I wish that I could travel back into my infant body
and take and take and take all of my memories there with me.
These twenty-five years would be mine to live again,
only I'd get everything right this time.

summer camp

I do not say

step in to the circle if

more than once or twice

I am not digging deep

I am not sixteen anymore,

and amidst all these sixteen year olds

I can't decide if I lament that.

What I'm feeling is not nostalgia,

but the certainty of time not moving back.

I stood on this basketball court and ate cereal before.

how deep does my owing of that past learning go?

how much do I owe this place and how much can I push it?

When do I push on forward and when do I push back in?

the oar, for instance. in, neither,
nor on the lake, it interrupts. displaces.

to love is always violent.
to act is--to wake is
--and to be woken is to receive
violence.

from here to the floor
it's not so far. do not worry
about cruelty, nor little boys.

Slip

There was no water for the river, the dam

had been reopened intentionally. Still,

moisture came quickly, like a new age,

as the bridge murmured its weight

and bare birds ringed the shadow of a cloud.

Summertime, relentless, its pickling

daysweat pooling fear

at the armpit, red oak rashes poisoning the ankle and back,

each bump emerged like the head of a match.

We crept along the water and all at once

we just sort of came away in the mouth

as an excuse is swallowed, thick

as a finger in the ear, and chippy little screams

dipped over us, thin scarves.

Even the sirens listened until

we faded, though we felt our mother

picking us apart, her immense love draping

down around our bodies.

Body Poem

Stop me if you've heard this one before, but
the saline hum of crushed cabbage at my fingertips
amplifies each heartbeat
each contour of broken skin
each shallow breach of integrity,
and stop me if you've heard this one before, but
the lunged arc of my spine invokes
shrunken lungs and wax-dipped capillaries,
a ventral etiology of concern

finding my way into myself- or at least to other things through meditation

i sit down

sit bones feeling the floor

ok, know breath.

k, now breathe

ow- this hurts, why do i do this?

ow this hurts. k know breath. feeling breath coming in-lungs fulling, hmm more to the right than left.

images of sex

ow this hurts.

i see all the little creatures pounding and piercing my tissue.

breath? emails, phone calls, images of sex... ok ok- these are thoughts.

this hurts.

images of sex- again?

it's been more than twenty minutes- my alarm must be broken.

dont check your phone- dont check your phone- dont check your phone.

ok, only 5 more minutes.

now, breathe,

now breathe

images of.....oh god

where am i anyway?

All out of town

You there. Instructions.

The dog bless a bowl a day
and a shell curled, pink.
Bring me my mine, he'll say,
Belong to me like a belt.

At night he will remind you
what was clotted in kindergarten
and nobly hung in the bathroom.

Comfortably sing to him the following:
I had some dreams,
they were clouds in my coffin.

We will be back to back. Til then,
de goob as golb. Uh, no.
Be here. Be here for us. Til then,
be here for us. Bye bye.

the point is

the day has come when my father is texting me

and not only that, that it is not surprising

and the medium is not even the point, the point is:

he is on the Bart in the Bay, and

I am shaking my head at my longing, thinking

wanderlust is what makes wanderlust,

why did I leave here and return only to miss being there again?

and that is not even what's making me achy, what aches is:

what this week shows. what this week shows is:

the enactment of ideals does not equal bliss.

today was a day about processing out through my body

This week is called:

beauty in what's achy because it's complicated.

and I write that in the facebook thread with old friends about

'what is your week called?'

and the point is not even that it's on the computer, now.

The point is not even who that is excluding

the point is not even what the ideals are.

the point is.

the point is not.

d

don't say my name in caps lock,
or with a big first initial,
if you're writing to me.

Insiieae

I try to read these poems out loud
to hear where the emphasis lies
Nick joked that you don't stop/
at the end of a line
but I don't get it. You don't? Who don't?

I imagine I start reading sitting down
and the words catapult me to my feet/ propel me off the couch
but would I stop to pace in front of the audience, or would I run to the boat house and steal out onto the still water?

"If I only had a month with you."
As if time could chip away to reveal a statue
Could you tell me I didn't simply throw these words onto a clothes rack/
and hope?

Loon

Monarch of his lake.
He wades through black silk.
Red-eye detective.
Family man.

Missing

I miss you
with every inch of skin
all three layers.

when I think about the paths taken
words said
I wish I could edit out, be clear about my missing.

I carry it with me, an accessory in my life
until the missing changes
and I change with it.

headshot

the frog is to me.
green as a wheat-grass shot (kapow) but instead on my wall
like guts. green as shockingly as red.

the green is as shocking as red gets.
the frog within a dangered state,
palpating like a live heart would on my wall instead.
if the house had a heart inside its own chambers,

oh boy if these walls could feel.

magic is ambient, p.s.
i’d like to be a frog upon THAT wall,
someone must have said.

three words shifting us

when i say the word 'between'

the syllable created from my tongue touching my mouth excites

when i say the word 'closer'

we soften

when i say the word 'leaving'

you move quick, the cells in me holding must believe the can hold you here

(mistranslated poem by Trzy Slowa Najdziwniesje by Wislawa Szymboska)

little crypt keepers

picking off scabs- to reveal dazzling, burning scars of

multi layered, colored, expressed pain.

WHY does this hurt?

fold origami shapes, around my heart. lungs.

fluttered paper cuts along my abdomen.

draw blood from places

not yet felt.

i remember your stone face

shards of glass

mixed into the

cement of your skin- so every time you reached inside of yourself,

you got ripped apart.

it's like how, little kids

jump into pools

jack-knife

without worry.

or how,

i can lay in

darkness, for hours

upon hours.

down these city blocks

As I walk down these city blocks
I see faces everywhere.

Holding soccer balls
dancing and practicing moves
Running with wind in their faces.
Strollers, heels, towels from the pools.

Each face with a story
a place here
a life with its meaning.

We forget these faces
as the blur into a mash of rainbows of colors
images that are all around us.
Each one the same
just another.

This face
and that one
with their stories
heartbeats
and voices
are there.

If we walks down these blocks
and look.

These days

maybe my body is not here yet,

I hurled across the ocean, after all, and those things should take time.

I sleep, involuntarily and repeatedly,

and after a day maybe I wake up.

Does a thing become strange from too much looking?

or is it my mind racing, pouring out through my eyes?

it comes as a surprise:

I can spend hours, days, alone

leaned over the bicycle handles and makeshift drafting tables

ink stained hands, snack strewn kitchen

it's urgent when it's urgent,

and the days move slowly, resisting hurry

when it's only me.

despite the looming Fall of not knowing.

I think I can be okay today because of the Just Enoughs:

space to strew

bouts of company

phones to answer

food in fridge

sun in sky,

cash in wallet

yes, that's it. always. that's the one.

new lebanon someday

yr heart slipping through yr rib cage
yr purple lips
yr purple heart
yr bare feet rubbing each other on the couch opposite me
like we just got home from the opera and you had to escape from yr shirt
and those so and so's
yr toe nail fallen off two years in a row
yr purple purple heart
oh, and of course, your delicate, balding head

soggy little moment

on another note, i hate you.

she said

muffled

by the choke of

the feathers

growing out of her neck and

sticking,

embarrassingly,

into her liver slick mouth-

as she curses our name

repeatedly.

Bread

The cat has finished another potato
And I wonder, what am I missing?
Not B12, surely, I've been tested
Nr Arendt/Heidegger correspondences, no,
but I'll hang my posters
and hem the drapes
restock on emulsifiers
re-engage my rear breaks
And? Well?
Days arranged in a strained trikonasana,
Lungs that vacillate, not respirate.
The cat has turned her focus to the bread,
gnawed plastic, pointed ears, errant dough.

How Best Despoilt

Practically mitotic fleas, motherfuckers.
burring the room like static would,
screwing the simple surfaces.
Roommates my loves: with athletic sock
make pale your shins,
and gallantly toast bread,
tucking unwhitened eggwhite under,
there are infinite points between one point and another,
and they bite.

i am really not alone

uh oh- uh oh

Berkeley Bowl feels calmer than me

must be the weekly itch

i am in the grocery store

begin the begging-

i can whimper too

must have been crazy

long long ago when i dreamed of babies

i been longing since my kindergarten playground

never ending dreams

"don't put me on a pedestal and look up my skirt damn it" She giggles

so do i.

she got me to the grocery store too

what is it about grocery stores?

and i can't remember that word you taught me

and i cant ask you

now i lay so heavy that i know where i am

?

last night, i was thinkin, things are bad when i see someone is reading my tumblr
from jersey city and i get excited

but tonight, only hours after posting a plea for company,
to not have this house, empty and big, in the dark to myself for the weeks following,
promising home-cooking and the swing set,

i've never heard from so many lovers, old and new and (bashful, teasing)
potential, promising, and
all at once, remembering past years of the empty house
remembering my room in all stages of me, and long before the marmalade walls, remembering my bed with its crisp white sheets, stretched across the mattress like our
arched backs, the curl of our toes, waking with kisses and cups of tea

am tempted by all of it, a little for each of them, a little more of that peach of a girl,
a little more for hoping you'll see my words too, out there, and will say a bit of something
will give me a sip of your cigarette for old times, will come take your clothes off slowly

and get into bed the way you do always, as if you are diving into the ocean

there is the other hand, that dreamcastle boy driving me to shakepoint, to wrapping me all up,
to making me pinky swear to him and then deserting
to not ever reaching for me first, and damn, doesn't a girl just sometimes
want to be sure of something

sketch

not un-well-fed, but still starving for it
these are my dog years

resumAY partAY

ok so we're all in a room

and some of us are SO OLD

and we have a lot of advice to give

and it's a party, but a party with advice

and multiple generations

and all of us at different ages

it's a resume party

it's the WORST

but our whole lives have lead to it

to this party where we can still get young people to come

but we also have a lot of practical knowledge

it's a total nightmare

it's a job?

jobbing for jobs?

resumes in the fruit bowl

car keys in bags

and pockets

who related to my resume?

who wants to come home with me?

who has a cracked copy of powerpoint?

i want to present you

with my presentation

resume party

resume the party.

-A Collaboration

Miss Grass

i met you at starbucks.
crossing the street, zig zag, squinting into the tinted windows to see if you could
watch me
.

you took your break (starbucks!)
sat outside, shady stoop.
after your bike accident you had band aids all over your legs.
I sat with you, touching your bruises to see how badly they all hurt.

it's a good thing to know; how badly one can bruise.

the catch

One rainy hunt we thought our lasso caught a witch,

alive under umbrella.

we prized her yellow eye, her bug,

her toothy kiss, her dappled cheek,

her warm brooch and her muttering.

Upon inspection, also caught a woman, whoops,

who glared and rattled harshlight facts

until our dream receded.

Best to twist her up, we thought.

She is a witch, but nowaday

her burn's a bitch, and we're unfed, miraculous,

misogynist by slip.

yeah but i can't

the following sentences have been commented on previously...

hi
hi
so what do you think
what do i think
yeah what do you think
well
yeah
it doesn't make sense
no
no
no
because you love her but you don't tell her
how come
that's for you to say
for me to say but i can't tell her that
why not
it brings the situation to reality and i can't handle reality
you do it all the time
i put on life is much harder than i am letting it be
you will feel better if you just open up
maybe but i haven't done it yet and this would be big
big
yeah the grandest greatest moment of my life and i want to know it will work
well it won't work if you don't let it work
who's to say
she is and so are you but most of all her

just do it
ok
yeah
yeah
maybe you won't
i will
but you've said yes before
maybe

i'm scared.

And thus ends this week's broadcast

so i will ask you

ok i asked you
i will become so similar to you and touch you
calling people being outgoing drinking and being outgoing drinking and calling people
that was a wound
that was an hour
that was several minutes
that was my mother
sit on the blanket i can bring you eggs
whatever feels good SLEEPING BEAUTY
you like drinking with my mother
he is crying
and
he is crying
and
he is crying
there are three men
they are all crying
we do not have to cry
your friends might say hi when you will be alone so be ready i might say hi too ok
lets start crying i talked to you a little with some words not all of the words but yeah we talked with most words then
! tell me you love me cut off your tongue cut off you legs cut off your hands
tell me you love me put your tongue on put your legs on put your hands on tell me you love me
this friend is here that friend is there i have other friends there and also behind you above you she is my friend too
OK its a LONG TIME put on my hair put on my eyes put on my lips ok i love you
put these on! i love you no joke i asked all the cops and they all liked the story so much that they bought you this place that nun loves you seriously she asked me for a lot of things but i couldnt tell her because i forgot so thats why im asking you outside of it its this and its fun

Gilda grabbed her tail and said, "I don't know why Pete Seeger songs always make me cry, I'm really not a nostalgic or sentimental person."



It's irresponsible, I thought. How do I know which is which? Although it was true there was something those kids were unaware of, it was rude to say. We were all getting ruined, shiny-skinned.

Themes that seemed like sidetracks were actually central; embarrassment, childhood, failure, woozy-when-looking-in-the-mirror.

A shake across, I was never introduced properly, collecting medium-old objects and now stopped wondering, sometimes at least. Wear an apron, it looks constructed, if I weren't so, cramming over a stretch of grass. I couldn't tell them how excited I was in case they weren't excited too, but they were.

Those shoes

They were striking

as I saw them walk up to me

in semi-circles

around and

out.

burned now into my flashes of memory

When I see them now

in windows

displays.

I feel a knock on my chest

and I remember again and again

who wore those shoes

and what their walking in them

towards

around

and through me

meant.

A Symbol, You Pull It Off Well

These days

I think about you a lot

About writing you a letter—

(it would say: every day, I cut up half an avocado and put it in my salad for lunch.

i remember how you used to eat avocados, with a spoon,

scooping barbeque sauce from the pitted center)

Sewing hair on hair, you made a long braided lock,

detachable and impermanent,

(you wore a different hair style each week)

like the studs you stabbed into black denim,

one by one, while I talked to a long lost friend

and collected dog hair off my own skin tight jeans.

Now your arm is dyed

In twisted shades of dark ink

And it’s hard to see that first black/green star.

Time has passed. I like to imagine you in old age--

Wrinkly skin, misshapen tattoos,

An inspiring lack of regret,

Doing whoknowswhat.

But I’ve never known how you thought of me,

Or how you might think of me now.

Solicit

In this city we
solicit each other
while ignoring.

Some ask for food
money on trains
Beg us to listen to their stories
make them visible for a moment.

Others solicit for a cause
reaching their hands out to touch
another in the crash of bodies.

The ask, simple as 'do you have a moment'
is heard in drips along the streets
and left for forgotten.

The crisis, the cause, the issue
to be defended
if only one would stop
sign the paper
listen to the worry
or the needs for that person
to speak to other people
to get paid that day.

The Vine aches down towards the sea

We step into our lives from the errand
and life does nothing

and we know we have not fooled
it

Sophia across from me, table cloth with the... very small flowers.

I've now given her a book in black carpet binding. Not... carpet.
But, we lost the cover.

The cat walks across the sink,
and we're the only things in the room that

`0`0`0`0`0 ugh i'm gonna barf in my body 2 `0`0`0`0`0`

innocent and adventurous, i
climbed atop the platform
for discovery

we have seen our cat eat: tuna, placenta, a mouse

being that there are for Adam four ways of being—mood-health professionals being of accord—namely madam, badam, gladam and sadam— and being that said Adam rarely if ever reports himself unabashedly one -am or another, rathering when questioned to declare himself Fine-am, a nonhappening phenomena if ever there wasn’t, this illustrator in an idle moment finds his drawing paper quite spontaneously accordioned, as if to suggest division from the quite path of unimien portraiture into, instead, a quadtych, gilded, its parallel panels of –ams doing Adam a good justice, concurrently relieving said illustrator of his woothy burden, that of choosing.

searching for poetry?

Sometimes i don't see the poetry of slicing an orange

or standing in the kitchen

or waiting in line

or unzipping my pants

typing, staring,

or stepping

(i watch her put on her glasses

the babies legs are cringingly extended)

But oh when I do- when I do!

aaahhh, when I am.

*sometimes one just needs to eat- or walk- or lay day with out it meaning a damn thing.

a Quotation

If with the literate I am

Impelled to try an epigram,

I never seek to take the credit;

We all assume that Oscar said it.

~Oscar Wilde

I'm Not a Librarian, But I Wrote This at Work

I.) Librarians burst into song

every day

desperation and cosmic peace come together as

self-assurance via self-awareness of a joke of who you are;

last night I slept on the floor for no reason.

And today everyone is singing all the hits.

I woke up at 6:30 am hallucinating Alexandra

Alexandra you were so happy I was up so early!

I felt I’d failed you when I awoke again at 9:30, on the floor

bathed in light.

II.) Madeleine met her husband at a conference;

You can’t even say “conference” around her; she blushes!

When librarians go to conferences they doubt they’ll find love but

Librarians can find love anywhere else just by saying they’re librarians

Anyone can find love that way, it’s ok, you have permission -

not from me, but you have it.

III.) I feel close to my mother lately.

She can pee in front of everyone.

It seems normal to her but terrifies me

knowing how she used to live, who and what she used to do;

like a librarian who goes on dates -

and

talks about them!!!

I worry that I, too, would bear a child

Who is so prim, who must be trained to accept nakedness

to unlearn her inborn manners

in order to be happy.

96

It's too hot for
this weather.

slow-roasted tomatoes, a hymn:

buying up full rows of them, two bunches,
two to four to six to
slicing the fruit thickly not minding the juice lying the slices flat on the baking tray

heating up the oven to two hundred and fifty degrees, listening to it hum as it cranks up,
sprinkling the following over them:
olive oil, rich and full and of that wildgrass taste / balsamic vinegar / garlic (powdered or fresh, of course, fresh but crushed into submission) / dried oregano,

a teaspoon of sugar carefully over top. salting and peppering.
roasting painstakingly, lazily, until it fills the whole room and you can taste it from upstairs and everything is absolutely unbearable
!
- about 2 and a half hours.

the only time being an ex-hoarder has come in useful

one hundred and sixty dollars found in hard cash, pennies though dimes, stashed into purse pockets, honey pots, vodka bottles full of orange flowers crafted out of felt,

a full bottom drawer of pennies, heavy, gloating, unaccustomed to the light

two wooden boxes full of clean, white feathers and whiskey bottles all in a row, well-scrubbed, filled to the cap with sequins divided by color

i'ma buy me a bus ticket to new york city, i'ma sew together wings out of dust and must,
shine, gold and glass

Deer xbf

DMCme: what was with the dead bison, it was sad!

dmauricec: i helped kill and butcher it today

me: what was it like?

2:57 AM dmauricec: hot and smelly

me: how did you get involved in that situation?

dmauricec: haha

i was recommened as "someone who might be interested in this kind of thing"

best thing ever

and i have 15 pounds in my fridge

me: damn, you are set for the winter

dmauricec: i have to fnd someone to freeze it for me

3:00 AM me: once my dad did that with a deer, and we had a whole big freezer full of venison that we all refused to eat

i don't think he hunted it though, i think it was road kill

are you going to poughkeepsie for xmas?
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
DGDJust back from some club on the 34th floor of some hotel. Went along with some insanely young British people (it was Pat's 19th birthday today...) who were snorting coke all night, and stopped talking to me once they realized how old I was, and some very sweet college Columbian girls who were very good dancers.

Love,

Tullah

PS Do you think this is about a summer or winter deer? http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVwKxh3y5h0
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞DFi'm still a teenager, gosh darn today was great! it involved a deer skull. yikes! no cow skull, thank god, that means death. deers mean magic. i didn't get any birthday kisses, but i did get two birthday cards.

hi

the body vs. the mind

i wonder if i'd be the same person
if i were you
and you were me

how much of me
is me
but really
how much of you is me

Half of Two

i sat alone
in front of the computer
what time is it i asked
6:32 PM
said the computer
i don't want to change anymore
i said
i want to evolve
i want to grow
so many times in the past i've said i want to move on from what i'm doing
i want to change what i'm doing because i feel so unproductive
but i don't want to change
i like me
but i want to take what i'm doing further
i just need to take a deep breath
dive in
let the water envelop me
and then let it spit me out
give me air
freedom
and then take me in again
the water is my comfort

6:33 PM

untitled

carl sat down to write
a poem
he didn't really have any great ideas
just needed to write
a flow of words came upon him
but they were all the same word
love this love that
it wasn't really fair that he
couldn't think of anything else to write
there was plenty more happening
but he thought nothing of those things
they weren't affecting him like
the strings of his heart
it was the only thing he wanted to talk about
but it was the only thing no one wanted to hear

love

word is just a four letter word

INFINITY LIST

Win the laughter prize, funny in a jean jacket, small and
sparky, whipping through the dining room with trays. A snorer
honks from across the hall. My friends are falling down,
standing up again, taking in mouthfuls of air at the cliff-edge,
retreating to their bedded caves. That’s how love experimentation
works. That’s what it is, a steady train ploughing circles through the
night. Ascend the stairs, turn the corner to the hallway, ask how it
would feel. You only have a brain, a tool that’s hard to use. Wake up
with time to sprint a semi-circle through the frontal lobe, lap it up, salt
waiting on the spoon. Desire is a collage. Long black hair, shoulders,
affection for the sound of a name. Breathe out each time a dish is placed
upon the countertop. If you catch the radiation in your net, and spill it
split between, and if you let it linger long enough to almost burst,
it will be yours, it will be yours.

fun breathing

cry all the time

baby has a cool picnic

cry all the time

pooping

pooping

pooping

cry all the time

baby has a cool picnic

August, 1923

There are flies on her face

And arms and

Legs

And although

She is still,

I know

They swarm—

Standing in the doorway

Framed by dilapidation,

She stares somewhere far off

Into dusty plains.

Into a landscape

That I know

Only from pictures

That hang, framed—

Still and silent,

Black-and-white—

You are in the archives,

Little girl.

Tell me how you tore your dress

Tell me where your parents are

Do your feet hurt from the dry ground?

I can see you have no shoes.

So Beautiful

I watched them shovel it into produce crates but was too scared to ask if I could take their picture

Paul and Earl and others

Slow ways of changing-

white paint in layers

and another generation

with some words in different orders.

Bugs are always biting,

but he's not worried,

fishing line and

orange flower wrapped around his arm.

Something has changed if a party
means this much – no,
that’s a lie – they always have:
I’d black out from excitement,
It all, too much, like in C’s
sky-house, a drink or a pill straight
from the thimble, it rained all over
the famous people’s wedding, all the big girls
wore big bathing suits,
bathing suits plus skirts,
and a little blue blood flicked
upon my shirt, shoulder, collar.

Fantasie

Don't you know my throw-away fantasy?

You can see it in my glinting eyes.

I fantasize about throwing things away.

Armloads of clothes evaporate

I carry light bags, vulnerable to breezes

I seem easy to handle, low stress.

Three people with short hair and hats

who are my friends, who have it

all figured out

invite me to stay with them for a while.

They have a dog and are always in and out of love.

While I'm there I get smart to my potential.

I finish every book I've ever started

and when I manifest a thing it is just myself

I manifest myself over and over

I count the days like 7,9,10

and never wonder what went wrong

where the time went

Strange Days

With their ups and downs
you feel the immanent plunge
air leaking from your lungs until gasping and

then you rise up.
Head towards the blue
you smile as the plunge turns into ascent.

These highs and lows
the zeniths and terra firmas

of life and death and all in between.

I hold my breath, look up and down
and take a leap towards the peaks
of future brings
and know that inside
there are deep valleys to crawl in and out of

These strange days
full of breath and gasping and sighing

i took a nap
and dreamed of weddings
dresses, tuxedos, dancing, and cake
champagne toasts, laughing and talking
sitting and staring as the most beautiful people kiss

i woke up
i put on a white dress
and felt more attractive

Beach Bum

summer began 13 days ago
i spent 3 days at the beach
it's been 7 days since i've been to the beach
i'm having beach withdrawl

oh barry shade your eyes
shade your eyes
the fortunate made surprise
make surmise
if only onus on us
on top of e
mailing your mother
mailing mujer
much more porn
on top of your own
she will wear this
i will wear this
he is watching a movie with animals
he is watching animals
a movie for children
for tune
the guitar
the guitar

Sunday

Joggers in the night like daggers, almost.
The horns quiet.
Three black balloons adrift,
Emblems, perhaps, of lone travelers,
Of abandoned childhood,
Of disappointment, sorrow
Or of balloons.
And why is filming your neighbors worse than writing poetry?

Green or mostly green
How does one?
Cooked.
And these syllables given to o'er eagerness
Given to great pageantry
Given to evermore
To a sense of themselves
So I'll take Advil, your advice
If it were only a cure-all

i believe in u

i believe in u,
yea i do
i believe in u
yes its tru

u r not gonna die b4 u meet yr goal
u r not gonna end up 30 yrs old
u r not gonna waste yr life being sum stupid
u r not gonna end up irrelevant or boring OR A DEAD RAT OF AGES bcuz

i believe in u,
rly i do
i believe in u
yes its tru

well i chose to sing that stupid word bcuz
i thought i could believe it—
i thought that i could believe it,
i thought that i could believe in it

but really like those half wandering hairs of isolation creeping out of symmetry on yr unshaven face locking ur cheeks in almost adulthood

T-Shirt

I want to, but will never
make
myself a t-shirt that says,

When are these girls going to notice me!

There is no
way to dress
for this weather.

positioning system

With a South Africans accent, she guides us to a foreign land
'That's right, hon,' my dad agrees, 'five more miles.'
My mom gets jealous: 'how come you never call me hun?'
Over dinner at Red Lobster (you'd be surprised how much they use the microwave), my dad's cousin admits she calls 'her' 'The Slut'

I have bad enough of a relationship with my phone
Instead, let's pack the '78 National Geographic US maps collection
Lost, but at least we'll agree on Eisenhower

The Studio

I said: eternal summers
spent barefoot between houses
collecting hail to cool our afternoon drinks
min and gin with stolen internet

yet: revolving girls with the seasons
is 'she was me'
the same as 'she is who i was'
or 'i was her'

time

Haven't you
escaped yet?

Haven't you
escaped before?

...wow. you did it.

are doing it now before my eyes.
keep breathing,
and I'll say the thanks-
you have something
better
to bow your head for.

on moving to LA without water ice

drunk, in and out, wine-mouthed teeth trembling. goosebumps.
passenger seat driving, vibrations and fingernails and the yellowing of light seeming
to take up whole expanses of sight. everything in vision in horizon lines in one.
here, fella, you wanna come back for some loving? wide bed, wide thighs or stride. fill you up some.

what i sense now is.....

spine curved crunched by the wood behind me

moving toward the left- i move- or mostly don't

in the place behind my heart, but in front of my spine

it longs to be curved by the warm wet womb

or maybe a gentle hand would to....

Lamplight on lavender.

An ugly restaurant.
Seven nations all
of them on different sides of the globe, clothes used
in the snow unusable in an armed nation
maybe russia, at night, lamplight.

Prompt of the Prominent Body Pressure

Not blood but rust
flavored, and tasted with inner sense,
and incense! But that's real, where real is common, I but
don't shun and disbelieve the outer manifested friends, just because you know you're all the same peanut butter and jelly doesn't have to rob
the slice of
the bread.

Three words swell menacingly.^^^

When I say slow penetration...
every syllable seems to lubricate your thrusting!

So, blessedly, I slow myself.
jelly jam.

Then, Beatifically, slowwww orgasm

a rainbow's arch, I root into
the sheets and cry out song,
you beastly lover, mine.

how am i still here?

So you are not the laying next to me,

You are not at the grocery store efficiently finding bulk items while I stand, held tilted up and to the left wishing I felt okay sucking my thumb in decay of the store.

What could you be doing right now?

Your not the one I wake up next to

And I stir my own peanut butter

Your not pushing your head into me

What could you be doing right now?

And no is what I’m saying

But your still the ‘you’ in all my poems

I only sing our love songs

And when I am trying to be in the reality of [having 2 parents- who each had 2 parents- leading us to 8 great grandparents and 10 people who had to make a baby for me to be alive….. who also had two parents---- 16- to 32—to 64- to 128- 256-512 ]….. all these people made babies whose genes are swimming in me---it’s you I think of.

What could you be doing right now?

Then I wonder if I can hold the sadness of all the broken bodies-loves- in my genes and it might be the same question as if I can hold our fragmented cells-

Checking my phone-busy busy busy- checking my phone- distraction-checking my phone.

Brian on Broadway

Broken down bones

on the pizza steps.

A nose

and hair hanging,

heart nails in his

ears chewed up.

you can come in and sit down

you don't have to buy a slice

His voice like pollen, sweet.

Maybe at home a stark

white cat on his lap,

drifting.

They got so much things to say

I. Tables:

The farm one;

The glass one that Ralph broke on Christmas eve;

The long one we gave to the Hudson River Sailing Club,

then asked for it back,

now sitting in a muggy garage on Harlan Place.

The different shapes of our conversations.

II. How does it feel to be something on:

a glow worm;

a lightning bug.

III. Another worlds:

A baby in the winter,

in the light blue puffy

thing,

cold in the car;

and in another worlds

a woman's warm arm pit folds

and a yellow towel.

IV. As he lay dying:

He counted clouds

and what else.

V. The tender land:

Between you and your dad.

VI. I am curious:

The Definition of Love

My birth

strange and high:

It was Upon a thing

ne'r flown

its tinsel wing.

And yet

my

self betwixt.

With eye close:

and us as Poles

themselves to be embrac'd

WAYWARD

In the sun it all goes red – white skin greenest bruise superlative
to explain all the driftless drifting

So much distraction is the rhinestone of a life – any age –
Didn’t you know?

One could argue trash language, extra weight, chlorine,
mulch, techno-loss

In the bright it all goes white. Dragon fly with the (must be a reason)
polka-wings

A jet-ski tidal to rock you
back

Finding our way at night

Remember Byrdcliffe?

There are raccoons, raccoons in the dressing rooms

(On the way I panicked, nearly crashed a car

I never drive anymore

Once there I calmed down and

I never do that anymore, either)

all the wood sweats and smells like something that is like something

and all the asphalt is soft and safe to change

and all of us go out to begin a task and end in a crouch

down low whispering laying down laughing

I don't know how to describe it.

People look older and some of us forget how to walk in the dark

pick pick and stay upright, stay upright

we forget; others seem to sacrifice by having but pick pick

they stay upright, pick pick, we stay upright

blue stone shifts uneasily and my ankles are the weakest

part, which comforts me.

Relievant

http://htmlgiant.com/author-news/call-heather-christle-at-413-570-3077/

"On the occasion of the release of her second book of poems, The Trees The Trees, which just came out from Octopus, and is indeed mazelike, Heather Christle has secured a phone number that you can call her at, through which she will read to you a poem. This begins today and will continue through July 14th.

The number is (413) 570-3077

Calls answered during Eastern Standard Times:

M: 10am-6pm
T: 10am-1pm
W: 10am-6pm
Th: 10am-1pm
F: 10am-6pm
S: 12pm-6pm
Su: 12pm-6pm"

[from HTMLGIANT]

7x7

He is unpeeled of his sheets and shaken,
and dreaming harder against the day,
deflecting light and movement
that would break his focus
Sleepy inflates her memory and swings it.

Bashful pretends to be sleeping too.

Murderous in the brow-bump,
yes striated with fury
and hairs knitting to hairs
in the fleshly folding--
Menaced by clouds,
upchurned by coffee,
Grumpy, not with whom to be trifled,
grieves her.

But some conventions keep.
Happy can’t hold it back.
Dopey is unaware,
and Doc frets over Sneezy as before.

While meanwhile underneath
her transparent
covering she tans beyond
apellative convention.

I am sitting on the toilet

I am sitting on the toilet with an upset stomach
because I ate pizza and drank beer this afternoon
and last night I ate at midnight because I got home
late because I was out learning that We should meet
to talk about photography really means We should
discuss our sexual histories for five hours and
by the way I may mention you to my gallery.
And then I ate at midnight because I got home late
and I decided also to drink some whiskey and smoke
as much weed as I had left because I don't know
what's happening to me anymore. Is this what it means
to be an artist? It's too haphazard. Then on the train
on the way home today my intestines just lit up
like a Christmas cactus. The bathroom is warm and stuffy
but I feel calmer. Sometimes music finds its way in
from downstairs or outside, never anything I recognize,
but this evening someone is listening to Gary Jules
singing Mad World (from the Donnie Darko sountrack)
and I would like to find out who it is.

IN CALIFORNIA I'VE PLACED SOME FAITH

One human for whom I’ve got
fandom like 2 praying mantis
palms kissing for salvation
roses, daisies, Jupiter’s beard
dahlias, xeroxed letters, folded
folded on crushed ice,
hex luck, and so much
soda that I
get sick.

Vancouver BC

i want to go back and see you. surprise you at your door. knock so hard you wake up. groggy. answer. disbelief! i want to put my head on your shoulder, sticky neck. make you late for work. go get a coffee at union market. call scott, say sorry. make out with me, watch you ride off on your bicycle. heading down National avenue, know that this evening we'll make dinner. sit in the park. go knock on their door, or, visit them at work. surprise you all. see you all. wake you up.

A Belated Gift For Saturday

Saturday's baby,

she cries.

and moans.

hasn't been fed, thick enough.

SPEAKING OF WHICH

the air! Saturday's air, heeeeeeeeeeeavy with pollen and moisture and dog hair.

Making Saturday's baby,

get fussy.

get colicky.

hasn't been fed, thick enough!

July

It's July
The days are long
stretching from one side of the sun to the other.

Moving slowly from the beginning of the month
with lights in our eyes
to the end, looking towards fall
when cool breezes will make us
wrap up.

It's July
the middle of the heat
the moment before the plunge into a pool
or an ice cold glass.

We wait for it to end.
We wait for it to start.

the idiot sounds of crying

the stupidest sounds u ever made,
losing it into the arms of someone taller than u
yr throat shrinking and yr head swelling with pressure
the gulps and breaks of some half-formed thought,
some abortion of a cliche trying to stake its claim on emotion,
but never making it past the choking gate

these are the idiot retard sounds of weeping

embodying the transitive, love for my love's partner

your girlfriend is training to be a dominatrix,

wait until I fucking tell our friends back home!

your wide eyes, you speak just as slowly

despite that same writhing silence, I marvel at your considered words.

you were like that at fourteen, my friend.

this privilege is called continuity:

She explains why domination and I explain why you

the shell-shocked new city boy, I did not have the words back then

to say that I liked you because you were not a brat like the others when you walked home.

but it is more complicated because to her

you are that city boy

This is learning called making friends.

On the whiteboard in the house you share he wrote

plurality of affection

I watch you reckon with it

and want to say, this is what's wrong

in order to feel more ease that what I do is different

but there is no flaw there

this process that I am witnessing

this is what success looks like

this witnessing, reckoning, plurality.

But am not your plurality, on this slow time frame that we are

I am one testament to the inherent openness.

I love you, you love him, and I ache with love

for both of you, watching this life you are making

that I have not chosen and would not chose.

I call you back home to make sure you have the memorial's address.

we have not spoken in a year, old lover, but I want to make sure you know.

you do.

the dominatrix is working at the brain tumor society and I think,

all things are connected, if superficially so.

love begets love, and even amidst embedded goodbyes

I know you are not going anywhere,

and so the people you bring in to the world are a gift that you share.

daysleeping

you were in my dream last night, last afternoon, last hours
you and you and you and all of us were in little vignettes of moss and dusk
and mode and carriages with plush velvet cushions, a pumpkin pulled by
oh!
considering her eyelashes against a cheek, the curve she scooped
into a shellshape on the grassy hill above the hudson, a pile of leaves you long
promised we would hide ourselves under (but we lost you to the wolves
long before the autumn fell) and all of your pairs of lips and palms revolving
as if to catch the sun

abort[miss]ion

blocks a kid put up
stalwartly "built."
the block
on the bottom is putting up
with the block above
it is putting up the block
above it is putting the block above
it up.

but the block on top
is the block
the papa sees
below his cup because

the block on top is blocking
the block below and the block
below is blocking the block
below it but
the block on top is blocking
the block below blocking
the block below

Three Nonnegotiable Swords

She coldly washed the sword.
Sugar limped from tongue and tooth.

She cut the fruit to squeeze it.
Juice eventually ended.

But what we counted ended.
The mouth in kind has ended.
Even the sword has tapered to a point.

He takes it

He takes it in
and out
in stages.

Life is in a process
of thoughts and actions.
Damage Control and Resolution
while the inside rages in huge tidals.

Laughs and faces cover
like a make-up every scar that wounds inside.

So he takes it in
weighs those options
and cracks a joke
walking back and again.

Free of the requests
the responsibility
and the struggles
of the one-to-one.

Ink to Skin

I will steal you from the water,

Exchange your feathers for

lines and

contours

of feather-like shapes.

You are not you.

But I am me

And also you.

We are stained

into arms and legs and ankles and necks—

Forever in shades of grey.

I am an expert

excerpts
(in)cer(tions)
(cer)tain
(cer)tified
(cer)tificates

I jump in, I'm taken somewhere with a stamp on my passport

because experts spent the time
but the time must be in the bank
and we fight for time
some weapons far $uperior

Jo Peace

You're the old man still dancing every song
still jamming and making music
that holds us

I see you
and bite my tongue, I forget your 'new' name
Trench coat to the floor, you're twirling at Union Pool
This moment stands still

And if memories have lives of the own
let's draw up a new story
You turn 90
We'll go to Polka night

Your essence braces

Does Sontag know your demons?

STRONG BACK BUG BACK

Always I'm going to the doctor

Always I'm "I can't remember"

Can't remember what happened the last time

I went I

am always saying "what's WRONG with me

am I filled with

fungus or

flowers or

both?

I'm so drunk!

The doctor, a woman, always staring off

remembering

her mother's sacrifices

her old friends, long estranged

taking slower paths and

sleeping on rocks

bathing suits untied and oh!

I am always saying

"I'm a good girl"

my mother always in the room...

(my favorite book of poems

was written in the winter:

she goes to the herbal doctor;

new england is awful)

I am always

wondering about phantom bugs

and my mother and

what would happen if you

ignored them and

what if bugs gave up and

I am always

going to the doctor and

shielding myself from bugs

joking with my mother

asleep on rocks with

bathing suit untied I'm

slower and slower like a cave

inside I'm

filled with flowers and fungus I'm

going nowhere, going to the doctor

looking at her diploma her

faraway gaze she's so drunk!

her long nights, her mother

my long nights, my mother

the herbal doctor

the stalagmites inside me

the sudden flash of bugs

the absence of bugs

I am always

forgetting where my body is

in time always

draped over rocks, aging

inside alone

all the stalactites inside

centuries and

centuries and

centuries

---

loli,
rick,

pined unrequited pain like a dagger, felt into the loosed still tight lone place, sat mining in the trees.

now, absence of trees. just a vast tilting plane, easy or simple,
the unmade thoughts, simple enough (like love was supposed to be)

loli parsed her thoughts: he eats away nicely into passages.

long, tense rick
this is how it is going to be,
him not exactly just him.

relaxed

Zeus, relaxed, eats mounds of stars

like chocolates

and reflects on wives

the way a hand

reflects on beach sand.

hit me

yo dawg, hit me in tha fuckin' face
hehe
no! like say it to a girl not a dude
okay i will say it to a girl at the end of this poem hehe
well, this friend of mine got me
hehehehe
i got drunk at a bar
i got a date
i dated at a bar and then on the way to the bathroom
well, i had this dream hehe
where you just said hehe
hehe what if you just heehe
what if you just hehe said hehe
what if you just said what you wanted
i am drinking budweiser because it's cheap
even though it's not cheap, since we're at a bar (hehe)
and you are drinking me under
dreadful thunder, thunder thighs, furry, for real
well i WAS JUST THINKING bout saying i feel this is funny
and you like gender roles in such a way it essentializes my condition and frailty
hehe
into the point of being a pure arrow, einen schlangenfraßbereiter
he whose occupation is devouring snakes? no one knows hehe
i'm actually fragile and weird inside
and then i'm just like fuck u bitch i don't wanna be yr power man
O THOSE RED LIPZ
WHYY I OUGHTA
but u wanted some1 2 punch u n shit?
n hit u?
n call u names?
n steal yur money?
n make u feel bad?
y do u want that?
do u have daddy issues
no way grl
violence?
i don't hehe
O NO not me
actually hehe secret fantasy

and then o my god, she said, daniel,
when okcupid asks u do you have a rape fantasy, what is your answer
hey baby, hit me in the face

same old story

How could I ever write anything worth reading?

“you know, you really talk to much”- I was just telling him about school, sitting on the edge of the couch

and now if I sit long enough I start to feel a growing balloon in my esophagus- threatening to burst

uhhhhhhhh- im not really sure- I don’t know- I forgot- I don’t know- I forgot-

brain surgery while you're wide awake

seeing with the brain not the eyes, feeling with layers
beneath the skin like playdoh, acid options
for losing fingerprints to scar tissue, to breaking and
entering, to leaving no trace

remembering amnesia, forgetting the brain itself
is without receptors for pain, remembering you can go
blind from a brain trauma even if your eyes are fine

too many rememberings for scrapbooking organs
too much for buying a human rib or a clavicle bone
to form around the outside of your own

MY BABY

The story I tell is running away
(into the yard) with babies,
animal-dolls, wet world
wedding dress, bedroom tent.

He has fish eyes, small sticks
truck teeth, famous gums
pine needle sweetness,
and a geometric cape.

My sun knuckle shines.

MOM

Do you want an egg, Max?

i still want her

i hold out hope that
i can change the past

the future is mine for the taking
and nothing can stop me
from reaching my goal

all is true
but nothing is proven

sweat

d
r
i
p

d
o
w
n

and hit the floor

If Life Was A Boat, And/Or If We Lived On One

there is no stopping

MOVEMENT and

MOVEMENT won't feel so bad

because

it's just what happens. Floating along

out of our control

waves pushing you

and me

to destinations unknown,

but where we're meant to be.

anniversary

pale red bangs plastered to her forehead
freed from flip flops
she drags her feet on the C train floor

and eight summers ago
wet grass did cling to ours
as we sat at the dining room table swearing silently

and these days at the beach
gum between your toes
how did your arms get so long?
we all swear, piled on beach blankets
mouths big and guffawing
oh yes we'll have friends in 10 years

and here in front of me
sullen kids sink deeper in their chairs
the flour hangs in the air

no hetero

Y U u y Y U u y Y U u y
I HATE ALL MY FRIENDS
in the forest
pick your body
match it with other
searches
poor little gumpy
foil of dum
in yo if her
ill don tiinn deem her fin
fin was ketten kittle
for fur her fun f
i am
within my lungs
touche douche
broke darwin-win

let me tel yo somthng abt x
one time
he told me
he like
----------
that never happened

Morning

Today is Just Another Day.

Underneath the covers, my body sweats

I burrow, pulling my blanket tight around my body, wrapping myself like a

caterpillar in its cocoon.

There, I am safe.

With eyes sealed shut, crusty from sleep,

I ask my clock for more time.

Darkness is what I need.

I’m begging.

Please, just five more minutes.

When I finally open my eyes

(One Two Three

…and she’s up!)

I Do Not See It.

My heavy wool blanket (yellow),

And my sheets (green)--

Like my eyes--

Are colorful memories of

The Day I Woke Up Blind.

The color in my face has gone,

I am white as a ghost.

Sometimes We Awaken

Arts outstretched against pillows and sheets

We yawwwwwnnn slowly in and slowly out.

Pushing out the night before and bringing in the day to come.

We embrace it
in the stasis of the moment.

Minutes tick on
as we lay and think out what today
and the rest those todays will bring.

Then we rise up, arms over our heads and heads towards the sky
and start.

Service

Put your hand out:
Here’s a little something
to make you big & happy
and you’ll choose to not to notice
that you don’t recognize
(for a good while
but have grown familiar with
(for a good time
the person who casts
your shadow now,
smoothing out the handwritten note taped to
the gift shop counter:
“Yes there is a young woman
inside

now

i can sit

with the light on

i can listen

again

to fleetwood mac

tea and sleep begin

to suggest themselves

the fleas will wait

a while to bite

7/4 on 7/7

It’s holiday, the
pause between
anthems, the
dust behind
colors,
anonymous clan,
piled lush stars,
surviving.

in a big pile, unbelievable, not unbelievably big, the things all stacked and knotty in the way that works.

i get so jumpy, i forgot how specific you are, how reasonable i am to like what i like.


gold gold river, rush rush, not like a body. slow heart, slow legs, not like a body, like warmth.

poem assassin

b careful what u say 2 me
it might turn into a poem

Patient

When my hip broke into pieces,

bits of family drew to San Francisco

where the patient lay, her pacing body shushed.

I ate by rote. Calm nurses wielded needles.

I dreamt of castles encrusted with fish.

The pain insisted like a wife. I ate by rote.

---

clashing powers
top dogs

loli and nan
nan and bette
bette and lee

bette

nan

lee


teeny (and her)

ability to love

Small Talk is Whatever

Strangers are

ok

they're willing to discuss God

i.e. weather

the heavens, primitive selves

they don’t mind that you’re no longer a citizen activist

they only care about cloudy infinities

things felt by skin, by nerves

together, you talk about your bodies contacting air

changing your hearts; your brains; your moods;

your bodies are whole, and new, and everything is connected to everything else

you talk about what “it’s” going to do as though you’ve already established a code together

you smile at strangers because of your mutual understanding of “it.”

It’s “doing” something and it will be “doing” something else, later, hopefully.

You don’t want to look at a stranger and think

“everything will always be the way it is at this moment.”

Everything will always be the way it is at this moment.

oh, no.

“doing” something now doesn’t stop “it” from “doing” something else completely different in the near future

knowing "it" and not each other is

ok.

bodi is comparble to rhikki check google image for ref
imaghes
SO LIKE YOU NO YOU NO YOU NO YOU NO YOU NO YOU NOYOU
yes i do i do iii
not you
for for for
the tim tuin tine tine
FUCK YOU PICS
FUCK YOU PICS
lute fget MY $$NI MINE
touch him he i

LOOK AT THIS SKIN
SKIN
IS FOR YOUR TTENTIN

in this list
i wanna eat money
til i become a bldng
onnnnnnnn
onnnnnnnn
onnnnnnnn
onnnnnnnn


IM NOT GONNA TEACH HIM HOW TO
HE DONT SUSPECT A THING
YOU ARE A FAKE KING
YOU ARE LIKE A SEA-URCHIN
YOU DONT TOUCH ANYONE "
""""" " " " " """"" " " " """"" " " " """""" " " "juuss " """""""" " " " """"" " " " " """ill nevere"" " " """ "" """ "" """""" "" " "" "my french """"""""" " " """
"""""" " "" " """ "" " "" " """ "
luhv tah juus
uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu STILL
mast

barter tender forever
barter
tender
forever
barter tender forever
is he too perfect
li is he to
he too per feckyt
put
prt
eper
pert
pert


DONT DIE DONT DIRE
DI


K


OK
FU


FGGGGGGGGGGGGGGDJJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJDJD

xo
JAMES PEEL

Noknown words

When the spoken word is Princess,
each syllable is Precious.

Then a bespoken Cyst:
nonetheless.

But when the babble comes up Nickle:
woeful we, we who might someday want a bicycle!



(mistranslation of Trzy Slowa Najdziwniejse by Wislawa Szymboska)

βίον

power out one long hour
bare-back lying, fat heat rising /
escape plans
two steel buckets of ice I’ve
plunged my wrists into deep
quarter-of-a-day deep and sweltering, the doctor thumbing
her lip, murmuring bout blistering on the
inside

/ with both braces fastened,
I’m a bionic woman
I am sweeping out entire grocery shelves
I am swimming though this rainstorm
forearms first
I am dreaming forward fast flush
of the night, of carefully arranging myself,
all the pieces, around
you