My parents

My mother cut ties with her mother over 25 years ago
due to her not being what my mother 'expected'.
She refused her existence except to discuss the negation
until a year ago when my grandmother called her and asked, "I'm dying.
Please come see me."
My mother explains how she went right away, no questions asked and
when she arrived she begged her,
"Mom, why haven't you called me all these years?"
My grandmother couldn't answer her
and this, too, fell into the category of another lost
expectation.
No one knows but my mom was poised
to go see her mother again
when she heard the news.
She felt ignored in the process of death
with no true reflection of how
she ignored her in life.
She is still processing these feelings
as they come, but not discussing them.
My father complains about caring for his aging father,
who is 'not dying' which is said in an annoyed tone.
He isn't happy with anything,
he is manipulative,
he is what I hope you will never have to go through with anyone (
because this will NOT BE ME).
I picture him in his chair, unable to recognize where he is,
unable to see the one comfort he had in life, his wife,
unable to be happy with anything because at this stage in his
life
there is just not much to be happy with.
'You give him too much credit' I say,
I want to yell it.
He is just sad and alone and no one would be happy with anything
that way and you too will go through this and no amount of money
or young wives will change it.
My parents are interesting creatures, passing on a maze-like pattern
of how I should then,
interact with them.

A world alone-lorde


All my fake friends and all of their noise, complain about work
They're studying business, I study the floor, and you haven't stopped smoking all night.
Maybe the Internet raised us, or maybe people are jerks.
(People are talking, people are talking)
But not you
(People are talking, people are talking)


....why do I like this haha

Slender arms I held,
but softly,
I was scared to bruise them further.
Looking at her
was like looking in her
the varied dimensions
and layers our bodies make below the skin.
I saved your voice mails
and wear your ring
but try not to hear what
these things are saying.
I'm not ready to hear you
in death
only in the gritty night
under my sheets
where I can talk to you
and pretend we are here
above the ground together.
Only in the glamour shots
I have of you,
placed on my dresser,
purposely hidden beneath clothes
so that you can surprise me
under there every once and a while.
I love you and I am scared of you,
and I'm sorry I hear you but am not yet
ready to listen.

I want to be a chicken,
doing 5 things only, in life:
Microscopic seeing,
peck at my poop,
wipe my beak on the ground by my poop,
sleep on a warm encased bedding
also full of my poop.
My neighbors
think I'm crazy,
living out here in
nowhere
where everyone has chickens
to disregard.
I want to carry around a video camera
to capture the constant nostalgia of life that makes us feel
good
in movies.
In good movies.
I want to carry around a video camera to show how many
life options I look at a day
on a screen that's not living.
3:30pm
and I just wanna get home and watch some fucking
mumblecore.

Is it a womyn's question only

to find the balance between giving,

and being given.

The transitions are swift,

like the white tips of waves

and your body tumbling under them.

You are too young,

and maybe you are?

You cannot love.

And maybe you cannot.

You push your nose through 

their beard hairs, maybe not for love

but for hunger.

To find hidden food.

Waking up next to a warm body,

two mules pulling along a heavy weight,

two mules who wouldn't pull such weight without

the trust of its partner.

So,

I am too young,

I am not in love,

I am,

just a mule drowning in the ocean?

Mornings.

There is a gentle fold beneath the mountain fog
I walk the dogs in every morning.
There is a self containing bubble
where I poke and prod
at the outsides
of acceptable social activity.
Instead,
I need rest
and to sit on the two white chairs
of my neighbors decrepit house,
with the caving in
of damp wooden floors now covered in acorns,
waiting to be cracked.

Puppy Poem

I  my made my showers so hot, they scalded me.
Trying to trace the side of my body on the
foggy glass with my fingers to define my own lines.
So that is what I really look like? I'd think.
The puppy howls
and its loud and shrill and sad
because he has never had to been alone before tonight.
And I feel dirty for having to listen.
It is not cruel to keep animals this way,
I'm told,
they must learn isolation as training
but our own private times are
shied away from.
The cries wake me,
because my body traced
is not my true shape
but that puppy,
is truly in the dark till he learns
to not bark.