one of the many number of things i have a weakness for:

hard candy

Lately, there's been too much sick in this house. Curled up on the couch trying to find some moment of meditation. I slept myself right into a nightmare. I tried to tell my boyfriend (who tried to comfort me afterward) about the dream. But somehow, in tired-speak, my dream about a big black dog sounded to him like I'd just awoken from a terrible scene in which a big black laptop had been biting my arm.

i need more doors
ready to be painted.

and i will wait
for them
to come.

Some offering to bring, today.
One cat's eye.
Unholy stained glass
to hold firmly--
these storm-sky dusk days.
When you've got nothing left
to redeem.

some nights. when rain sparks everything darkward. i want to skin you like cold grapes. roll you on my tongue. waste the time until light.

i speak in code to shadows and shake between sheets when he leaves left to shook and when we dissolve unreal and the world becomes the sound the dog makes when he wakes. when i hear the words coming out. when we lie the lie about lateness. in what world can we worry about words like wombs and accidents. the ritual of it all. like we were everyday people in that worrydance other people play. like stuck dials old car radios go. our own soundtrack blaring out the difference to leave frayed edges and tired fingertips. when we lay.

it's so going to be the new new thing

but could someone tell me how i can gain 100 thousand pounds


i'm still obsessed with losing 10 pounds.

you know. when i met the Man, i gained a bunch of weight. (mostly, people tell me this was invisible gain, but i swear i saw it.) i called it a consequence of being happy and satisfied with my life. but i instantly went on a mad dash to rid myself of it. i'm not sure what that says about me.

that yesterday
i wore my boyfriend's underwear
all day long?

. . .

i just took one of those online quizzes to figure out what book i would be if i were a book, which i'm not (you know, i used to think of people as books. i'd meet them and instantly think . . . oooo, you're so going to the sun. but now, i don't anymore.) [that's probably a lie that only feels true right now.] the quiz said that i'm this book. but i think it was for bogus reason that had more to do with choosing "armadillo" than anything else. i don't know anything about irving. really. except that i didn't like the movie cider house rules. at all. it was one of those movies that made me want to kill myself. at first i even mixed the names up with that other john who wrote novels. but his were about rabbits. i wrote a post about that once. but i don't particularly like that guy's writing. either. i'm not a huge fan of all of them white dudes.

. . .

really i'm just killing time (that phrase seems so screwed up right now) until important meeting where my stomach will fall through the floor. currently 45 minutes, to go.

that i would like to have something go right soon.


(she's not listening to me.)

you've come to the right spot.

yesterday, standing in one of my best friend's kitchen, i said . . .

you know, if you really want to woo this new woman you've been seeing. it might be a good idea to take this "you've been released from probation" letter off of the fridge before you invite her over.

i mean, i'm just sayin'.

(I don't think that even makes sense.)
((as if that's ever been a requirement here?!))

How come I'm trying to revise just one chapter, and I currently have six documents open?

What the chapter three?!

accidentally took a week off during yearly gym closing.
back now.

i'm revising. which means i'll either post nothing
(like i've been doing)
or post a heck-ton.

no matter what, i still don't think i like yerba mate.
and i desperately need a haircut.

when i was yellow and you. i wanted to dream about mothers and eat cake. instead, we slept hung-over into the afternoon and talked about. this isn't about silvery shoes or my old blue couch that i left by the dumpster not quite a year ago. and now that he's been here. a year. and we fell out of the sky. there isn't anything worth fighting about. on days when the new sofa doubles for my bed and that i just yelled the f-word when you were on the phone with your . this week, i've gained a thousand pounds. and i don't have any extra fabric for the ass end of my jeans. or a real job. to. go.

there's something wrong with the comments.

that is all.

i think i was going to make a post about being a little girl. but now i've forgotten what it was about. and so i'm just typing as fast as i can wondering what might come out. my boyfriend has a wonderful grandmother. i've been having dreams about her lately. she has a unique name which we would steal for our own baby. if we ever had one. and it was a girl. but we won't. so we only dream-talk about it. and likely things we might call a cat one day. if we got one. and i don't think that's so strange. or the fact that this week i mistakenly thought that someone i previously thought was the Enemy wasn't worth my time pretending he didn't actually exist anymore. and so contacted not out of the blue, but because i thought it was silly to harbor some latent feelings i didn't really feel anymore. but only because i thought i might have something that he wanted. until he didn't respond. and i realized, obviously, the film always has the same ending. no one has changed the reel. when he told me to go to hell forever. that's exactly what he meant. see, unlike super-forgiver-extraordinare me, he's a man with convictions. and so, he'll never go back on his word. his decision. to loathe me forever. sigh. sometimes i'm glad for my big fat bleeding heart and my ridiculously loose principles. lately, i've been up late at night thinking about the east. and trying to imagine a class based on the theme of the western imagination. i've been dreaming about coasts and sand in my teeth. and cold strong coffee.

At the dinner party, my boyfriend
told all of our friends that I am his
precious angel
when I'm asleep.

And suddenly love was all chocolate boxes and roses again.

Then he scoffed and said:
Yeah, it's the only time that she ever shuts the-hell up.

And so it happens. When stark contrasts search for differences between Good and Evil. Right and wrong. Who to choose without the light. Los postmodernisms that stretch out like medieval torture devices. The wheel pushing one extreme only to become some more grotesque version of what we already are. And sometimes cheap photography lenses. From sharp crisp clean centers to the fractured rings around my irises. Most people are accustomed to the fact that light waves undergo reflection. All waves are known to undergo refraction when they pass from one medium to another medium. That is, when a wavefront crosses the boundary between two media, the direction that the wavefront is moving undergoes a sudden change; the path is bent. In my fairy tale childhood, love, there were so many bent edges waving. Of golden haired girls weaved into lost lovers--palms and heels cleaved for shoes that would never fit quite right and towers never scaled. The wicked ones where heroes never come and I'm left wondering would I were safer alone with that cold bowl of porridge than inside the warm belly of the whale.

what does it mean | begin again? days when all my edges blur. like singed cling wrap. to cling. to cleave. the beaver cleaver. [ooo, that's dirty.] when all my edges blur. like rain drifts on window screens. and the smell of yellow onion fingertips. days on days these drips drain my patience. and i can't go outside. in the light. can't walk these broken canvas streets searching the way for you. this sore throat madness monday. swallowing me like 4 am lightening. that took your seed. and planted. my whole life in a car parked across from your house. with broken windows and faulty gauges. and i need more change. for the meter. and you know. to be honest. i'm still not sure.

i do love you both.

So many carriers of evil exist. Resist the curve of history to dissipate into nothing. Into the German stories we tell today. Lost of all the blood and guts nightmares that might remember us of our often more horrific selves. Had we the stomachs to look. No cosmic doubles nor unholy ghosts of still-lost lovers resuscitations. No wolves to wear in this bed of never-sleep. Only just this one mutant. And him, mornings. Scratching for blood.