5-27-08I want you to get it. I apologize that we have been a bit –blageau (cloudy) [unclear] translucent. Come into these words. I want you to understand them. You may misconstrue, misread or misinterpret; just don’t neglect to get in it. Feel it to its full comprehension. Let your fingers sink in the substance and dig around. Because I really want you to feel, I cant let a chance to touch something solid pass us by. When I write I always want it to be significant, I like when it rocks my perception—makes my thoughts open up. Sometimes I just let the words run wild. I skip back to it and I’ve just realized you have no clue what I’m talking about. I think you need to feel it too. I’m not looking for a shared experience…I guess I’m just looking to share. So take my apology for every over-thought apostrophe, every idea so surreal Dali couldn’t paint it. It’s more important that you are touching it than passing your eyes over top of big, insignificant words. “Draw me unto you and we will run together,” I will be clear and you can really get it.
pick a spot turn, drop to
blundering, wondering, numbering.
take a chair,
stop. cease. release. in one piece. no niece.
(I’m too young and far more likely.)
flirting, skirting, inverting
my face so it’s me,
to a tee, and now free, to be, prett-ee,
block this sock
take a bow you have wowed them all with how you
stop 1..2 stop 4..5 stop 7.. and
I was so ready to stop being so god damn innocent.
I like when you’re pretty;
when your shirt dips a little lower than it should.
I like when you move, and your whole body goes with you.
I layer, and my mind goes with me:
lips, skin, arm, head;
look at you. You’re a
painting, picture, perfect.
My porcelain doll
(don’t look- she might break).
I’ll look all the more:
break for me baby,
break for me,
Everything seems a bit said before,
a little over rehearsed.
The lines have nothing new to me,
just recapitulation of a dead horse.
Why even try anymore?
There’s nothing new under the sun.
Everything’s been done before,
my art is getting numb.
No motivation to drop a line
unless its something new.
I just need someone’s fresh caprice
to give me something to do.
So boo, boo, boo,
I hate you all!
You leave me sad and over thought.
I’m a hungry inspiration-less hacked up ball;
just give me something new.
she thought it was because of a kiss
or maybe just for lack of this
but his songs keep her coming back
to all she thought she had packed
this can’t bring him back, it didn’t before
it’s not even worth it, their friendship is more
but she can’t help but notice that her perfect man
looks more and more like her best friend…damn.
I don’t understand it cause he sure doesn’t see it
it’s not that she wants it, it’s that they just fit
cause perfect turned out a bit lopsided
she smiles to be so misguided
it must be him, she’s even changed her mind
look at this, she learned how to rhyme.
Quite the month of shit and giggles
Sex and crying (the other way around though chronologically)
And you. No other real hearts this time.
January. And I think you were kind of pretty
The snow fell hard on you and every morning we got scared of its beauty.
But I like the two hours to sleep in so I’d say “be scared” and then you’d run away
And I started running a little bit to you. Again. And..—
Again and. And—
Again and again and again…
Again(and) again!(and) AGAIN!
Snow bites. All packed and ready to throw.
Snidpits. We share one color and then I go.
Buttons. “I had too many, you had three”
Slush boots. I walked them over, just for me.
All different people but one is me. January safe in a word, a line, a person; what’s more is still me.
So I want that–
the album art of Kings of Convenience incarnating itself in my disconnected days.
I want the touch of a person beside me breathing,
creating a place where my day to day gets noticed.
Not independent, but connected, wholly needing, completely wanting just to touch, just knowing someone is there, that we care about more then just our “faith”-which has turned so cold in my arms.
Bring me the blanket of broken relationships, the warm tears of connected imperfection
the incomparable beauty of unconditional acceptance, the real smile in loving the only way we know how.
Hoping that a genuine relationship is more than just an old wives tale,
Caring more then just the next laugh, or the comfortable flow of non-confrontational conversation.
I want to touch, I want a crash, I want my pieces to be broken and mixed in with yours.
I think the cuts might heal us both.
Stop my individualistic bullshit, I want community.