there's nothing to take pictures of
and i've decided i can't write without wearing shoes
tried on almost ever pair
the brown ones with the tan stripe
all the
fat fuzzy slippers
there's nothing left in my closet to sink my feet into
only the plush strands of stifling wall to wall carpet
against my now naked toes
my mind tells me that i need something to slip into
something to remind myself of the boundaries of sanity

and i always think i'm being far too overt

not according to my hover title over at jann's

someone just sneezed really loudly in the hallway

this morning on the way to campus before 6 am, I thought about the following:
(and then consequently wrote some version of this into an email message to a good friend)

I’m tired. I’m tired of being tired and then not sleeping at night. I’m tired of not having the desire to get out of bed in the morning and of searching the landscape of my sheets for a way to reinvent motivation. I’m tired of feeling like I won’t make it or that I don’t even care to try. This might be the first time in my life where I’ve felt like there was a pretty good chance that I just might not make it. Because I don't even care. I haven't started my projects. And any stab in that direction renders words meaningless -- as if my head were made of fine shreds of cotton candy.

stumbling like tumbling weeds in search of the prairie

Last night 0j offered to give me a lift home from campus. We joked around on the way to the car. In the car on the way to do an errand. He kept asking me if I was okay—if I was sick. But I was fine. A-okay. He kept looking at me funny. He kept asking me to repeat myself. I wasn’t sure where we were and had trouble letting myself into my own building. 0j said he wanted to stay and make me something to eat, even when I said I wasn’t hungry. Maybe I remember dinner, but I’m not sure.

He helped me into my office so that I could do some work.

I realized things were going terribly wrong when thinking clearly and walking on my own became a huge task. I decided to take a shower and came fumbling out of my office dropping clothes in piles like spilt milk along the way. My shirt. Watch. 0j shot up from the couch, what’s going on there? I stumbled closer to the bathroom and tried motioning to the shower. Do you need some help? he asked—ushering me into the room and gracefully closing the door. Maybe I remember the shower, but I’m not sure.

Later, I didn’t tell 0j that I was worried I might be stroking out, when I realized that I couldn’t make sensible speech. When I tried to ask a simple question about what he was queuing up on a video tape, for example, I asked what are you making? rather than what are you watching or what are you doing or even something more relevant and general like what’s this? Or that for the most part when I said anything at all, he couldn't understand me. I’m probably just overtired. Still today I’m feeling largely out of control.

rationalizations for going home

i just don't want to do this anymore

taking the scenic route home

when you're gone

this love feels as intangible as the taste of color
like the poems i write in my head
late at night under the porch lamp
when i've had too much to drink
brilliant fading into nothing
just words that won't stick
until we're unstuck
of time
a memory
like the color of water at night

These long days, your errant laughter, only, keeps me sane.

something started not finished
The imagined scent of you, just from the shower.

i was looking for an old comment i'd made about that crazy virgin mary statue on my neighbor's front porch (before i moved), but it looks like haloscan has taken some of the older comments off-line for the time being. i did find this one, though, that'll i'll save from the realm of the comment and make into a post on merit. just because i know some good people who've just moved. [i.e.: i've not stopped posting because of you, red.]

i've had this strange propensity, lately, to construct these long comment strings in response to (or something just tagged randomly onto) my own posts. i don't fully understand the phenomenon, nor do i even really care to analyze it. the point of pointing it out, then, rendered pointless.

summer seems to be the time for moving. either people are itching to move. or have done so. some just in the process of carrying heavy boxes across town in the back of a borrowed car. all of us, come up suddenly intoxicated by the smell of sharpies, the crying sound of packing tape pulled from a reel, and our inability to part with things we probably don't need and also don't have any idea what to do with. then left to find a spot for it somewhere new. still the same us. the same stuff. just against a different colored wall or a longer/shorter/taller/shared/cubed/dirty cabinet.

i'm in love with my new place. it's a crush i'm not going to keep secret. the afternoon sunlight through the gigantic living room windows is something beyond the way desire feels. pent up words in a rusted throat--suddenly let free. the whole place glows gold for a few hours until it's all replaced by the cool greys and blues of the summer evening as if someone threw an old wool blanket over the building.

i can read here. and think. and write. i can drink tea and eat biscuits in the middle of the night when i can't sleep or i need to work. it feels good to have my own space. it feels good to feel good.

this cold wind rocks me like the hands of criminal intent

from under sheets, this morning, in the still dusky hours
wrapped in soft moments caught between sleep and wake
the wind growled at my window like a forest on fire
even sleep couldn’t hold the increasing light at bay
or the call from the police
several hours later
running through the rooms of this empty house
still naked and wet from the shower
the rest of the day felt slanted
like fighting headlong against the strength of the gale

petty damages

whatever it was
i'm pretty sure i broke it
and it might be irreparable

updates, as they come

honestly, i'm gonna try not to be around so much anymore.
be well.

never know when there'll be more soon and later.
i'll miss you.

i think mostly what i miss is being your best friend
that's what made me want to be with you
most of all

three irish whiskeys later

there’s a consequence to all of this. Withouth the eloquence to bring it all to the forefront at the present moment. The way the thought of you in the cab ride home brought a smile that only felt like a sweet release home. Or the way the idea that the very nature of the world sounds the same, but different, outside the confines of the own place I call home. There only a few plane-hours away. Perhaps everything comes as a consequence of consuming these acts of substance atop a day’s worth of meals constituting several coffees and failed attempts to consume crisps. Cheese and salami. Later. Maybe that’s all it is. That delivers me into this attempt to say the things I dare not. If for no other reason than I believe that you’ll allow it.

today, now, soon, i fly away to your soon empty apartment where i’ll be glad that you are not

these endless days vanishing into nothing -- into the vacant echoing cold of winter – render memory useless. the way you wash yourself in pity and vanilla scented soaps. vain pathetic attempts to gain my attention—my affection. what i feel for you is fear. a specific sense of loathing. for your power of erasure. the way your cold hands—your dull eyes—steal the importance of words. revoke the meaning of poetry. insensate. the momentum or your movements so removed from any consequence in my own to destroy, even, the possibility of pain.

walking home with your new crown

i wonder if these delicious dangerous moments that pass between us -- filled with the desire to let the words we claim and don’t venture out to name – cause us the most pleasure/destruction. because i know that what i feel for you is love – beyond reasonable measure or rational thought – and yet we remain untagged. free to run at full speed, hand to hand, without the fear of falling. we’ve not placed ourselves up so high. if we topple over, under the weight of circumstance, of irrationality, of fate or indecision, then we’ll only suffer those surface damages. we’ll nurse those wounds and know the we knew better under the weight of the lie that this pressure, like the hot flesh between two hands, doesn’t come from the center love and adoration.

maybe i like it this way. this ability to run with you and the sounds of our laughter trailing and tangible just behind.

today: things that i find impossible
not feeling completely disoriented by switching from opera to ie

it's storming here
that really loud freaky greenish grey rain might not ever stop until it fills up the world
kind of day
the thunder and flashes of light make me want to switch out the lights and crawl into bed
and wait for the disasterous beauty of it all to pass

possibly the best part of the weekend
watching cartoons in my underwear