January 2011
22 posts
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the crystals - he hit me (and it felt like a kiss)
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December 2010
34 posts
The deer come out in the evening.
God bless them for not judging me,
I’m drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
and make strange noises at them— language,
if language can be a kind of crying.
The tin cans scattered in the meadow glow,
each bullet hole suffused with moon,
like the platinum thread beyond them
where the river runs the length of the valley.
That’s where the fish are....
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you fancy yourself aware, but really, you haven’t come close. life has lately been filled with moments too beautiful or devastating to forget—a cinema stuck from a seeing-eye view, such wonder, all bereft of sadness. reminiscing on a honeymoon in late october, we three moving swift up and down los angeles roads. how difficult it’s been to get here.
nearly comatose, then, two...
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week-long rain, sleepy babes. we ran out of sugar and found a scratch in new moon. there is good and there is worse, dark damp days all full of emotion. to feel any different would be such a waste.
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a short history written somewhere in the
high desert, summer 09
in the desert from centuries past
we may have been wayward animals
making haste in stagnant heat, perspiring
through the cracked earth, two ships
traveling inland across a vast expanse
of heavy stone; or rather,
we were iron-cast deities
making root upon turbulent soil,
treading heavy across tributaries
braving weather...
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last will and testament
written in brooklyn, ny. circa dec 08
my moleskine gones to whichever boy
i was in love with at the time.,
along with all my records. my copy
of franny and zooey
to go with me to the grave.
have everyone wear white. play
‘long, long, long’. put ‘coming
up roses’ on my grave. remember me
as a sullen mystery, not the
girl my mother knew i...
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I Go Out for a Smoke and Become Mistaken for the...
When I go outside on nights like this, nights without cloud or breeze, city nights full of buzz and hoarse whisper and the distant surf of automobiles breaking upon darkness, do you believe I think the stars are waiting for me? How lonely the streets are among the buttoned houses. How I long sometimes for a doorway and a cigarette to smoke in it, for some rain and a hat to pull forward...
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