finding in the floor a hole the girl proceeded to climb right in.

it was dark and it was dim. there were no friends. it led nowhere. there was no sun at the end and there were no sconces on the walls and there was no wine in any of the bottles that hung from the ceiling of the cave with their necks broken, sharp

tears blurred the candle flames into lines of yellow heat. nothing touched her. she shook from within. it was dark and it was dim, she thought, i know not what state i'm in. anymore.

the allowance of sadness can lead to more sadness and when the tear leaked down her cheek she felt herself slip. all was horribly truly bad. time had been wasted. stupid times had. nothing gained. only sad. and foolish as the day is long.

she paused for the flash of eyes as flat and black as the onyx fished out of the river to satiate her lust. eyes that could only be held when apologizing for some devastating breach of trust. i don't believe in modern love.

stolen, she realized. stolen-- each moment from the dark place used to store everything that is never meant to be. stolen from the lesson vault. stolen from hell. snorting lines off of dressers in beautiful bedrooms. setting lovely. deeds depraved. choking hands followed by words in vain. and then climbing up the orange tree, jacques brel singing sadly, Poeme from a tiny bottle weighing the air. humid summer hell 90 degree days.

he did not ask. she changed the record. she curled into her pain. she knew he was, she was insane. and it all drove her all the more insane. she was very beautiful; it did her absolutely no good. she could not stop her mind from reeling. she found some calm in otis redding. existed as a hurricane

and when the tunnel turned it led to more dark and the dark led nowhere at all. it was, as it were, a cell with walls and she felt very nearly locked in. she slumped to her knees. the floor began to roll

be done, she thought. and disappeared beneath a rising tide. the flood took her under and tossed her around in its grasp.

they hid beneath her own brown blankets. said it would last. i don't believe in modern love . more will always come to pass. on all fours on the floor wrapped in brown blanket he baited a cat. morning rain lasted such a short while; arriving and disappearing just as fast

wine and pills and sick in the bathroom, coke-head teenaged misdirected gunshot took a grazing beauty down. songs and songs

the tide bore her downward

songs and songs, all of my beauty she thought. and all of it wrong. a carnelian and a long time gone. wasted

'dont pass me by' played, perilous curves in the highway 1

big sur moss briefly flashing

i smoked so many cigarettes.

the water level slowly begins to lower, even despite

despite despite. those were dark times but more spent driving

driving ceaselessly. highway 1.

cigarette after cigarette, damned scratched c.d. summer mothered me. you create the circumstances, we'll provide the party

at the end.

at the end what remains is simple. first feeling the walls for a door, and, in finding the door, for a lock. if lock is locked, consulting mind which she finds is the gracious bestower of the key

many thanks.

greeted not by light but by thick obscuring grey. fog covered the clouds but did not distract from the landscape

at the end what remains is simple. a single candle. a blue shawl. hematite bracelet that has seen enough but will see even more. record player still revolves. brown blanket keeps her body warm. time slips

slips and is merciful

whole

learnings

when i walk no one cares where i go

i’m as free as a ghost here.

i am unconventionally winged and i have been stuck in amber

three thousand years of fog and sun.

i read of a king. the king of ireland when ireland had kings;

named

Anguish.

he proved to be persuadable.

it occurs to me that i have worshipped

vice and called it character

attempted alchemical madness

with dylan thomas as defense

and everything i touched permeated

with poison

hind sight beholds

the time i’ve spent

tried to defy

gravity:

truth

sinks.

there’s nothing to fear any more

(that was not a pretty sight)

what is genuine is much quieter than that

in the middle of the highway it pauses staring

through the night

with wolfish eyes

it’s not nothing.

i. some stones.

the bloody jasper in my pocket lends a lovely glow. close to me it feels warm as if it was cut from my chest, cut

with a knife made of ancestral bone; warm as a lung.

i keep stones. i could sew them into my hems if the notion bore me from below. return to the river but for all i've grown. these days, knowing more than nothing, i have something worth keeping

worth keeping in stone. long nights i have known

were long days too.

yet every facet sometimes catches a moment of light. can cross a divide and arrive on the other side, guided by something spectral and wild

conjured from memory, someone i knew said:

i carried crystals, hoarded stones

until i learned to keep them in my mind.

now they go wherever he goes and their light is his alone. trailing smoke and cellos,

sharp as a knife of ancestral bone,

warm as night

(it's a pseudohaiku)

if there's one thing i miss

it's my beloved carnelian

my hand your pocket soon gone

and always gone

the song that plays is history of lovers. i'm bringing it all back home. because i see myself turning slowly to sugar. i see myself turning to water, i see myself turning to vinegar, kept overlong in the cellar

is this decomposition? is it age? am i old or am i young, i think i'm old, i think i'm very very old and tired as that tree over there

bent by the wind. relentlessly driven to shake loose the leaves

i cannot stop myself from contemplating greater things. i don't always like where it all takes me. contemplating a lie. something has taken my past from me

made it seem

like a decimated thing

full of cage and sadly void of free

i'm bringing it all back home. i'm finding the blue car crashed against the pine tree, down the red cliff

across from the old mine

by the look of it

took the turn far too fast

well i've got this new stone and i wear it round my neck on a string. it is a citrine and it lends some strength to me. i have some of my own already but it never hurts to double up on those sorts of things. when you live in berkeley its easy to see the big beauty. if your feet are cold you can warm them up on the street. when it rains it sounds like peace.

things are different but mostly they're the same. i've been spending most of my time with marvin gaye. the band and crosby stills and nash. they seem to know everything that i could think to ask and its all things i've known all along. i am realizing now that its easier than it seems. you just treat yourself with some sensitivity. instead of hating yourself for not being everything or for being things that you cant help but be. i'm finding myself to be much smarter than initially suspected

that's for sure

today is october first and october first is the first day of the year

this year

i have learned a lot of very interesting things today.

it's all going well. i know who i am. even though i wish i didn't have to give a damn

i'm the girl in the pink kimono

and i always will be. it's what i think of me and what i know myself to be

and i wouldn't have it any other way. i haven't been looking very well these days

but i'm green as leaves

soon it'll all be cleared away and i'll be able to see me again

i'm a bit behind but i've got potential