http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQ-XVTzBMvQ&feature=relmfu

How do I demand, I demand it of you.

How do I know, I do not know you.

I do not know because the great wide

Disease of infested worm,

Of white livid worm

Inhabits me.

It breeds in me,

In my mutt’s lower belly

In my undigested

Sex, the back seat pick up,

The Volvo I loved at 18,

The drive in I sat on a lap for at 20,

This creature

This being

It is the accent

Of the reverberated

dance of the collective minds

Because I do not believe

In it,

Or you,

Or really the power of me

At all.

Because there are still dogs barking

And hay to be raked

And because I am never free,

No never free

Unless my hands are tied.

"It was a day like a slow-motion video of twilight.  Uneventful, to put it mildly.  The lead gray of the sky mixed ever so slowly with black, finally blending into night.  Just another quality of melancholy.  As if there were only two colors in the world, gray and black, shifting back and forth at regular intervals."

"dance dance dance" Haruki Murakami

Rifle

I spent 4 hours in someone else's red ant infested garden today.
It was the type of infestation you could use to teach children about peripheral sight or
the possibilities of giving someone laser eye visions.
The kind where one ant quickly turns into an entire colony
of workers
with tiny construction caps
in a 5 second time-span.
I re-learned the names of Indian bitters
and forgot the names of their gods.
I heard 18 voices in my head,
quite a spectacular showing,
making true contact a sport with my own board game rules.
A neighbors dog broke the boundaries of
our home
(git, git! we yelled, I threw sticks and stones).
He'd spotted a bitch's smell
and didn't ask but took to take her as his lady-friend.
I thought, that's funny, dog's need dick, too.
What great excitement,
herding those chickens into safety
trying to save them from a flirting dog's teeth rifle death
injection.
So much can happen all day,
in a farm,
on the can,
scooping hay or rolling around in it.
I heard 18 voices in my head today and there is nothing
quite like burying them in your own grave.
I like a constant clit tickle, my fingers hover there all day while working
just to remind myself to fire off wired concepts through the dirt,
like those ants whose homes I uprooted with one fell swoop.
It is possible,
to produce 20 foot statues of idols
for your people to worship
and then to send them out into the ocean
only to begin again,
the real celebration,
where no one can remember your gods namesakes.

The flight of immigrant birds,
one always turned around,
"You're going the WRONG WAY!"
But clouds pull by wings,
eyes lead by clear distant sounds of shotguns,
my one reminder that,
shhhhhhhhh,
people are near.
I thank the hen that gives me egg,
the pub-
let beer go to my head.
Sitting at the wooden gear,
I slipped but
gulped the smells right in.
Like my dog in heat,
they must have sensed me from miles away,
my boots
the casing for manure.

this movie was so good and awesome and I wish I was that awkward so I could get away with more of my actual awkwardness!

and this man is a new desire because I am really just a 15 year old....I have also downloaded a bunch of steve martin books on tape for my trip because I am a 23 year old.

I am a serious person,

Like the sounds of feet scrapping together

Or the quietly moaned stifling my words.

If we all grew up in nice neighborhoods,

The world would be a more productive globe.

We would discover how to destroy what we see,

How to paint impressionably by the left side of a tree at night,

Inhabiting the lamp posts bulbs.

I am not negative,

Just creation

In its dirtiest mud filled piles of forms,

Addicted to masturbation,

To hitting the send button,

To cancelling accidental texts.

I am your cum stained panties,

Your peers self respect.

I am your grabbing hands and

The language between your toes.

I am your afternoon whiskey water pick me up,

The hardened specks of rodent digestion.

I am your Friday night girl and Saturday’s rejection.

I am my father’s daughter,

My sister’s friend,

My dog’s human mother.

I am, I am

The sorry sap who wrote one too many

Love letters.

I am the projection of your questions about life

 like the bird seed you throw on your

Million dollar homes at night.

The vomited mass of nutrients you wish you hadn’t eaten

Or the booze I consumed that you wish you had.

You are what I am

In my wildest dreams,

Where ex-lovers send you unopened letters

You’ve been waiting to receive.

They tell you it’s not you it’s only

What you perceive.

I am the harrowing avoidance of phone calls,

Of planned visits,

Of 1am sex.

I am the persistent itch of biting bugs

And the temporary scratch.

I am, what you are,

What you are not.

I am, what I am,

What I am.

Is someone else’s poem,

Is a drug fiend’s autobiography,

Is my sleepy eyes at night when the nostrils burn off their arc like dance to the fires.

 What I am,

Is this. 

Is the only thing no one else can know how,

Of locking what you couldn’t chain,

Finding the end someway in the somehow.