A job well done.

So I read last night. And I feel gooood. All gooood. Nerves caught my breath below my throat, thought I would suffocate once I got up to the mic. But, I didn't. And I think, I'll read again soon.

:)

Women, women, women!

She's a force to be reckoned with. Crazy in film and crazy in life.

I miss my friends. I'm not sure why I look at old photos...they always just make me sort of nostalgic...even though I shouldn't really be so nostalgiac for a time when I was definately not in a good place health wise. But, even so, I miss it sometimes. Or maybe I just miss the fact that I can never have it back. That now, when I try to be like I used to, I get too tired and I just want to go home and get into bed with my lover and talk and sleep. I thought that we'd all be the same for ever and most of us have gone different ways. Which is normal and good and most of the time I don't even think about this stuff but...right now I am. Maybe cuz it's summer and I'm upset because I'm 20 and I'm working 2 jobs and doing school and I feel like I don't have any time to just hang out but the point is that I'm trying to GET somewhere...and I am definately making progress on the whole getting somewhere part but not much on the whole being here now part.

You’re brown like mush
At the end of the seasons
Which change temperature like you change colors.
Shaped by soil into an accessory of a
Sultans cap, you fall down on our
Heads and when you’re all gone
The openness makes the concrete clear, giving way a path for the rain.
Lovers walk over you instead of walking
On each other and children
Jump into you, whole pies scattering.
Someone sweet tells me you stole life
From the sun, measured in smiles. And I try and watch
Your movement for a while, to catch you
In the act. But you don’t move,
Only curve slightly to absorb the sun and bring life back down to us.

The sun peaks over a woman’s hips,
Fat sitting around like pockets of pre-birth
Preparing for the opening.
Held at the waist,
As a powerful grip on ownership or claims,
my practiced pouches of cancer sift in pink tissue
Fearing the grip.
We are dangerously animalistic in the act of
Thought out innocence with
The height of thickness, like the hair on arms
Or puberty.
They say man creates the body now, and God the mind
but who knew minds don’t have to think alike to set records
With limbs
And
False contact?
See, you caused no stir in me, still grasping the spaces in between
Wandering to and from obsessive touch.
Those collisions are rare,
Sparking the effortless breath between
Metal on metal.
There’s the scientific equation for everything.

I used to write poems about the things I saw,
Finding inspiration in the smallest observances
Like the way my mother said my name
Or the taste of my very first Barbie lip gloss.
I used to write poems with the concreteness of family living,
About the anxiety of their separation or the angst
Of a father’s brothel.
I used to write things other than love poems,
Like a focus on my best friends laugh or the meaning of shock in
The phrase ‘culture shock’.
When I met you, I stopped writing poems,
And I turned them into anger instead.

Forced pains of unfamiliar lusting after lost lover number two because the first was unrealistic, but the second too. I’ve lost what everyone’s lost but mine is one that sits in the pit of peaches in the stomach of a celiac watching the casual flames of eating. Cover my eyes; force my head down because that’s the way your body teaches you. I am forced, because chemistry is rare and you are
not,
Another.
limp dick just dead weight. a woman is to tease and mind fucks are decent maybe fantasy better. Touch touch, a call is coming more for someone like you, prepubescent abdomens in a hand of 5 fingers one pinky,
with the nail cut off.