attached to things.

I went back in Late August, and there they were. The strap this year a reddish brown, a little darker in colour, but I thought maybe that was just because they were new.

They were fifty dollars. I didn't buy one. It didn't feel right. I felt like I was trying to fill a void I wasn't authorized to fill; though perhaps if I'd had fifty dollars I would have done it anyway.

Recently I met my parents for lunch, albeit bagged from a lack of sleep the night before. They'd just gotten back from a trip to Europe. They pulled over and my dad got out, wearing a familiar looking silhouette.

"It's too small for me, you can have it." He said as he walked towards me, tossing me The Hat. "Its from Italy!"

My mom found it the first day they were there. She carried it from place to place, afraid to pack it in her bag incase it lost its shape.

Its floppier, with a black buckle-strap, but otherwise, identical to the Original Hat. It fit my head more perfectly. It was like I was being reunited with The Hat after a short separation to make the love grow fonder. Or, I'm just comfortable behind its brim again.

The Hat is back. Thank you, parents.

while my three fingers in the middle are frozen with pressure

i've got his beef now,

numb and dented fingers

waiting to be calloused

by the minor mastery of

those fat strands

and i really don't care

at all

who's coming

but i'm gonna see

where it takes me

and who i'll notice

on the other side

something

my ears are hot, and i wonder if thats what my mom means when she says they are burning. I wonder if what she says is true; that it means someone is talking about you. i doubt it but, they sure are hot.

sounds from the other room; i celebrate. its like i can't impress myself in my own taste, so i rely on others for the stimulation.

oh well though,

at least it stimulates me at all. to be honest though, its rare i'll hear one from one i don't know, or further yet from

one that is not me. i'm kind of ashamed but i do it anyway. i've tried to pin the word on many occasions...

(you could attest to this,

i am sure)

you see, i am not all that in love with myself, and often when the reflection is present, or the mouth of the 's', and the way my eye(s) deal with exhaustion,

cause me more than

i can handle

at times

even the thoughts from my head, or the words that i've said; inflections of tones and mood swings i cannot

grapple into fidelity.

sometimes i even think i might have a fiend in me. the way i ache in the winter, even when i don't. and the way my mother must think of me at times.

she called it a strange type of narcissus, and i like that; though i know she wasn't speaking of me.

i re read the words after they come,

after a nap,

after a drink,

sober

drunk

hungover

the music

sober

drunk

when he comes home

and begs me

to share

it

and then after

when i beg him

to

eat it up

and

spit it out

(again)

hoping to rid it of

those gaping gaps

and of course,

he always does.

i am not like so with photographs. (perhaps i am more assured with them than with the others)

but with paintings i find it hard to say good bye. i will, but

they've always bled the most

from me

i can't help but indulge the fixation at times, but then i think it can't possibly be the worst

thing about me

and at least i am that

in

love with the ( arts ) |ärt| subjects of study primarily concerned with the processes and products of human creativity and social life...

(at least i am that in love with something)