this weekend

it felt so foreign; so other-worldly. the past 48 hours i have been lost in time. I've done a bit of waiting, but it hasn't felt like waiting. And when the hours passed, it didn't worry me. I slept, through the same movie, twice; right after the first. Relived the same moment. Waking up every twenty minutes to a painful swallow, or to feel her shift around at my knees. I finally went to bed and he entered the room to my painful moan. I got up and showered, as if to start the day at five am. We talked and touched; and I remember some laughter.
Today was much of the same. I feel my limbs moving involuntarily. It still hurts to swallow and feels like I am still disabled from the copious amount of gin I drank 48 hours ago. My head is winding back slowly as I write, the TV playing countless movies that I listened to in my sleep. It still feels so foreign, so different. I can't imagine leaving this world. but know i have to. and will tomorrow.

i don't know

i’m a burnt-out sleep,
a late night tweak
i’m an early riser at ten
i’m a prolific thought,
a paint-covered smock
i haven’t changed much since then.

i’m a full loaded heart,
still afraid of the dark
i’m always the last one to retire
i’m a raspy cough,
a smelly fresh cloth
i don’t know, but i know i desire.

i’m seeing things,
whatever it brings
though i don’t know what it is that i see
i’m feeling things;
like the way she sings
i don’t know, but i want to be free.

i collect fragments of this,
for a moment of bliss
its the only way i can feel whole
i take myself away,
so later i may stay
i need it to fill my soul.

(and we all grow) old

i am choking on words

my palms are sweating

trepidation, consternation

are both big words

for

FEAR

bestows on me like a long rusty wire

clinging me to something

i have never

been able

to see.

i am stuttering and dodging

your pupils

and i wonder why

everyone is always

staring

at

me.

i feel naked when

i see myself in your eyes

and your eyes

and yours

and yours

But him,

he is picking his nose

and she
she is cleaning the blood

from her pants

and he just left

a love

and she is crying

(it feels good)

he is crying

(he feels nothing)

and he saw me naked

yesterday and

now he is throwing out

the cotton

covered in his own

sticky

yellow

wax.

she prefers to absorb it

while she prefers to get it out

but they both unwrap

them and throw them

away

and she does a lot of shaving

and he wishes he did

and she has a lot

of stray hairs

on

her

face.

he likes things

in his his ass

and she doesn't but

she tried it once

(just in case she did)

she likes to paint

(but isn't sure why)

and he hears

something in everything

and she hates what she loves

and he loves the chase

she loves being chased

but they don't want

to chase

each

other.

she used to tear her

hair out when she was five

she doesn't shave her legs

without a reason

and he prefers it but

is too shy to say

she sucked her thumb until

she was ten

and now she sucks his

and he likes it

and she likes it

but they

don't like

each

other

and his eye goes a little

crooked when he looks

a certain way

and she likes to

be

on

top

and he likes her to

be

on

top

and they come together

top and bottom

but they don't want

to be

together

and he likes the warm body

and she likes his body

he doesn't like

her body but any

body is good enough

sometimes

we smell the sewage

every time we drive down

this street and

we all

gag

because we only shit

in private

and my mother has

seen every inch of me and

my father has too

but i have never seen

all of them

and

i

never

will.

and she fears god but

he thinks we are all

pieces of meat

fearing nothing

but

DEATH

and

he's afraid of it and

laughs every time he wakes

and she stapled

her finger once and

was shocked when it hurt

she bleeds every few months

and she bleeds every day

she stopped bleeding years ago

and can't remember what it was like

when she did

She hasn't ever bled

and she will bleed tomorrow

and she hasn't bled at all

but she has
and

will
again.

here i am alone again
one in my bed
two on the floor
one on the couch.
bob was on the other but
i told him he would feel
less pain (in the neck)
in the morning
if he
went tot bed.
He packed up the music and
took it with him.
I am still up and at the moment
don't have any real intent on
going to bed.
I took the opportunity to
play the full version of
soon to be innocent fun/lets see
the people upstairs are showering
and i can't tell if i like that feeling or
if i hate it.
With an encouragement to
stay up all night tomorrow
i feel like the only thing
i should do
is sleep
but i don't want to
even if all the others
are sleeping
themselves.

031297

Mary Elizabeth Frye.

they read this at her "life-celebration". he'd said she read it somewhere and put it up on the fridge. I never noticed it when I was there, so she must have put it up once she knew she was leaving.

Today i found out who wrote this poem. The time that he read it the true author of the poem was being disputed. She was a one time poet. A housewife and florist. I smiled when i saw they shared the same name.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.

I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

Mary Elizabeth Frye.

i now know i want this someday.

i am so tired of pretending something is there.
trying to grasp something tangible
(i have never been good at it)
i've always been better at fantasizing
romanticizing
and being let down when i don't
let anything pan out.

over exaggerated smiles and two hugs in one welcome.
old faces of old family friends and genuine interest in life's succession.
leonard cohen's voice echoing over the lawn.
i'm reminded of my love for this place.
unchanging; at least on this particular day.
green grass. bees & wasps. golfballs driven into the water.
some retrieved, some lost forever (or maybe only a short time).
a dead bird,
gin & tonics, or with the fizz,
a restored engine, flooded blow-up boats,
a freshly shaved cat enjoying the outdoors.
two inside peering enviously through the glass.
foxes bounding across the lawn;
from the rock wall they've made their home.
for the most part the smile came & stayed by itself.
day three feels like age sixteen
when i feel the burden return to them again.
the burden that was (supposed) to leave with
teenage years
(but has only grown with age in destructiveness).
alone in the loving place.
trying (and failing) to keep the smile,
overshot the welcome; a day too late.
i need a break (so do they),
parted without a single hug
this time.

i miss him

all i want

Sometimes i feel like there's no point to writing because leonard cohen and joni mitchell have already said it better.