dear sweet sweet love,
i am sick,
all a-fev'r'in, coca-cola, i
adore ya, take-an-allegra
too sore ta holler
wanna be swimming
far down in the lake
and the lake and the
lake that the old
II. cold side of the pillow
grandma i use that now, that
vo5 oil you said will keep my hair
so soft and fine. i've gotta say it smells
unforgivable strong and like nothing i know.
but it works, damn, does it.
III. it's easy to love ya
it's easy to love ya, excitability
may occur especially in children
it's easy to love ya, Santa Barbara, mi
sublime y generosa protectora,
acetaminophen 500 milligrams it's
easy to love ya, sweet palo santo
so easy to
love ya it's easy to love ya, Coty
Airspun face powder in pale-white-girl,
dear sweet sweet love
i have these feelings. or ideas. about writing. i have these (feelings) (or) (ideas) about writing. things like:
- don't write about sex
- don't write about death
-don't write about drugs
-don't use the word baby
-don't write about love
-don't direct your poem toward someone
-especially not someone you love
-or someone you're having sex with
-or someone you have a crush on
-or someone on drugs, or who died, or who's yr baby.
i had a teacher that told me, that it said it in a book, it said, "don't write about these things."
so i write about them all the time and then i feel like shit about what i've written. or i like what i've written. sometimes i'm a rebel. sometimes i'm ashamed and my head is bowed and i feel like i will never be a good writer. i guess my point is:
--i'm always thinking about sex because i'm 23 years old and these hormonal whispers in some secret nerves keep saying it, "sex," and sometimes i see him, just a blur of pale skin in the dark, an arm, sweet eyes. i'm always two seconds from the orgasm that rearranges my clattering bones.
--i'm always thinking about death because i'm gonna die. when i cross the street i imagine a car hitting me, the impact, the little flight, my head, its contents a circus of color and texture splattering asphalt.
--i'm always thinking about drugs because i am a sober drug addict, and drugs are part of my past, and i always think about my past... a little bit less every day. but i wouldn't even be able to realize that fact in itself if i didn't think about yesterday, a little.
-- i always wanna use the word baby because it is one of my favorite, favorite words, i find it to be one of the most poetic, i wanna call him pretty baby because i MEAN it, but my mouth is glued shut, all i can do is hum ike and tina.
-- i'm always thinking about love because. well i don't know why. but i'm sure as shit always thinking about love. i guess it is because i FUCKING LOVE IT. i fucking love love. i love love the way some people love fear. i love love foolishly, wildly, and young. i am in young love with love, it feels perpetual.
-- i direct my poems toward you because as fucking large a mouth as i have, i still can't tell you this to your beautiful stained-glass face.
two identical plates smeared in chicken curry dregs
lay pressed against one another
crammed in the sink
hand a hand your left hand always
through the back of your shorn
you close the blinds for me because i am very shy. you have been seen naked hundreds of times by the neighbors across the poured path. you think they must not care because they have never taped a note to the door. you somehow simplify things,
all things primary colors for you,
every body says when they are upset, and though their languages are disparate, their tones are marked, and so you think you understand.
you have been sick for weeks, you call me the Carrier. but you gave it to me with your tongue, like a pill. you climbed with a knee on either side of my thighs and your skirt above your ass and i sang along to bad boy la la la la la la. i felt small and you felt big. a blur which annexed all of my vision. you're not afraid of things like armpits or tongues or where you put your mouth or where you let your heart go. you must be certain that you have one, ('have a heart please wont you have a heart?' you like to sing, along.) you're cocksure, so cocksure,
i would never, never use the word cocksure.
maybe i would.
you clean your room for me so that i will think that you are clean. your possessions in order and a dirty dust floor. your cat sleeps on the bathroom sink. you don't seem to care that what you do does not make sense, draws an elaborate plan for future pains.
the edge of an enormous fear laps like small waves along your skin, and i see it.
i draw on your bruise, crouched over your thigh and your white underwear.
you told me i laughed in my sleep, that i groan in my sleep, lungs rattle in my sleep, i say 'woah!' in my sleep, you watch me sleep,
Shake shake. When I shake such tiny shakes so incessantly is it just one shake? There is a town along the 101
I’ve wanted to go there for a few years, because it is the earthquake capital of the United States. The Earth shakes there every forty minutes. There is evidence to suggest that I was not born in this town. It has no hospital. It isn’t on my birth certificate.
But further evidence suggests that I am this town.
And through my stunned and dilated pupils, Small Things Seem Huge.
The town shakes because it lies directly on a faultline, like a tired girl who can’t run any more, so she lays down in the burrs and sand, survives on succulents, she lies and moves her limp arms only slightly and very infrequently.
I feel inclined to say that this girl is not me, because I am never running. I’m asthmatic and sedentary, the silt at the bottom of a tepid lake, I do not run. But that is