the intricacies of losing you

in spite of all the anticipated consequences, i decided to stop wearing the useless circle of gold and stones. slipped it off quite carelessly in the middle of the day after i caught sight of its awkward shine while sorting through a basket of handcrafted soaps. a release that at once felt liberating and inappropriate. what does it really mean, anyway? i thought, as i paid for the overpriced bars. filled that moment with sandalwood, mango, vanilla. much later i became overwhelmed with the desire to mail them away. to escape the lingering. the sudden tangible aroma of weightlessness. sent them to jay with a flyer i’d found taped to my door upon returning home that said does god love you? making all the items anomalies and, therefore, beyond question. to make up for the requisite feeling of emptiness, i’ve placed a thick heavy silver ring on the middle finger of my left hand. the bulk and the weight are currently fine reminders.

yesterday with that token in my pocket, all i could think about was pete. how over the tops of steaming hot coffee on a cold grey day he’d asked me to make the same decision. and i did. gratefully. took it off in some fleeting moments when i thought i might change my mind. pretend that things could be different and wonderful. but i was already carrying the weight of the history of a thousand daughters of a thousand mothers. already trying to recklessly redeem myself from pocketfuls of regret. there just wasn’t enough room for anything more.

but now the moment has come back around. and this time, i’ve wrapped it up in my beloved grandmother’s embroidered handkerchief and placed it safely away. it really shouldn’t have taken me this long.

the truth is
mostly this is crap and i apologize for all of it
even in advance

conversations in the office [door closed]

Today I wore my combat boots. Black sweater and trousers. Today I thought I was ready for just about anything. I was pulling on my jacket when she arrived. We frowned at one another in usual fashion. So instead of walking to the library, I sat on the top of my desk and listened to her explain the salutation: my life sucks.

We had a long conversation about things like the differences between love and lust and infatuation. About long term relationships. Whether marriage is a faulty and inherently flawed construction. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is. But I’m still not convinced.

God, she said as I attempted to leave, You always keep me guessing.
How’s that?
It’s just funny. You come across as so postmodern. So self-effacing, but then underneath it all you’re actually a hopeless romantic.
Maybe I am a bit idealistic, but I’d never admit to that, no.
It’s easier to come across as a misanthrope, huh?
Hey. Life sucks, right? (shaking my head) Have a great fucking holiday man.

I could hear her saying something in response as I closed the door, but I was just happy to be getting out.

falling is a bad idea

i think i need a break

spinning and spinning and now

there's way too much to say
and i can't do any of it justice

there wasn't any way for me to know that
i needed to watch this film.

it wasn't incredibly good
and that didn't really matter

You get one life, and whatever you do with it, and whatever is done to you, you've got to face that. You can't pretend it didn't happen.
-- Cassie

"Bullock does a good job here of working against her natural likability, creating a character you'd like to like, and could like, if she weren't so sad, strange and turned in upon herself. "
-- Roger Ebert

i really needed to watch this film

water of life

current mode of operation: whiskey

continue anyway

look, i say, over the top of a watered down gin and tonic and plates full of curry, this isn’t my fault. he squeezes my knee under the table so hard i can feel the skin tighten over the cap. can feel his bones digging in to the soft places. the bruises already surfacing. i can’t take the pressure. close my mouth as my eyes fill up with water. look down at my plate and stay silent with the reminder of his heavy foot on top of mine. likely, he’s right. best just to let him do the talking. and i’ll shoulder the rest. that’s a fight i’ll probably never win. and i seem to get into less trouble when i keep quiet.


at 5 am while i sat curled up on the floor of my shower
and let the hot water stream down
i remembered why i try so hard not to do those things that produce this kind of regret

now i'm walking lightly through the house
pretending that i don't exist

it isn't working
maybe safe places do involve more physicality than i wanted to imagine

maybe i need to stop making idiotic decisions

volume control
listening to joni mitchell
my house smells the way i imagine napalm
both are equally bad ideas

finding what you never thought you even wanted to know

found a letter just now. earlier. as i was hanging up clothes in my closet. moving around old files. it fell straight out of a stack of school papers. post mark date: march 1995. still unopened. i sat for a long time. cross-legged on the floor. staring at the lettering. wondering, first, how it happened that i’d kept a letter this long. wondering how it had never been read. then further still, how I was ever going to bring myself to read it now. to not read it now. and i could hear ben harper, barely, plucking the piano and singing my, beloved one. my, beloved one. tore the envelope. you mean the most to me. and let the words spill. conscious that i could feel my heart beating in my ears. could feel my heart beating everywhere. five pages. front. she was a stranger -- I had known for years. back. the two hands of a prayer. together like the two hands of a prayer. page four. midway.

I mean, if someone wanted you to change this, change that – if you were required to do all the changing while he remained the same – that’s not right. Right? Maybe I just can’t go that far and give up so much of my life for someone who’s worth I question. You, for example, could make me change my life, I think, if you were around. I’d be willing to change, because it would have to be somebody important enough. It’d have to be someone I respect. Sometimes I’ll be driving home full of hate or even with the desire to just die, but I just tell myself, nope, I gotta see you again. At least once more. So I think of you, thinking of me, and I figure I got a lot of bull shit to go through before I see you again, so . . . I’ll just have to say that I love you and so much more and more and more.

We never did see each other again.
And right now I’m wondering how to find someone who’s gone.

burn in: exposing unmasked areas

Lately I’ve been thinking intently about the concept of safe places. About a remark I’d made in early September and at least one of the requisite responses. And there’s something else, too. Equally elusive and immutable. That’s vaguely connected to the realization that there just might not be anything wrong with this desire to need people. To want to know and be known.

I’m forced, in this context, to redefine my previously held definition of safe place. It isn’t a dimly light hallway waiting to be stalked. Nor friends’ much abused couches. It is not an unfeeling embrace. I’ve had to conclude that perhaps the physical manifestations that have arisen from my own inability to use words to express emotion are not the only possible response. And that these emerging contact zones, both new and old, are just different versions. In most cases, these conversations and engagements are most likely safer, stronger, healthier, and more honest in comparison.

It feels so much easier to lie in a pile of undefined lines than to make the invisible visible. To talk as much as listen. To realize that investment isn’t genuine if it only comes from one direction. I’ve got good friends. I’ll get about.

for lack of words

yesterday i was reminded that i had posted something at some point
about things that bend


i call jay from my office phone
it's a bad connection
he isn't home
and so i say
wish you were here
into his answering machine and to no one in particular

mode: slow play

current lyric:
I'm hanging on
here until I'm gone
I'm right where I belong
just hanging on
-- February Stars, Foo Fighters

whating on the way to a meeting

damn, i've got hot water and tea but no cup
that sucks
suppose it's better than having greasy hair and no muscles

just now the start came down like a boot in the neck

The first line:
He always leaves his underwear on the bathroom floor after his shower.

The rest:
yet to be written

i really don't like
asking other people for help.

momentary flashes

i close the bathroom door and talk to jules. rub my eyes with the backs of my hands and wonder how all of this ever even happened. even though i know why and how. too tired from the sickness that’s crept in and taken hold of my body over the past few hours. too sick, even, to be sick. i brush my teeth and listen to him say, babe, you just can’t know everything. and i’m sure he’s right. shut the medicine cabinet door and decide that i’ll feel stronger in the morning. change the subject.

it’s wicked, i say, these momentary flashes. like the pulse of christmas lights. blink and it’s gone. nothing to hold tightly but the memory of remembering.

i’m going to bed – still thankful for everything offered by this day.

a conversation in three parts

Jorge sat by me on the bus again. And I think there have been few moments in my life that I’ve treasured so absolutely as those ten or fifteen minute spans. I never know when our paths might cross. When the doors will open him into that transitional space where time starts and stops at almost ever corner. His eyes wide with delight. A smile as resolutely deep and genuine as the lines cutting casually across his forehead. I’m in love with my fascination of him. The way he folds his hands politely in his lap – nods knowingly in my direction on approach. I wonder if he too hopes that we’ll be on the same path. His timelessness and my inability to define, to categorize, to capture him in any tangible way renders him prophetic. Sometimes all I want to do is figure out the magic that fuels that gleam in his eyes or the soft laughing quality that underscores his speech. Today we spoke about his favorite subject. His daughter Emmaline. She’d written him a letter about the way life progresses in other parts of the country. Places he’s probably never seen or possibly imagined. He shows me the envelope – crisp and clean – and produces the letter. Proudly translates a few chosen sentiments into English. And I look at the handwriting on the creased notebook paper and feel enlivened by its power to possess – to transform itself into a palpable emotion. And feel lucky that this stranger on a bus decided to share such important moments with me. Sometimes I wonder what ever attracted him to seek me out. Before we depart, I hope that someday I’ll learn the lesson of the magic. At my stop, I wink and place my hand on his shoulder. Who knows if I’ll ever see him again.

The mail produces a much longed for letter from Jak. Even the envelope, battered and worn, seized on my emotions like a grasping hand. I’d forgotten how his words always weave some kind of imaginary spell on the very act of opening my eyes – or drawing breath. How the idea of him transforms itself into one of the tangled invisible strings that keeps pulling at me from across the world. He is currently a man without place. Determined to find the inhabitable space that defines who we are and what we become. Jak’s quest for home is like a religion. His search for heritage – holy – something to believe in. He’s taken some kind of steps that I don’t clearly understand to renounce his American citizenship. I know it’s a political and social statement, but he doesn’t pause, in this context, to examine the relevance of the emotional statement of this casting off. The letter captures the high points of his recent travels, but the words and conveyance are weighted with a general feeling of hopelessness. Of the unforgiving transgressions of the inescapable boundaries not located on maps. There have been no signs, he writes, of where he might be called to remain. And he’s at once captivated and afraid of the violence and extreme states of poverty he has encountered. Sometimes I wonder if he’ll travel that continent for the rest of his life searching for something that doesn’t really exist. Sometimes I hope he never stops believing. The last lines read as follows:
I am not meant to be a man of this world. And, yet, there is no other world where I can find myself meant to be.

Filled with my own span of inescapable emotion, I pick up the phone and dial. Jay breathes words into the phone like a razor. And I’m just thankful. Without apology or analysis. I’m filled with a cockeyed joy for having a life that becomes so rich in consequence of other people. Overcome with the desire to say I love you and mean it.

modicum of the modus

page length met

best lyrics of the day

All the stuff they tell you about in the movies
but this isn't chocolate boxes and roses.
It's dirtier than that, like some small animal that only comes out at night.
And I see flashes of the shape of your breasts and the curve of your belly
And they make me have to sit down and catch my breath.
-- pulp, f.e.e.l.i.n.g. c.a.l.l.e.d. l.o.v.e.

[stumbled upon accidentally @ life in the pink]

best quoted quotation of the day

words are bastards.
but sometimes they pretend to be your friends.

[c/o the master of c&m stv]

best word of the day


[thanks to die-Mathematik-dvd]

current word that should be banned


Mimetic Desperations

Because there’s little other choice, I sit on the margarine golden yellow sofa and exchange pleasantries over a sickly sweet danish. Pick at the frosting with the edge of my fork. Choke small pieces of pure super saturation down the back of my throat. Already the span of the week leaves me feeling tired. I close one eye and look. First the left. Then the right. He shifts slowly in space and time. And I try hard to remember what that means about vision, but can’t. Suddenly, I decide I’m not sure what any of this means. Resolve that things with sugar coatings are not always easier to swallow. Thankful for the contrast of the coffee I’ve made – too strong and hot. He complains. I pretend not to hear. Sip each bitter mouthful in deference to the lies that would otherwise spill out and take shape between us. I remain silent. Balance my plate on the edge of the table and hope that it falls. Concentrate. Because that’s what I can do. What remains when everything’s already been said. Sometimes things are better off when they've been broken into pieces. He looks plaintive as I contemplate the many apologies that I could offer about myself to make him feel better. Instead, the memory of anyone who ever really loved me takes possession. And I remember that wrong is not my name. I sit up straighter – establish eye contact and say -- I don’t understand what you want from me. There’s no answer to that question. And I’ve too much work to do to mind the empty responses that I’ve already committed to memory.

stuck on page nine

and taking full responsibility for my own stupidity

doubling the quad

current tally
shots of espresso consumed = 8
pages of writing produced = 3

current state of affairs
still fucked
(and at the compulsively-checking-email stage)

maybe what i need

i think, as i go outside to smoke a useless greedy cigarette and watch the leaves dance in waves against the unforgiving concrete, is solace.
mouth the word susurrus.
let it combine in texture with the exhalation.

or maybe a design more like


but starting somewhere near the lower belly. wrapping the rib cage. ending near the shoulder blade.

propensities for piercings

which one to choose?

the straight doppio

current tally
shots of espresso consumed = 8
pages of writing produced = 0

current state of affairs

currently thinking of doing something like


to my body

accidental pleasure
the importance of titles

Strong cryptography makes the world a safer place
(Kinky sex makes the world go around)
found at:

can you bounce wit me?

late night and already in trouble. jay’s words from the cell on the way between one place to get drunk and another still in my head. you betta git yo ass home. and i didn’t care. fuck that, i think i said, before i hung up completely.

he was probably right.

vague remembrances of hearing jay-z in the background and wishing to dance, then he pops his head through the crowd. shouts hey in my general direction. i don’ t like to be hey-ed. so i look with narrowed eyes in his direction with the words hey, fuck you racing through my head – just as he reaches out – grabs my forearm tightly in his hand – and pulls me over. our bodies collide. i intentionally take a step back. wait for him to let me go. he doesn’t. and even the loosened grip feels like the weight of a thousand other nights like this one. i’ve no reason to be afraid. but i am afraid. and i want him to let go of my arm. he leans down to shout over the music, the general din of the crowded room, if you keep turning me down, i’m going to think you aren’t interested. i’m madly drunk and completely uninterested. i lean in and can see in his eyes that he’s not sure about my intentions. place my lips close enough to kiss. see him close his eyes. place pressure on the back of his neck with my hand and instead, softly say, now, boy, now i think you might just be getting it. release the pose. take a few steps away while looking at him in the most sinister way i know how. hear the repetition of can you bounce wit me as i lose myself in the crowd.

for lack of other appropriate topics



Ever wondered where the reclamation comes from?
Shakespeare of course.

Specifically: Act 4, Scene 2, lines 366-368

there’s something about march that always gets in my way

jules calls, and i intentionally let him ring through to the machine. cradle the phone in my palm. hold the receiver against my lips and wait. let his voice spill out into the room. irritated and wild. i know i’m too tired to argue. finally answer despite all logical reservations. sometimes i wrap myself too tightly with things i know i can’t have – or don’t even want. this time, it’s the nice-self-consumed-whispering-jay. a dangerous partner to my heavy lidded self-immolation. i draw out my words. sparse. economical.

what’s the word?
and when do you arrive?

we pause to discuss the relevance of the phrase a bird who flies. until i’ve nothing left to offer. curl up on the couch. close my eyes. listen to the voice saying hurry home. hurry home.

just now

a man wearing a yellow tie*, red sweater, and green slacks
stopped at my open office door
put his hands on the opposing casings
leaned in
sighed a little and said, to no one in particular**,
this is what they pay us for
emphatic -- part question -- certainly rhetorical
fucking hell, he exclaimed in my general direction
would you like some coffee, then? i remarked in hopes of discovering some panacea
fucking hell, he repeated, then turned on one heel and shook his head as he scattered away

* no relation to this guy
** even though i was the only person in the room

any day like this one

tonight i made flight reservations and left several hushed messages on machines in different cities. about time zones and how long it’s been since i’ve seen the ocean or slept through the night. maybe this is my high life. stolen moments in time when i find the strength. follow through. exert any measurable control. and i need these few weeks to carry me through. it’s been far too long. and, although it isn’t strictly true, there’s no where else to go.

into his answering machine 6:30pm PST
i’ve been listening to ravel’s bolero
and thinking about you
you and the weight of orchestral colors
the snare drum -- your eye lashes
the slowed down rhythm of the tempo
stealing itself away from the dance
the steady movement of hips -- relentless
a construction in eighteen repetitions
never ending too soon
nor soon enough
until i want the flute to return
start it again
let it build and build and build

the morning is good for lots of things

apparently for this one, i am not
[insert lots of coffee drinking as a stand-in for motivation here]

things that make it hard to swallow

received a message from richard this morning. a boy i’ve not thought about in too too many years. captain of the rugby team. the visceral incarnation of the word sinew. soft spoken. gentle. and on my list of general regrets. of people i didn’t give half a chance. of people i treated with malintent and disregard. he had occasion to cross paths with some of our long ago mutual friends. i was asked after. inquired about. but we’ve all lost track. some of us with more purpose than others. no one knew what had become of me. and so he set out – and wrote to say that he still thinks about me after all these years. and that he considers those memories fondly.

there’s something about the recollections, now, that i can’t seem to shake off. the weight of his thick curly black hair between my fingers. the way his voice danced on my skin like an ancient drumming whisper. the blackest eyes of perfectly polished stone. of how there were times that i wanted to peel back his skin – entangle myself within the constricting muscles – to become part of the beautiful machine that made him work.

mainly i think about his lips. and how he always tasted of bitter-sweet cinnamon. makes me want to roll my own lips in against one another. apply pressure. bite the tip of my tongue. mainly i’m just thinking about kissing.

and i know, in spite of it all, it isn’t really him that i miss. it’s the feelings that get lost sometimes when we’ve forgotten to pay attention.


is it stupid that books can make you cry?

fighting the urge

instead, i lace up my shoes and decide to walk to the store for cigarettes
fuck it
everybody’s got vices
and maybe some addictions are better than others

soul songs for headphones

this time
all that you have is your soul
in a lifetime
poison glen
you need to be with me
it hurt so bad
found someone new
looking for answers
just won’t burn
angel from montgomery
the woman in you
two hands of a prayer
please bleed
steal my kisses
show me a little shame
beloved one

crop on

knowing your place

I’m asleep when he calls. And there’s a certain static to his voice. A charge that lights me up. Fills me with a panic like spilling cheap red wine. As he talks, I realize that somehow I’ve let the day slip into night. Stolen these hours from myself. He describes the way he feels about Sharon. Brings the blood closer to the skin. Makes the ears ache. He thinks about her all the time. And I grip the phone harder when he says that she loves him. Don’t ask any questions. Close my eyes and wonder. What’s a girl called Sharon got to do with this anyway? I tell him I have to go after only a few minutes when I realize that, mostly, I haven’t been listening. But he won’t hang up the line until I promise to come see him in December. And afterward I’m filled with a general ache. With the desire to bite down on something hard. Maybe it is all possible. Maybe I’ll never know.

done, but with errors on the page

Tonight I sit under the ugly heavy blanket my father sent me years ago. Mailed with a card and words filled with an intention of something I’ve always failed to understand. Sentiments that rivaled the sincerity of brown paper packaging. But it’s the weight I’m after. Wrapping myself under the excess material. Under the auspices of poetry and words that escape all boundaries and meaning. Of things that were never intended to mean anything to me in particular. The book feels heavy and cool on my lap, and I rest my forehead against my fist. Stare at the page and try to associate meaning, feeling, emotion to the black and white – the unintended words. Right now, there’s something in the way. The television flashes. Lights up the room with stories to be told about other lives for which I can’t spare investment. Too lazy to fish out the remote. Besides, turning it off might deliver me into a world where I’d have to exist with myself – have to deal with myself – so I let it carry on. Savor the last vestiges of sanctuary in the house -- a cheap bottle of grocery store wine. Sometimes I think that all I’m missing is an embrace. Two hands – pressing hard against my back – and a place to rest my head – to remind me that I haven’t lost my mind. That there are things that are solid – tangible -- sacred. That there’s something to believe in.

racing away

He turns his head to the right. Covers his left nostril with two fingers from his right hand. Blows hard into the wind. Shoots a glare in my direction over his left shoulder. Shouts keep up. I’m losing pace. Steadily becoming out of step. Turns quickly right again and spits onto the pavement where I pass. If you were in better shape, he pushes through his own heaving breaths, you’d be able to stay with me. He pulls away as the cramps in both my calves seize forward motion. As the arch of my right foot begins to contract and burn. I slow. Breathe. Bend at the waist. Turn my elbows out and rest my palms against my knees. Arch my back. Gulp air. Turn my face up and watch the brand name flash then disappear from the bottom of each shoe as he kicks away. Opposing directions, I think, as I turn and walk slowly toward home. Every catch in every muscle a reminder that no matter what – I’ll never be enough.

things that spur the convo

i'm all loaded and shit . . .
and talking about new piercings and other things that sting
jules says, dude, you're fucking the best person i know
and i say fuck man. fuck. i need to go to bed

there's nothing better*

than the phone ringing and hearing jay laugh on the other end
and drinking way too much
and being too honest
about too many things that don't make sense any way i try to explain them

*well. maybe not nothing.
but at least when you're alone.
and it's not possible to hop a flight any where else.

pulling it over

Exhausted, I sit with my back against the wall. Knees slightly bent. Legs pulled in towards the chest. Soaked in the sweat of too much time trying to run this all out of my system. Pull my baseball cap low. Lower. Wish I could pull it down over my entire face. Invisible. Instead I lower my head. Turn up the volume on my discman and listen.

there's nothing better*

than a long hazy afternoon nap

*well. maybe not nothing.
but at least when you're alone.
and you're really sleepy.


I’ve been up for hours. Waiting for the monochrome to be loosened by the sun. Rubbed out like a slow deep ache.

who needs a challenge?

my current fascinations:


past prompts for word usage haven’t gotten me very far
so i’m leaving you to your own devices
please don’t leave me feeling disappointed


the same man always waits at the bus stop. no matter what time or day. his presence – perpetual. and when i arrive, he clasps his hands in front of his chest. bows in my direction as if in prayer. some holy recognition of my presence. every time. the same ritual. and i smile. acknowledge. look him directly in the eyes. catch the spark that lights the lamp behind all the reasons that he remains and that i go. he releases the pose – slips back into a world in which i no longer exist. marks the time by swaying forward. back. some days, god, i swear i can almost hear the measure of the music. convince myself that one universal beat exists – the connecting power of the metronome. some days -- when the screeching brakes from the passing buses or the loud sounds of nearby construction cause him to reach up with two shaking hands – bend at the waist – motion as if to cover his ears – i wonder if anyone knows that he’s there. waiting. i wonder what i would do if he weren't.


suddenly in a rain of upturned bottles – shampoo – conditioner – racing in empty taps around the bottom of the tub. bang my elbow against the frosted door’s metal tracking. all at once overwhelmed by my general lack of self control and consumed by the thousands of tiny lights flashing like pin pricks in my eyes. it’s the second morning this week that i’ve passed out in the shower. this time the crash was loud enough to arouse concern. and even though i protested, he fished me out. frustrated by my inability to care for myself. for my constant reliance on other people. for being careless and reckless. i am embarrassed and angry that i require his assistance. i don’t want him to care for me. promise myself i’m going to try and make a change. but even though i could very well blame these occurrences on my self destructive behaviors. my general pattern of sleep deprivation. coupled with my inability to ingest healthy foods. i don’t. instead decide that it’s the quick switch in body temperature. cold jog to hot shower. that has to be it.

the truth about what every girl wants at 11:00pm

a tall skinny vanilla latte

strike the match

Just a pile of fallen leaves. Collected between some larger object and the never ending wind. A stuck image that stings. Like a seed caught between the teeth after eating a fresh ripe berry. Measures of golds and reds. Ambers. Rich as an old cherished necklace. I stop and stretch down my hand. Penetrate the cold glossy surface. Letting fingers and soft papery edges intertwine. I don’t want to lose this moment. Don’t want to forget the shade of the blue grey sky or the way the wind cut coldly across my eyes. Where are the words now? Thousands of feathery flames.


is it true?
have i visited fuddland so many times that i've actually broken it?

what will we do without our daily doses of dvd?


He says that everyone feels confounded – confused. That what I need to do is close my eyes and think hard about what makes me happy. Calls me an idiot and laughs. Maybe that’s what we all need. Someone to hold our heads under water and then tell us to breathe. Our words wrestle through the ether of cords and dead space until I hate myself and him. Wonder why I call to begin with, until it slowly seeps from his voice. It’s the reassurance of love. The idea that even someone who has tangible evidence of my terrible mistakes still manages to endure me – to find me worthwhile – forgiven. And I apologize for all the times I wasn’t there to hear him scream.
I tell him a story about the ways in which people turn in to wall to wall carpeting. Until we’re reduced to whispers about conversations and time.

I’m going to bed and to think about socks.

the features of hiding away

he let himself in with a key this time. and i didn’t hear the door. am startled when he pokes his head into the room. his smile filled alive with the propriety of discontent. the disruption makes me suddenly afraid. the dog won’t stop barking. he asks if he can stay for dinner. if i’ll do his laundry. sits on the couch and watches the tv. and i wonder what choices i have. wonder what i could or should do to make this transition easier for anyone. struck down by the idea that none of this – any of it – is really mine. and how much of his actions are merely a game to remind me so. i’m not good at playing games.

resort to the things i know how to do. make a pot of coffee. sort the darks, lights, towels. fill the washer full. spin the nob. listen to the machine as it whirs itself into motion to carry away all the filth.

the pressure behind my eyes mounts with each stair as i retreat to the office.
close the door and wait.


Crazy how life starts to stretch us out sometimes. The way we push things that cause us to feel slightly out of control. Knowing that any moment we might snap under the pressure we’ve created. I’ve been happier this week than I’ve been in what feels like a long time. And I’m not going to punish myself for that. Hold on to it as long as it lasts. Get my priorities in order. Enjoy the moments as they pass.

i've got secrets that can't leave this tune

b calls and breaks dead into the beats
dancing in 20?
and i'm out

--straight get down--

commit dude, it'll only take an hour
or -- taking things out of context

so what are you going to do?
i guess i'm gonna have to go down on him.


nothing shakes it off like


early evening hoodoo

When the phone rings, I’m in the bath. Click the line and hold the receiver to my ear. Listen. The quality of Jules. His recognizable tone. Music. But there’s something in the way. Seize the opportunity to say the word – stop. And in that instant we are silence. I don’t know what’s pressing against him from every side, but I’m immersed. Floating. Door locked. Glasses of cold crisp vodka filtering through the blood. Sanctuary, he whispers. Knowing that the very inhalation behind the word is some kind of secret rising out of his soul. Tapping my ear drums like fingers against the spine. We talk in stilted rhythms. About the ways in which we spin our own useless cycles. The words merely symbols of our individual and empty meaningless reposes. Pause unavoidably. Gloss. Omit. Tell each other the lies we both want to believe. Life. Love. Happiness. Every inch of the conversation a walk across thinly self constructed ice. Stained with lilacs and daffodils – ink and satiation. We are hopeless – reckless and together we build houses that will inevitably be burnt down. Each to each – we reduce ourselves to smoke and ashes. But this is what we have. The truths we hold too tightly choking themselves out from the backs of our throats every Friday night through the haze of too much alcohol and so many sleepless nights. I’m the truth rolled into a lie about somebody else’s godforsaken memory, I stumble. But he’s already gone. Constructing pitiful excuses of his own -- about the ways in which he can only find love between a woman’s thighs. I listen and think about what it feels like to not feel like this.

i've just had one of those crucial moments

like regret after hitting the send key
but slightly more tangible

10 more minutes to go . . .

petrarch big stylee

Why would I ever write the following in my class notes?
The shift occurs as a beneficial experience by being in the furnace.

What could that possibly mean?


yesterday my word o' the day was pyre

which lead me nicely into today's --