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.

Heading to our first wwoofing farm and seeing living walls murals with frendssss.