millions of soft white petals do their crazy dance around me as i stand in the sun just outside the steps on my front porch. this delicate tornado. the white shades of the afternoon. like my own personal snow storm, in april.

you never allow me to roll up. to fly away

I'm watching the leaves fly madly from the trees. The result of strong wind like an intrusion. It's a weird dance of percussion matched by swift resonant silence. The low hum of construction machinery. My disc man, still playing itself out through headphones lying on the desk. Like a conversation I want to listen to, but can't quite bring into relevant focus. I keep thinking about the word kitsch. And the phrase: my desire as my distress. Spreads. Slowly. Outward. But I can't place the source. These poems in my head like ants on a dirty sidewalk. Messy malleable shapes -- constantly in the way. There's something sacred about nakedness -- the moon. I can hear her singing: it's a long way down a dusty road to safety. Close my eyes and rock against the sounds the words make inside my head. Close the blinds. Close my mind around the way it might feel to walk barefoot across those piles of broken fallen leaves.

if i'd have realized ahead of time
that i'd be linked in a blog post
i would have at least attempted posting something intelligent here.


sometimes the words that you didn't plan and never intended to send
can be the sweetest
and most honest
in these moments when i am more tired
than anything else

i need candy

after joking about the aqua teen hunger force episode featuring mc pee pants
all day long yesterday with a friend
i was astounded when that episode was the one that played later that night
perhaps i shouldn't have been
they are watching us.

it's all good in the hood, g.

this post is totally for miss m. (and sorta for chaos-kid too)

i just said, seriously,
"but i thought i was all rampant in the pee-pee pants?!"

oh, good lord to messing around with private jokes, even those slightly modified.
much love.

last night i had a dream

that i asked a friend to cut my hair
and i ended up with a

this happy/sad feeling

this post is for you
and for tc who knows the importance of the phrase:
miss you much

i'm still working on it

reasons to love me

i know all the words to AMG's "Vertical Joyride"

now hoes i love ya without your clothes
when you're puttin' on
i wanna see ya gone
because my dick don't have eyes
i know you're mesmerized by the size
so eat em up like a burger and fries
cause you're a hoe, a tramp, a slut
and you suck dick
givin' up the lips in between your hips
you want me, a nigga with dick for days
cash that pays
and hoes with big ass the sways
and i'm lookin for a new janine to be one my one and only dick fiend
PHAT: pussy, hips, ass, and titties
and i got much big dick for the nitty gritties
i may swing and sing and jam like teddy does
some say you was a sucka nigga
no never was
so you can get a little high
on this vertical joyride

what i was doing at 1 o'clock in the morning

last night i tried to watch a show about sexual positions
one of those proper relationship improvement kind of deals
i switched it off halfway and went to bed
we'd already done
all of them

the noise. the white noise shouting through my long closed windows got me up at 5:30. i tried to work from 6:30 to a little before 8 o'clock. went back to bed and have only now gotten out. just now, it's all gone quiet.

this bad taste in my mouth

i think the milk's gone bad
and i've no idea what to say about the concept of multiplicity

hi, my name is

today, someone called you my
i smirked and thought
quite right

thing that would keep me totally satisfied

a regionless dvd

looking for old files

i discover a folder hidden under layers of other folders titled
hesitantly, i click it open
it contains 3 pictures
of one of my mom's dogs

on december 14, 2002, i wrote

It's incredibly cold outside. Perhaps even colder still in my office.

On the way back from getting coffee, I stopped and talked to a young group of boys playing hacky sack in the commons. Sometimes I don't understand my attractedness to strangers. Sipped my creamy latte and watched. They've developed an interesting language in order to keep that ball in the air. It's one of balance and timing. Perhaps some intuition. And the importance of body placement and posturing. Of knowing where to be and when. They asked me to join in a round. And I did. Set the coffee aside and tried my best. But I don't have the coordination for it. Kept letting it fall. Their laughter was contagious, though. Pulled me into the game. And everyone was full of smiles during our goodbyes and thankyous.

I walked back to my office feeling glad that I'm alive.

just doing a smattering of scholarly writing at the moment
[if you're interested at all it's got something to do with these two books]
i'm trying to get here
but lately my head has been more blank than
well . . .
oh, fuck, see what i mean?

general notice of disbelief: it's exactly 90 degrees today

i saw her again today. smaller. more concrete than plastic. she's back.

the truth is
you don’t see what these eyes see
this flesh hidden under the sanctity of clothes
these extra pounds
i am decidedly not
too skinny
or any skinnier than i was last year or several months ago
this distended belly would answer you for sure
offer up some piece of evidence that you refuse to recognize
as cogent relevance for my evaluation as
i am not the body i desire
flat belly
trim wide hips
firm thighs
a face less fleshy
i am not some unrealistic vision of what makes me
without clothes i am that girl who couldn’t keep up
when he ran me into the concrete
into oblivion
and never once felt good enough
felt fit enough to be real
i am not too skinny
when i can pull at the folds of extra weight
and i am no longer operating under an eating disorder mentality
that i refuse to claim ever existed
making daily survival
meals of coffee and half packets of cigarettes
this body isn’t too thin
it’s just that you can’t see it clearly
maybe you need to borrow my eyes
i know the truth really is
you just can’t see

sketchy wednesday afternoon notes

on the floor
i trace the outlines of the dent in the wall from my heavy black boots
that i made
after you left
roll onto my side
close my eyes and breathe
imagine the texture of the carpet as my new best friend
a little dirty
my life becomes a procession of bruising my mouth to make the words that will make you come. that will make you stay. i write these lines in my head over and over. stuck like the dreaded chorus of some over dosed song. like the lifelong taste of nicotine. loaded words like revolvers.

these philosophical questions that stop me short and keep me from working

really, seriously,
if you've got one hand on the wheel rollin'
then where's your other hand?
and what, then, makes the beat drop

i always knew
i was a cool enough to be a video game

last night at the tattoo shop
not because of any slight twinge of pain
or the evidence of blood
not out of fear
and after everything was completely done
i passed out cold
straight onto the floor *

* apparently this reaction is quite common. my guy and i were laughing and joking afterward, and i said those stupid things people say in these awkward situations like, was that it? and i really meant it. it hadn't hurt at all and i hadn't been scared. then all suddenly the floor just opened up without warning and swallowed me whole.

when you write posts
and then delete them
that's a sure sign you should be in bed
a sure sign
that you might have just said something important
that can't be retreived
by the back button

so i wanted some air

the front porch suited me kindly
and I held fast to the shape of the concrete stair
the first step
the dim light
how the slant of the brick on brick wall pushes unforgiving into my spine
cradled this novel against the folds of my knees
my aching hand
two young women with young children
load their kids in the car
raucous and obvious drunks
they pay no attention to the one who is old enough to walk
screaming about he’s afraid of the car
shouting mommieeeee
until i wanted to shoot up
shout into their faces in a voice that left spit on my chin
i watch
they drive away
laughter ringing in my ears
i memorize the license plate
my bad mind with numbers
chant it up the stairs
while i drop my keys
and can’t even shout fuck because i might lose the letters the numbers this combination of important data
dial the police
the non-emergency number
fighting back the knowledge that this is in fact an emergency
shout the numbers at the unsuspecting woman
who sounds tired and disinterested on the other end
shout them
yes, i’ll make a statement
yes you can have my name
my full address
yes, i’ll do whatever it takes

this novel breaks me

you've made me cry again
like you did last night
when i held your words in my head for too long
and i had to sob into my arm
my head and eyes pressing hard against the length of my own skin
your words leave me longing
i hate and love you at the same time
that's poetry
that's what i wish i were

brighter than sunshine: this orangey glow

in that space of time that exists between too much hard alcohol and the sweet juice that isn’t really mine. I realize that this isn’t about what’s mine and what’s yours. this isn’t about possession. it’s about this crushing feeling that makes me want to drink you down in one hard fast long shot. savor the taste of you on my tongue in the way that spelling the word restaurant makes me shudder, wait, stop and ask for approval. it’s about the d chord. the only secret of me you’ve ever held between your teeth. like the angry growl of a hungry dog. nothing happens by accident. or the fact that you’re the only man who’s ever made me cry—in that way that was only an extreme sport of joy and pain—and laugh at the very same instant. even only your voice makes me shudder. sapphire salivation on the rocks. you’re the only person i’ve ever devoured with my mouth in entirety. in a way that shouted—this love won’t wait—for words. it’s only in the physical apparition of the movements of the world that make you sparkle with the evidence of this luster. head to toe.

nice dress , he says
I say, huh?
i’ve been chasing those polka-dots for a block and a half, he says
i say, oh?

the summer dress
my pig-tails
this lollipop

what flavor is that? he asks, stupidly matching his own steps to mine down the street past the stadium and heading toward the overpass that will take me home.
i pull the sucker out of my mouth; make a sound with my lips, and say plainly, flatly, orange.

sun makes people stupid

the ball of sugar sweet candy screams bright under the sun
it’s the same color as my hair

no it isn’t, he smiles, wryly, shaking his head.

he thinks i’m flirting. i’m not.

why is your mouth blue then?

i’ve never taken out my head phones: if i tell you will you go away?

he laughs and it sounds like that background noise on animal shows when they’re in the midst of way too many monkeys closed behind too many glass partitions.

i say, because i’m an alien?

why did you say it was orange?

and i’ve no idea why i’ve said what i have, instead i’m thinking about the word wildfire and all the stupid things i’ve ever done in my life. i think about the way i'm in love with the curves of my calves. i wonder if i’m combustible and if i’m only one match short of proving the point.

i say, orange is the color of encouragement and the stimulation of knowledge. it’s the color of the brave. it’s the sun. power. life.

no mention of destruction.

where are you rushing off to? he asks inappropriately as a stranger encroaching on my solitary walk after a long day.
i say, my boyfriend is waiting for me at home.

it’s not really a lie. not one i’ll ever feel guilty over.

we step still and i say, raspberry?
but why did you say it was orange?
i pause and take the hard end out of my mouth, hold it out to him and say, i was hoping the contradiction would make you go away.

and he does.

what do you do
when you realize that someone you know
not well but know
is completely and phenomenally

grow up

the thing about it, is, honestly – i never really liked rick. he has a hairy back and lives off of his older brothers. even several years after high school – even though he was two years ahead of me and i’m not sure how he got it to begin with – he carried that picture of me around in his wallet. the one from sophomore year. cheerleading. he could still have it now. even after all of these years. his name rhymes with dick. and he’s easy to make fun of. easy targets make me uneasy. too big for his own body. his clothes never fit him right. he carried me home one night twelve blocks after s pushed me through the thick glass of a patio sliding door and i turned up where he was looking for someone else. having walked too far after a fall and losing too much blood. he never asked any questions. he never told anyone. just put me to bed. had tears in his voice—his eyes--when he turned and said in a voice too loud for the silent house of my childhood, there are people, he choked, there are people who’d love you, if you’d only let them try. so many years ago i’d never thought of it so much until this morning when i found out quite by mistake that his mother just passed away. it makes me wonder who loves him now. i want to call and tell him I get it. i him to know that i think now i just might know.

It all went wrong at the sound of the the sound that sounded like a dog chain rattling that told me I shouldn’t be out on my porch under the not well lit stairs in front of the locked door drunk in the summer not yet summer air reading student papers that made me want to write in big bold letters if only I had a pen in my pocket instead of these keys that wouldn’t let me in fast enough if this was in fact a dog let loose from his chain which is what it sounds like – you’re a blogger – and I could google for you and find you if I wanted to – which I won’t because I respect your privacy and I know that you aren’t bob but that you are you and that you might write this way to get your thoughts across but I have no realm or right to look for you out there even if I know I could – find you out in a few short seconds – key strokes waiting for me to find you out – if only I hadn’t spend the last 45 minutes explaining to my poor tear stained distraught brother that what my mother just spent over an hour explaining to me in response to what my brother had, previously, spent 2 and a half hours trying to tell me wasn’t just some fucked-up stupid construction about what makes a wife a wife and what makes a mother a mother – then maybe the world would seem simpler – maybe I wouldn’t have spent over a decade trying to fit into that false construction that becomes like god – something that people talk about but that I just can’t believe in – maybe then I wouldn’t still hear the haunting ring of the chain that sounds like a dog let loose from his chain that makes me fumble with my keys scared and wishing I were already inside the confines of my own rooms where I make and understand the definitions that clearly make up this life for which I subscribe and keep trying to live honestly – maybe then I wouldn’t be so afraid – I could find you out, girl, I could find your page and I could read all your insides out. But I won’t. because I am you. and you are me. I am bob. You are bob. We are the dog’s chain rattling.

turning the wrong way key in the unlocked door

i am--

everything anyone wants me to be
false spinner of language
legacy of the white devil
disillusioned with the myth of individualism / freedom
decent in bed
basher of the American dream
massager of egos