Can it be true that stories only birth from grime?
I don't see any dirt on bodies here except the residue of mountains.
The homeless huddled under the
curve of open sky
anyone can look into it and see generations.
There's one man, he looks over me glazing
blurry streets to my body,
and his blue eyes ask me for booze money.
I wonder if he could get me some too?
The next time, and the next after that he doesn't remember me.
But I tell him each time hoping he'll get it.
That's the difference there between bums here and bums
in baltimore.
Those at home aren't stuck on booze. They were either broken or
moved onto harder drugs.
I'm drawing images of a drunk in my
mind,
seeing a foster mother in a dirty kitchen,
slipping on liquid ice
made for soothing ear drums.

She can tell the way I move,
how I close the door to interaction.
Used to seeing swirls of gray matter,
turning into smoke,
before anything concrete can find form.
I want to find form with you,
in the way of daily routine
and being around each other.
I like you and the way you think
but my mind is muddled with precautions,
because I'm out of practice,
because I'm afraid of sexuality,
because I'm afraid of bodies learning together
things they've learned before.
But she knows how I am,
maybe better than I do.
And I tell myself not to fuck this up,
like I sometimes do.

This week I've been so highhhhhh on weed from a medicine bottle.

Love.

It's the vibrations I feel
sitting up in space,
looking at your atoms apple.
It seems like my own
swallowing my mirrored face whole.

Growing up moves sexuality beyond the wetness
of my lips
or recognizing my sister's poetry in my handwriting.

You will understand these things:
Wonder from afar
Question loudly
Fear people
Smoke less,
Want me more.

Fall into friendship of some mystery and
break me open.
If your ready you'll crash
and won't tell me I'm willing.
I'll whisper, "See how it all happened so organically?"

I just needed to be looked at today.
I realized that when I'm around you,
I feel looked through.
You lied,
again
and walked right past me.
Tall heels and no ass to grab,
I shield my face with a head of curls.
You took my body over and over again
and I want to go so far as to say
you raped me.
I've been a nothing person for four days
watching people look through me,
until today when I stood in front of
a crowd.
I tried not to smile, but it felt so good
to have those eyes on me
seeing me
with out you being there.

It's been a really long time.
Of seeing things in complete distortion,
wondering why this feeling reminds me more of a situation that doesn't exist anymore.
Why is that always happening?
Me,
somewhere else and where I am.



It was good to touch you,
a familiar pull
that comes and goes
till I have to start all over again,
working my way up to being bodies, together.
I felt like I really knew your name
and I like the way you think

fucking old ways
melting into my pours! but aren't the old ways just new ways beat into submission?
or do we subdue anything at all? I just let it all happen. Making decisions based on the pattern of my scarf that day
or the way someone said, "hello". Words ARE worthless. Even when they're worth something.
Because how can I convey anything without masking something else?
Who is it that said all poets are liars? Wouldn't that just make all people liars, too?
I'm sick of having myself in skin,
not sensing what happens below my head except for vaginal
miscommunications.
And I wrote lots of people today,
to try and remember what kissing feels like!
Do you remember?
How awkward, how touches made the grass feel like intercourse in summer?
Smoking a cigarette in the cold?
My throats sore now,
because i'm not taking care of below the neck,
except reading old ginsberg letters
and smoking weed through a hole in my neck.
I'm telling you to get the fuck off me,
so I can start getting off myself.
I'm gunna smoke another one,
and hope my brain figures out where
it ends.