Like a habit

now, this is my way of throwing up, knees bent and steady against the cold wooden floor, arms around the porcelain body, the things coming, out and in, spitting the left over bitter taste, you always cry, while this happens, you are always in tears.
when i have the drugs, i take them, like fuck potential, it's already getting dark. everyone is mad at me, i dropped the day and lost it. it swims and gathers, swims and gathers. we are the feathers on that pond, it wasn't even one of my favorites it just so happened, it happened just so.
all of us, applauding, the leaves underneath all of that snow, "congratulations," the musty coughing browns, "you've done it" i say, can you breathe? i'll tuck you in, i'll hold my breath i always have, i still am. somewhere along the line my teeth grew in and i forgot about breathing, i forgot how to exhale. we wait and wait, in the doctors offices of our brains, signing papers to kill what's inside of us. my seventh grade teacher always said "jesus mary and joseph" when alarmed, when surprised, stuck in a corner, her big earrings.
jesus, mary and that joseph guy who possibly slept with her. really? is that what he did? yes! and then they said hey, hey you, your son he's holy, he's king, mind you he'll have to suffer, you know, nothing too bad, a few scrapes and thorns, it's all, uh, it's all in the liner notes, yes yes they said, their eyes big like cantaloupes and bright like the inside, okay, yes, where do we sign?
she skipped all of the dirty work, that holy mother, the virgin, she stayed in one whole piece, her blue robes and angels hair, never broken, we are never broken. this is a song, it always is , but that statue in my elementary school where her pinky was cracked off, making wishes on it, "hail mary full of grace, the lord is with thee" eyes closed, i'm breaking off, static cling and eyelashes.
but alas, my holy mother was the blurriest, marla singer came so close, my jesus christ is you, little words, little fiction flowers, christmas light daisy chains in winter and cold fingers, the last sentence never feeling finished, so maybe i should leave it halfway done, maybe i should just take you away and .
 moths cling like church congregations, praying for light. praying for what? all you want is melodies, simple chords. all we want is light. bells like night skies, like swimming pools at night, light shining from some unknown source underneath. beauty is when you can't decide if it's horrifying or pretty, when you just can't take your eyes off it. beauty is somewhere in between the two.
i forgot the things i said, the things i felt on the tiles in the bathroom walls.  i throw words around like the rice at weddings.  the ideas come too quickly, i can't catch them, no time to put them in the parts of my brain they belong. they run across and right off the page, like big white horses, leaving me in a cloud of smoke.     i can hear you smile.

but loving you is pumpkin pie

i want you in rivers and i want you on beaches i want you in pools, i want you in forests and in living rooms with music on and in kitchens with none, i want you in tall grass and in summers and i want you in the winter time, i want you when my eyes are open and i want you when they're closed i want you in my hands and on my shoulders and i want you on my legs and in my arms i want you on the small of my back and on my belly and around my hips i want you at 5 ams and i want you in the afternoon, i want you on sidewalks with chalk or sidewalks with nothing i want you in the middle of streets i want you on the branches of trees i want you in the lines of the leaves,  i want you inside and outside,  i want you inside out i want you in movie theaters with big purple seats and in cozy white beds inside blankets i want you on couches and on wooden floors and on ceilings and i want you against walls i want you on hoods of cars with the sky saying hi, i want you with ice water and i want you with tea i want you with whiskey in small glasses, i want you sitting down indian style i want you on your knees i want you with no shoes on i want you with your  fingers clasped together, i want you yesterday and the day before that and i want you tomorrow, i want you before the world had streets and cars and people and i want you after we're gone, i want you when you're sad and i want you lonely and i want you when your smile is just beginning and after it slows down i want you in the rain and i want you with the thunder i want you in the sun under it and in it i want you in the fall , i want you for the fall , i want you in the darkness, we can see through all this darkness and i want you all the way to the tips of the fingers of the end of it all , this is how i want you

it isn't like that

even if it's just to be afraid, let me have it.
even if it's just for your hands on my legs, for something to see, for the slowed down music moving of the outside world. Is nothing sacred? right here, it is, they did it just like that, you know - like a script.  in the curves of the coffee cup you forgot how to love me, the caffeine got to your head maybe, your heart was just the leftover black grounds on the bottom, like the ceramic had freckles. i thought i told you, i thought you knew how. see i used to be so careless with my secrets until they taught me not to, until they showed me how to bend but not break, magic tricks up the sleeve --a rubber band trip, eyes with sugar maple, a sideways curve,     where are we.
we shouldn't be here. but we are and we got here on our feet  and now we're in a car  and right now we're in a snowbank  and it has deemed itself our sky, the walls and the ceiling  and you don't know who i am but i can see right through you, unfortunately, unfortunately for me, like angels.  like angels on acid. the beads on your neck were like pebbles in moving creeks, my hands were the water and what could you have been? something to climb, i think, palm to palm, something rough and rocky and i could tell that the air and things in your lungs were tossing and turning  but i closed my eyes. i close my eyes.  

i just want our skin to be wet and your eyes to be shining. 

they never feel like good ideas, they never are, not with love, not ever. words though, those are a good idea, usually, yes, when they want me. they are kept in a jar, it is a jar full of jam, inside the ribcage maybe, we open it up when no one is around, when everyone is around, with our hands we do it, little hands in our heads like prayers that we catch like sound. when i lie on the ground outside i always put them up in the air and i don't know why , maybe i am waiting for something, maybe something is waiting for me.  the words are looking for a way out , any way out, small pistols in my dreams. do you ever stop to think that "soul mate"  switched around a bit says mating souls? i do. i can picture it too, like slow dancing ghosts, it's what i mean when i say go, it's what i mean when i say love me like your hearts stopped. 

what we mean when we talk about our bodies

your eyelashes are dance stars, regular ballerinas, i could tip toe or run - whatever you wanted.  bite your lips like the end of a cherry blow pop, bubblegum songs about bodies and hands, songs that you put right back on as soon as they end. some solar systems have landed; soles and toes first into view and I am almost sure I am seeing the stars close up, on fire, I can feel the heat only a star would provide, found sleeping inside you, it slips, drips out of your eyes like sunshine, I drink this -- though it is not a liquid. the word "quenched" tells me things i've always known but never talked about, only written, &  I whisper back all of the things that I have ever wished for. A child's list -- stories, words with wings, flight and flee, the picking and choosing of pieces of the universes of my mind, the release, the explosive magnificence of the tips of existence. Just tiny baby breathing voices and sun showers -- beaming lights and feather drops, landing hot on city cement the smell is overwhelming. There'd be tiny instruments that would sound like rain or very small bells and as they all hit the ground sparingly in the very beginning of the fall a symphony written by the world would be carefully making it's way out. have i told you that you're beautiful ?

june 29th 2009 : i find you quite interesting.

No, see, I'd rather sit right here.
Last night when I fell asleep I could hear all of your voices and nothing you said was important, nothing you said was good.  The license plate of the toyota "rav 4" in my peripheral reads  "thx mom."   
Every shady treed creamy brownstone could be a hard cough, the kind you hear in hospitals when you know something is very, very wrong. Every person walking out of the doors making sure their locked behind them sound just like the man in the E.R. screaming some womans name for hours.
Like when you thought it wasn't possible to get anymore lost but found out you were wrong.
It happened. It did, and I'm thinking that maybe, if one more person tells me everything will be okay I will explode in front of everyone, in front of the whole world the biggest wishes falling over , a trickling down, you can have them, you open up and it's like snowflakes on the tongue.
Coney Island firework explosions on the inside, right under your skin. New pen new life same song, the words twist and fly like blank pages everywhere in the air. The pieces landing, in your head through your ears from the tiny white buds you hear him say  "if you love me, then that's your fault," and your whole heart gets hungry and eats itself up, no fork or knife, no, cannibal style. Because it's true, isn't it? It is, it always is.
I know it. Because of words like unstable and werewolf, because of people standing still and then the people walking by them.  Yes, a new stoop, see, I think I'm done and then I remember one more thing.
Just one more thing -- where do I start? I had better decide soon.
And yet.
Mortal fight or flight, you know? Tons of one more things. Piles, until you can't see anything else but everything ever.I'm standing still in the middle of a day lit sidewalk  and I am just about to cry.

out of touch

"i'm in a bit of a slump" i tell him. 
"they call it writers block but it feels more like a slump. 
like the words have shoulders, and they're narcoleptic."
he says nothing, they never do.
"the hours at night have small hands that hold me open, and the things in my head i should be writing down are asleep in their curvy caves, murmuring while they dream."
he nods.
"let's make this quick and painless, yes?" he says.
it is funny how many things we can preface with this, i think.
but i don't say it out loud. i never say anything out loud.
which reminds me. what about knives that get too dull?
the twist and the press down and the popping open, the shaking pills like marbles with air inside them, picking one out with your fingers and the look over and the swallow have all become like some piano song and i'm not sure what that means or if it's pretty or if it's not and i spend all my time sitting in my head turning pages of old books and reading everyones faces like i'm translating something from an old archaic language and i tell him all of this but he just looks at me and i look back at him but i can't see my face - only his, and this makes me wonder -  most things do. most things do, i say, it's a problem. he nods and i look around for answers, the silence in the room like some child sitting in the corner blowing bubbles and watching them till they pop.

picking birds out of your hair

in case you were wondering there are things you should be worried about, but we can't discuss them, not now. the summer is coming, i smelled it today and it grabbed me by the hips and kissed me right under the ear, where i like it, the sun knows these things, you see, very perceptive. i was kicking a rock with my shoe, and not just any rock, but the rock i was kicking and i was wondering when logic swallows want, and when can love swallow logic?  i feel like chlorine, i'm breathing it. it should be night and i should be in a pool, there will be bells, and i will resurface from the page that is of the top of the water and it will make a small sound and i will use my hands to press the water off my eyes and face and my hair back and i will do it slowly with my eyes closed and maybe you're there and maybe you're not, either way it happens and everyone will see it because everyone always sees everything, it's true.