tonight

The moon is half full...  thank you everyone one for getting  me to this point. chaucer once said (i believe) that man is aways keeping appointments that he never makes. For example, I am going to the  beach tomorrow. It's like I'm on that moving sidewalk at the airport and I just get off whenever it lets me off like it's saying "here is your activity go enjoy" and I say, "yes thanks."

POST SCRIPT

after David Bailey' Drun Sonnets

REFLECTING NOW, ON HOW CLOSE WE WERE,

I DON’T KNOW HOW ANYONE FINDS ANYONE ANYMORE

ITS LIKE PINBALLS SLAMMING AROUND

UNTIL PROXIMITY MAKES A COUPLE GROW 

COMPATIBLE 

AND THEN THEY ARE ALL LIKE

“WE ARE MADE FOR EACH OTHER” AND THAT’S BULLSHIT

WHAT’S ALSO BULLSHIT IS MOST OF THE INTERNET

AND THE SUBURBS.

BUT GROWING COMPATIBLE IS IMPRESSIVE IN ITS OWN RIGHT

WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT

AND ALL THE TIMES YOU HAVE CRUSHES ON SOMEONE

AND NOTHING HAPPENS. OR IS THAT JUST ME?

I DON’T THINK IT WAS MY FAULT, THEY HAD G/FS

This is Coming a Little Late

after Drunk Sonnets by Daniel Bailey

AND I KNOW LOVE MAKES YOU DO CRAZY THINGS

I HAD A FRIEND WHO CLIMBED A CELL PHONE TOWER FOR THAT SHIT

BUT MAYBE I JUST WANT TO ELECTRICAL POWER OF THIS FEELING

TO HOLD ON TO LIKE WRESTLING WITH A DRAGON

DOES THAT MAKE ME ROTTEN? SOMETIMES I THINK YES

MOST TIMES I CAN’T THINK. BUT NOW THAT I CAN

I WILL LET THE DRAGON GO, WHEN IT LEAST COUNTS OF COURSE

AND ILL TRY TO BE A HUMBLE OLD WOMAN

WHO FREES FISH CAUGHT IN LITTER, OR MENDS

THE CHIPMUNK WITH THE BROKEN PAW

I ONLY EVER WANTED TO DO GOOD.

FORGIVE ME, FOR ALL THE TEXT MESSAGES I SENT

ESPECIALLY THE DRUNK TEXTS

I’M SURE YOU DIDN’T WANT THEM.

translated wiki page: franz paul

"Having been his sister Mary Herbert in 1803 , which is also in love with the Questions Immanuel Kant corresponded by suicide was divorced from life, so did Herbert."

babies

And then came the online obsession with early mothers. The girls from my grade who have birthed and raised kids. I click through their Facebook pictures,  the whole timeline as if maybe I can see some map of cause and effect.

compound words

voice mail box

voice mailbox

voicemail box

voicemailbox

I had a voice that I shipped in the mail via a cardboard box. Passing by, I heard a voice inside the mailbox so I left a voicemail about the cardboard box. Take the voice I mailed you in the box outside of the the mailbox with the voice in it so it's not threatened in there all alone with a disembodied echo talking to it.

Social Suicide

I would like to jump off the Facebook building to my own Facebook demise. But I'm scared.

re-do?

Maybe it's better to go through life like a knife blade instead of an empty basket.

Lost 'N Found

I.
My sister built a tree fort with her own bare hands. she rigged a platform and a rope ladder to scale the trunk, climb to the top and peek into the far off ocean. Inside the fort, a kettle sits at a small wood stove, but it's just for show. There is no fire in the tree fort. There is also a fake bathtub and a fake fridge-- a fake gaslight and a fake hose. About the only thing that's real in my sister's tree fort is a rug that we both curl up on, and of course the view.

II.
One summer, I went up to visit my sister in her tree fort. At first she would not let me in. She drew up the rope ladder like a draw bridge and said, "No girls allowed." I didn't say anything, but curled up at the base of the tree, right in the roots, until I looked like one, and cried and cried and cried. Then she let me up and fed me circus peanuts.

From that day on she let me tend the imaginary fire and send imaginary smoke signals into the air. (We weren't really trying to find anyone.)

And no one tried to find us.

III.
And things were fine, nay great, until my sister's drinking problem led me to sit up from my corner of the rug one pale, lukewarm night and exclaim, "Sister-- it's me or the booze."

She muttered that she didn't know what I meant, that I was naive, ungrateful. We shuffled around each other for days in the tree fort. Tequila dripped from the floor boards to the thirsty frogs below.

IV.
I am not a large girl, but I do not fit so well in my sister's tree fort. I stub my toes, and thwap my forehead, and rake my knuckles. The mini mirror, should it shine, reflects only my waist. The mini rug, should it have tassles, tickle my lip. The mini shower, should it work, wets only my shins.

I have some leaves but my sister says I wasn't born with those.

I like my hands; I order seven pairs online. My sister is going to show me how to fasten them all with her sewing kit. I have a squirrel tail which, to keep clean, I lick, like a cat. My saliva flecks the air and catches the light. I am very pretty.

V.
I don't know why I came here. I don't know why I show up anywhere. If I leave, I'd like my sister to throw her arms around my knees and beg and beg for me not to go.
"It will be terrible here with out you!" She'd say. I do not tell her my secret wish.
"Narcissist," she'd hiss.

VI.
Today my sister is kicking me out of the tree fort. She says I have the drinking problem, not her. I don't think that's right. Before I leave, she pulls out a brown cardboard box. LOST 'N FOUND it says on the side.
"Give back everything I gave you," she says, but I don't know what she's talking about. She shakes the box at me so I take off all my rings and bracelets.
"Such a selfless martyr," she says, and I am ashamed.
"The car keys too. You can't drive drunk." I throw them in there.

I peer one last time in the box before I leave. Little mice crawl around my things.

VII.
Down in the forest, I weave among the trees and miss the parties with imaginary tea I had with my sister.

Cloth in the Sun

I don't want to write about Childhood, Autumn, or Morning Smells.

I'm pretty sure I don't want to write long hand on paper when, my whole life, I've typed poems on the computer. I get what they mean about distractions and the internet, turning your phone off ect. BUT at the same time, why would I ignore digital technology? Yes my attention span is impaired... but it seems untrue to write my observations down in a hand-made journal in the woods rather than pluck my ideas out of my iphone notes and type them out to my blog. The critic in me is persistant.

So today, in the workshop, I am writing (long-hand) my page-long shpeil about a charged kid memory about a kitchen, but it doesnt interest me, no matter how "real" or "honest" I get. It might be interesting, but not to me.

Instead, I want to write about this folded cloth on the porch across the street from my sister's apartment in Bloomington, Indiana. It met the sun just so, that I thought it must be a cat-- the intention that it sat with, when the rest of of the porch was shaded.

But instead of just saying that-- I am qualifying it with contexts and complaints because I feel the creep of preciousness encrouching in from these workshops about The Senses and things we Remember.

Maybe it's becuase I'm looking out whats coming out the end of my pen like its some fecal dung thinking "what the fuck is this? is this my voice? so lame" I'm thinking that because its not actually terrible, or great. It's fine. Which is unnacceptable. I want different standards.

I missed my blog today.

Who are you?

I'm...

Who are you?

I know who I am.

Yes?

I'm. I feel weak.

Spit it out.

I'm a season that hasnt been invented yet.  I'm spring falling backward into winter. So sudden, I feel the rug pulled out.

Don't say that, you have websites and blogs to remind you you are beautiful with confidence, mascara, and a few well coordinated clothing items. Repeat after me: silly, fierce, beautiful.

This might work.
(and
I think this these words, once well meant, have fashioned into commercial vultures-- or deer (over run, and stripping off the bark of unpecked, unscathed langauge)).

Until I wake up at age 85, as if untucked from my bar booth. I'll look around and rub my eyes.

I'll wake up my husband, but he wont wake up no matter how hard I try.

Don't die. You can't die.

How did I get here? I'll say over and over to myself. How did I get here? I can't believe it. I'll hold my pale arms up in front of my face turn my hands around and around.

My husband wont wake up. How did I get here? I say.

I bang my knees on boudair furniture as I clamour,
crawl away from the bed. It's not morning then.

But it's not dark--
Just dark wood.
I am an umbrella with sun on the inside, I wash
out nightlights left on for passed out drunks.

How did I get here? I just can't believe it.