Repetition.

You can tell the depth of my depression
at any given moment by
my variation from or clinging onto
a certain song.

I am a song killer.

Repetition signals that I've forgotten
I
can
c h a n g e
things.

Any thing.

My shoes turn into tattered flowerpots
chipping at the edges, and there are
so many twisted cords
lying next to my bed;

clutter is as clutter does,
and I can't fall asleep until
it's time to get up.
Then it's my fault,
like I'm the one connecting the wires
inside myself.

I've been better.
I guess I've been worse.

I hear voices at the bus stop
like they are up here
in my bed.

I tiptoe over freshly cleaned hardwood
floors, swept of their stories,
but trample over my words, actions,
and strange addiction to
attention

every time I get that inch.
I'm asking for miles.

She said, do you write?
It's your response to my question about your family
that led me to think so.

But the story of me is still unwritten to her
and I try to connect a voice to the script.

I know I'm missed when I go,
and I never can go enough.
The ratio of traveling done
to traveling desired is pathetically small.

The length of time it takes
for me to get to the point
and cut my shit
has lessened significantly:

there aren't any last strings,
any final thread.
It's all
f i b e r
and fray that's left,
and I don't know what happens
should they split.

Attachment grounds me.
Attachment and repetition.

Collision and "we never should have met".
It's only fair for her to wonder
if there's truth in that.
Repetition in that.

Rock star.

I'm buying incense sticks
and listening to Amy Winehouse-
Back To Black-
on the street with a man who also sells
Pussy scented oil:

"it's always good."

"that's what I'm SAYING!"

Thinking about the ambiguous You
and awkward conversations
when I haven't yet had my coffee.

How can anyone not drink coffee?

An afternoon with my favorite rock star,
shoo-ing away the cat that wants
all of my attention.

I guess I am a brat,

I think

as I soak in the smoke
moving like oil through the rays of
sunlight streaming through
eggplant and merlot window curtains-

colors that swallow you an entire day,
move you into Tonight
like light rails-

hours,
hours.

Conversation across the street;
bus stop language:

crossed legs and earphones and
an aching heart that doesn't know what it wants.
A simple smile,
and we both wear shades in the dark twilight-
the sweet beginning of evening
that feels less like summer
and more like winter
in its early arrival.

Power trip.

Bubbles, bubbles everywhere-
but not a drop to drink,

liquid eyeliner drawn and pushed around
on my face with fingers wet with spit,
loving hands and morning light on the porch
while prancy

dancy

fancy

dogs skip past.

The owners are eating pizza-
lunchtime,
I've woken up late again.


She says she loves the way I see the world.

Rock-climbing the shadows,
swinging like Tarzan through the wind that's strong enough
to make cigarettes ash themselves.
New boots against pavement:

"they're so loud!"

"I know."

I love the power trip
from my toes to my ears.

Cable lines cut, sewn back together underwater-
she is my electric girl.
Feel the pinch of toxin;

pushed against a wall to get a taste.

Oozing from your pores,
making waves of the walls
and excuses for yourself.

Stone cold face and I couldn't get my body
to accept the input it was receiving:
she felt nothing, nothing, nothing,
only now and the past.

I've forgotten everything,
loving and dreaming.
I guess I need everyone to like me all the time.
I keep hearing the world "selfish".

Tripping on the pavement,
car doors slam and my front door
almost does, too.
Hesitation.

Bellabellabella.

The blue light of morning,
too young to wear it's golden shades,
lies gently on her shoulders and arms,
cheekbone and neck.

She says something about wanting
to be up against my skin,
and I'm in love with the drunkenness of sleep,
the loose way that I wear her expectations.
Some fall to the sidewalk and others
to the pit where she hides away all the other
failed promises and tally marks.

This Will Be The Last Chance.

Butterflies and hickeys
and missing both feelings of being torn up
from the bottom to the top of your stomach,
inside to the outside alit.

I have never responded well to suffocation.

Lack of care.

I caught the kissing disease
in a photo booth,
took too much Sudafed-

"you just want the cough syrup
so you can knock out."

It takes one to know one;
is that what you do?

You and I have both lived
and are curious if our need to keep living,
no strings attached,
might keep ours from tying as tightly
as they do in the movies
or your backseat.

I hate that she can do things with her
she can't do with me.
I hate that I don't fit every mold.
I hate that a circle is not a square
and a whore is not a housewife.

I do it because she thinks it
and she thinks it because I do it.

Cycles of repetition
and I keep watching the sand slipping through my fingers,
watching the world drain,
wringing itself like a dirty rag
and we bathe in its shower.

Decisions are hard only if
you fear making the wrong one.

She moves like a wave.

Turn it off to turn on.
Decrease the light to increase the intensity.
We agree candlelight is so.much.better.

It's like I'm waiting for something.
It's like I can't feel fire when it burns.

Fire and sunshine.
A tiger.

Always the kid to touch the stove
just to know for sure
that it's really too hot
You never see what's right there in front of you.
You never say what's on your mind,
but when you do,
everyone is relieved.

Silent sheep
following painted parade routes
marked in drunken letters of fluorescent,
spread thin and ecstatic on the pavement.

She had stacks of paper pads
with chicken scratch writing
just like mine-
only one line per page.

What a waste.

Dripping drains in my face,
blinky blinky.
I need four hands to be able
to do everything I want.

She moves like a wave
of perfect shoulders and arms.
I've got cake batter for hair
and a hole for a heart.
A laugh like a waterfall
and a tendency to disappoint.

"I don't really think you are that way,
but you try to be.
I see right through you.

Everybody has fronts."

It's like I'm in fifth grade again:
so much hate for the ones I want to love.
Pulling hair and heartstrings at once.

Virgos, Virgos, all around.
I'm trying not to judge.
I'm trying to remember my dreams
within the first thirty seconds;
which body part I did or did not
use as a life raft in the night.

Why did you stay so long?
It's the Scorpio nature to keep fighting.

Laissez-faire.

She's blunt
in two ways.
Duh.
He's a big boy,

so he can do it.
I'm a big girl with a history,

so I can't.



Live and let live,
laissez-faire.
I've always felt the French in me,
in my blood and kissing style,
cooking and clothing.

Some things won't be suppressed.