there will always be. because. the line of the text. the drop of the word. like hats. jump jump the hot coal to feet. your name is not my name. not mine of wording the endless screw.

oh shit.

i've got to go now.

stop holding your breath for nothing. i'd gotten the whole thing wrong.
of if not, Nothing to be were better.

in the sunshine
i got lost watching a little girl
wearing a periwinkle colored jacket
roll around on the city playground
caged like a criminal
eating dirt with her hands

one of the only phrases i knew when i first moved to germany
whispered lips to sidewalk shadows

if i can't stop myself from using xml tagging to make notes to myself within the working chapters of my dissertation?

<'!--AOK:I should use a piece of evidence here, this sounds like a load of wank--'>

the smell of juniper
or people who talk loudly in tight spaces

i'm growing incredibly tired of the comment made by many people that i know that goes:

you go through men like tissues

i'm 32 years old and i've been involved with 4 men in my adult life
all significant relationships -- the shortest and most recent lasting just barely a year
[and had sex with exactly that number of people]

i don't think that's all that many, and i wonder if they'd be able to say the same.

> The smell of gasoline reminds me of my father.
> The taste of gasoline reminds me of the time Steve tied me to a
> chair in the basement, covered me with gas, and threatened for
> hours to light me on fire.
> He didn't do it. But the whole time I kept remembering--
> my mom's half brother, my Grandfather's son from a previous
> marriage, and how he covered himself in gasoline in the basement of
> my grandfather's house and flew into death with flames of fire.

I wish I had a picture, now, of that happenstance sun-down razor sharp toothed shark. Teetering and frantic on the wind at the end of some hand full of string. Flush full in a memory of love in a kaleidoscope book of centuries caught on a park bench. Steeled in those sandy fragments of worlds washed up by an ocean I won't ever hold a names for. This love is like summer kites gliding against skin. Fingertips tracing the delicate patterns of bones. Dancing the wind as fabric breaks and goes. These strings of mine bound--caught firm and tight--in your hands.

about the movie true romance
that owns
is that he asks her
if she want's to see what "spiderman one" looks like.
biggest romance movie moment


and that's hands down.

i'm not even going to miss your family
you're inability to experience
or express
selfless love
ruined them
for the rest of us

i want no more of this
teetering on some precipice
bound and gagged
like trying at resuscitation in chocolate syrup

i am no longer
dumb-struck desire
dancing through film reels
all tight jeans
and full laughter of too many hands

i won't pause or turn
hesitate as i go
the light toward home
of your roadside, now

i'd rather play at reflections
in razors edges
and scream my noiseless name
onto a once drunk map
in bones

the smell of him remains--something like cold cereal and the lack of arrogance. her whole mouth an exercise in the memory of the shapes of his shoulders. that precise moment when love crashes soundless into darkrooms beats eardrums and heart pulsations. lingers still on the skin like the ring of a bell just struck.

i'm just spending this time trying to remind myself that i am not a miserable fucking excuse for a human being.

because i'm not.

more on that development.

Sometimes special words apply themselves to being gone. The act of flying away some moment of palliation meant to lay hands and heal. To honor lost things. To forget everything you keep on remembering in the locality of your space. Your place. The jagged fragments of a life caught in the gaps between the teeth.

Last year, I left because of death. This year, I leave because of life.

god. damn. it. i don't want to write this thing.

no compass life. no necessary maps to figure out how to love myself to your doorstep. to break hands and kiss ourselves into remembering what we never knew in the aisle at the discount grocery store. never-was. that. dislocated ghost door. step the directions eyes closed for hungry lips and thighs. not to find. wherever you honestly live. i. lost.

wanted to be new
like the inside of an envelope
just broke

there was this moment when i was you and you were rain jackets in storms and kisses were like bullets in games we played when were weren't afraid of being dead for so long because we weren't going to wait for the flames the seals that took our edges to clip and go not afraid of the unknown ringing blue skies and making dinner late nights when all i want to do is drink and drink until i'm drunk asleep on my couch and i feel like i've inhaled a boat of bad imported korean gangster films don't tell me you love me or that no one else could love me like another because the other side of the looking glass shattered leaves my perfect eye brows and breasts spiked and unsure of themselves microwave on high for 3 minutes and stir no preheat no recipes for tired fingers who couldn't cut ginger and count out tea bags if they even tried or save smiles for you like photo albums stuck tired in the memory we'll never flip now