I wanted to know how he felt for awhile
so I put on his shoes and
smoked one of his cigarettes
If I'd stayed who I was
I'd probably've put it out
But while i was out there
I thought about the swans
Sleeping in our front yard
We always hope for snow on that day
But their white feathers
Shining under the ice
Bathed in blue behind their
Tails and s-necks
Black eyed beauties with their speckled young
Just their pretty Had our eyes on those days
But mostly though
their willingness
To be there
And how I woke to the white
Still tucked in from dark
Next to the blue in the front
That alone was more delightful and calming
Than than the glowing red footprints
In the blue footprint'd snow's dawn

Sometimes I feel I can outsmart the cold,
I can stay unscathed by it's funk
I can hold off from my fear, bearing wind without tear
But usually that just means I'm drunk

bubbly water

One of the first things he told me
Was that he cried for the first time in years
And the tears were so hot it felt like they'd been boiling for that long
I'm not sure what he was crying about but it's really not important

Because now I actually know what you mean.

mistress mudslide

I'm Calling For Poop Letters.

1. "I am pooping right now. I've become so regular. This time every day. [My roommates] make mention of it nearly daily. 'It's 5:30 man, RIGHT ON SCHEDULE!' Or, "Ugh...Can you flush as you go?' Once, [I was] scolded for waiting all day to poo 'cause I said often I have to go in the morning when one of them is already in the poo-room. 'You let it marinate all day. THAT'S why it smells so bad!'"

2. "Awwww. Pooping and messaging me? That is so sweet! Can you flush as you go! Poor girl. Can't a princess shit in peace!? I am marinatin' right now myself. I've been putting off my shower because of it. I feel as if I'm on the verge. But now quite ready to expel the days (months, years) dirty laundry. This one is going to be very offensive. [My dog], he relishes it, though. Our respective poop scents are what binds us."

1/5

1. i'd never really thought of going there. I'd never really thought of going to any of those places. I think I always knew I'd get there one day, though I believe I always thought of IT as ONE. Despite knowing how many are jammed like magical sardines in a can of mouth-watering beauty - I thought i'd live in a van like they did. Have christmas under a twig with hand drawn portrait-cards. Have our faces drawn into sinister greys and whites. He'd grow a mustache. It's silly to think much of the same, but its the only thing of theirs I've really cherished. I've looked at them and wondered where it went. Wonder if I'll ever grow too old to sleep on a sheet-less mattress in a snow mounded boxed of blue (or yellow, or green, or red).

I really thought I'd see more palm trees before I'd see another cobble stone'd road -- more cobbled than the South of Houston, older than the pebbles on that Koh. I expected a want to stay there instantly -- and I did, if only for the roads, and the stone'd fences. And for them.

Lots of it was special (by that I mean, momentous, magical, un-general), but most of it wasn't (by that I mean, it was all memorable, each corner and each tilt of the head; it proved to be interesting, as every new place is, and-- remarkably unique. But we still woke sandy eye'd and molded into our bodies as we do every morning, words hurt just as much, and the sun shone the same way as it does at home). To me thats what made the experience so painfully, beautifully real. I think I have said before that each place, (even the furthest from here) that I have been has so sorely familiar; just slightly slanted. I think that stands here, too. I don't mean that to sound negative - quite the opposite. It gave me the greatest sense of familiarity and solace laced with opulence it wasn't until our third stop that I longed for some concrete I'd already stepped on and perhaps the sound of my mother's voice.

Anyway, it was beautiful to look at, but what struck me most was the feeling in the air. As we progressed, things got more beautiful, or at least my eyes were finally wide enough to take me some place else, and i was finally able to swallow the freedom that kissed me from the beginning. We opted to walk, a lot. We missed the big things, and I wasn't even a bit disappointed, just a little worried of what I might tell her when I got home. That soon faded though, I just wish I could have spent more time in the first. Going, I knew I would feel this regret, this longing to walk longer with them beside us, but I was grateful for the one night with them, speaking of Paris, and other places I have not been, where I jotted down the one word to describe this place and all its parts: Honesty.

Its funny how betrayed we can feel over here. Spiteful, full of blame for those who are supposed to protect us. Its not our fault - after all, they told us they would, or rather --they promised us they would, and we were told not to do much other than to obey. There, though... with the pints and the twang, the tables and empty glasses littering the alley-ways, the dark wooden boxes filled with candles and families, enjoying a beer with your baby. Here, things that are monitored are not solely outlawed. They allow you to make mistakes. The closings at 10. The hand made paper bound in pressed leather. The stables turned vendors. The way they smile only if you smile at them. They don't push their way to you when they see your sparkling shoes - they let you come to them, and they treat you with their own bouts of human interaction. Its so beautifully un-special; which i think is what makes it so perpetually inspiring.

Onions cooking in an oil sopped pan
Retard comments from the couch
I used to be strong
I think
Now I'll never know without

what will

What will come of those parallels
Confined in wood; chalky white linings
Bound in foam
There to encase the sounds that are made
Muffle them like an adulterous scream
and your head, in my opinion
To catch your precious mind from breaking
Just incase things get a little too crazy.
I havent been there in awhile
I haven't heard much from there either
Although I haven't been too keen on
Listening at all
Not even to torture myself
Which is what's most surprising

That summer when I met you,
When i thought I knew sound then
Wasn't until the drives and the colours
And the way you spoke;
so frustrated from your feeling
Of compassion for the notes
You showed me how I felt
Each time you let me choose the one
Of five you'd laid out
It hurt but
That's when I knew I loved you

And ive always kind of enjoyed
Torturing myself with music since then

Back again, though new parallels
And new foam
Different bodies; or at least
Mixed Into a different pattern
This time

I wonder if I will be able
To make a sound at all

I wish I could howl like
Midnight upstairs

glimpse

He is showering
He is coughing
The dogs are howling upstairs
The cat is sleeping
The black one is weeping
I've spent hours like this
Slicing pears.

not that you are wondering

but i didn't forget

i drew annoyances

and i did it the way

you probably wouldn't want it

and the truth is

i thought of you

and i've cried a good happysad before

and i probably will again

(it was just nice to have an excuse

to make it about

you

though i never really need one)

my gut hurt mostly and she was in my mind

'cause she's still here

where i am

i know i'll never know her

but thats okay with me

i'm just glad i know of her

anyway, yeah

i didn't forget

i just didn't write it here

smells like fire in here --

metal city fire in my bedroom

first time all year

creaks along the side

startled sounding

bedroom covers so cold they're hot

especially without another body

within

her ears are moving back and forth; i'm calm if she is

while she circles around me; cold but not cuddled

i let her find her place --

white on my knee at once,

green to hazel soon after

bottom right--

top left--

rear to face--

between my legs--

beneath my arm--

bodies bundled--

and the best part

light hairs of her fifth

on my face

gently

ever so lightly

like when we sleep at night three bundled and grazed

i like when we're alone

she's different with me

things I have done, things I have thought about doing

Hands to the right at 140
Tongue glued to a pole
A stick in a spoke
A red jalapeno'd burn of the lips

05

sometime in may, bound in blankets, tired, and tile-d from the bathroom floor, i washed my face and exited, attempted slumbers next to a body i used to live in. Pupils peering in directions of my drips the moment i entered; my third eye heard it before she said it, "oh. we thought you were crying," . A forced laugh pushed out of me and my two normal eyes flickered at my own dishonesty. Funny how familiar it can feel each time despite being shocked at the way my tongue moves like clock-work.

"i am here" was the message received shortly after. still bound and tile-d, it was one of the few times i recall feeling a hug that i couldn't actually touch. I cried about wanting another manhattan, but i just wanted the laughter. Or the choice. There, I felt Understood, and thrusted forcefully at our opposite battery-ends. I sat in the hall way for sometime. He pushed. I asked him not to. He obliged. He went to sleep that night feeling helpless, but when he awoke he felt normal again, like clock-work.

when i returned home i cried in the kitchen and he held me, and that was one of the few times i've accepted an embrace and let it engorge me in a state where i could barely stand. He never asked me why, because he already knew. I called her for impending sounds-stirring because for once i knew i could. what i mean by that is, i know i always could. but, for the first it felt solid, strong, untouchable, past the point of too-good-to-be-true-touching-and-holding-believing-it-could-be-dropped-at-any-moment-fleeting-feeling, onto hands-held-through-storms-and-a-silent hug-bound-and-tile-d. Our timings were impeccable. I think i always had one foot out the door (i think i always have one foot out the door) but i swear at the time i didn't think i did. I thought i gave you everything i had - i would have even given you my body. But i guess I did; if i didn't my longer lasting-s and those who can vouch for my youth would be able to, and i wouldn't have needed a spare hard-drive to show a past chapter. I thought i learned how to hold more; offering a finger to each outreached hand--- but, then it was gone; like clock-work.