and then there was darkness.

i miss you.

i like being your short list.


my feet are filthy and cannot be washed clean. it has been hot here
and i've been busying myself with suitors and sordidity. one of them
tells me he showers every 3 months whether he needs it or not, and
always lights my cigarettes. the other put me in a choke hold and
threatened to break my arm after writing me a drunken letter.

they both require my affection as i am acquisitive, tireless,
tenacious and cannot be shaken away - to quote whitman. i'd rather
quote bukowski but expletives rarely polish as nicely as songs of ones
self, and everything hemingway said was a preamble to a suicide note.



one day we'll go kicking cans in ketchum and show those mother fuckers
how it was meant to be done.

all of my entrails,

evil.

hang onto each other.

i've been living in an idyllic empire state of
tenements and hand ball games played out amongst the backdrop
steeled hearts and throbbing crush of one room apartments with
9 foot ceilings to displace the lack
of square footage, mostly eaten by the mattress on the floor
and letters half finished and never sent.

this pen hates this paper.
and this reflection hates this highly polished version of what it sees.
i'm preferring to call it the clever diptych of a ruse.


i sleep all day. wake up only to smoke and replenish the water
in the jar by my pillow
at night i hear jazz rise up through steam vent's of a
romanticized 1959 and begin to despise
beatniks and coffee bars and convertibles
french sounding names
of places i hope to never visit as i know
they are no where near
the desert.

no where near where i'd rather be than these spray
washed streets of water collected in cracks,
drying in lines of heartfelt
impermanence that resemble the rhythm of a broken
anticipation that trickles slower
than i've got patience for.


at night i see the curious roam blindly amongst
the hustle and rush. beckoned
by natives and their improvised nocturnes. too many choices, too many cheats
like lambs to the pasture. just you wait.
plumped on pleasure as they amble lightly until it's too late
their sweaters too thin for the winter.
someones gotta go
and i wish it weren't me.

society requires a certain amount of fore warning

the sailor.

decried by flora et fauna, preferring the depths.
it's hard to dig your own watery grave
filled back in and repeating with the tide
a homonym for the larger peace
of a sad, sad song
which is
never repeated and forever refrained
in the memory of those
wistfully clinging to the toasts they'll give
with the words they've saved
sung to a soulful sarabande of sorrow
falling on ears
of the truly doting in collective
pieces that assembled the hole.

no one wakes up thinking.....

nothing owed.

the last time i was at this bar, i sat at this table. the table by the window. despite the cold radiating through. the last time i was at this bar, i looked out this window and noted the frigid quarter notes of exhaled thoughts hanging in the street. last time i was at this bar, i wanted to pack up and leave. this city. this state. and all of its waste. now, i'm sitting in this bar wondering what sort of girl i'll be. i'm sitting, wondering ' what sort of girl will it be 'next time'. when i am caught here the next time. and i sit there wondering if i'll notice the next time or if it'll make me want to stay.

jewl kat

nine thirsty

under two empty shelves, the two white shirts echo their loneliness multiplied by four empty hooks to the right through the blinds. a Rorschach for my empty evening, giving order to this fractured pattern of expectoration and obstinate yearning.


i don't know anything about cleveland but i'm suddenly tempted to go. i wonder is it's not the same sort of icy grey and how much cyanoacrylate it's going to take to reassemble the shattered wheels of my cold, cold heart.

my gawd could out wait you gawd and it may be the reason my blood is so thick. my blood can wait for your blood whilst we both wait for this glue to solidify the sounds of smiling out loud.

the icarus falls remix

if i were an angel
i'd wonder
and if i were a debutante i'd be coy
if i were
someone who had money and influence and a false laugh and something to say
i'd be
half way to salem.


but i'm just drunk
and poor
and wondering what sort of flowers she wants
and trying to
reign in this
horrible
addiction
to being a martyr of sorting the 4 rights that
make me left
and
centered

and it's the new new
the lunar year


tonight
the moon tracked south and faded from
blood to the colour of anglo inadvertent misunderstandings
in the frost
whilst my face froze and i hated


not being
able to
ex posit on paper

the DT's, man.
the DT's.


i see sparks, nothing un~beautiful
but there is no fire. no want. no hope.
and fades into what we could only hope is the

steady cadence of
a running joke.


my angels fades on high and yet i am again and again drawn
to
new heights

in incorrigibility