my fortune teller made me post this
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural

i am cheating. this is old. but i'm looking for stuff worth rewriting. i always wondered if it had any merit because any time i ever read it out loud everyone was noticeably depressed, quiet, and uncomfortable afterward. and sometimes they'd come touch and hug me n stuff but not in a hot way so i dunno and bleh

julia, who is not reading this because she is mean, told me that my writing is based upon tyrannical bad crippling yucky male forces deeeeep in my past.  i said eew they sound yucky.  this was the only thing i could thikn of that reeeeally fit that description

Before Sunday Brunch

Daddy was just a figure
of speech when that tall
bogey man taught me
wisdom and bitterness;

we played softball full

of underhanded pitches.
He loved to drink; passing out
to me budweiser sips under the table;
that flattening taste of the future. don't tell
your mom. don't know why
i did and there were whispers,
yells and a broken plate
and i cried a little
traitor tatertot--just one good yank
at my ponytail--and that heartburn stare.
He was the captain, picking teams
and i was on mom's side wondering
why he hated me, us.  He threw things
like tantrums and dishes and mommy
up against the stove, ricochet to the counter
when i should have been asleep
she was crying, head covering, body cowering
on the cold ground that was our kitchen
so unswept, critters waiting for unsealed tupperware
keeping bruised secrets amongst themselves
and dodging his harsh steps as he stormed
out and broke the mailbox
mommys wide awake horizon
conquered on the floor
breakfast embers grabbing
the arms rolling over them
mommy can i help you?
soloud soloud JustGoAwayJustGoAway
crying redthroat puffy face
she stayed on that floor and i slept
upon the balcony, awake
when he returned the sun
was barely considering me
on that tiny balcony overlooking nothing
but a driveway and love's greatest despair
still somehow unknown to me, with that
car note legacy unpaid beneath me
'what the fuck are you
still doing on the floor '
that big bad wolfy voice
and He didn't see me
hiding, sleeping, listening
as He was drunk and dragging
mommy who was still
whimpering, lingering, mixing
two too tired pairs of sobs
and he was stroking her hair
like a deranged baby
He held her and i was outside
the sliding door unlocked but not quite shut
out of it all before me, awake now
she was crying and the sun was out
of my eyes and he too cried
great tears with the depth of whiskey
and He loved her and in great spiritual paralysis,
she hugged him back and they vaporized
into the steam of morning forgiving bathroom shower
with one of three community towels still on the floor
washing away bad memory, pushing aside
little girls crayoned rubber ducky
low voices not speaking and i wept
or crept back into my corner
of the room to either sleep or forget,
most likely neither and a little bit of both
bad awful lovely parents getting me
ready to clean that kitchen floor at high noon's
defeat of innocence.

btw sometimes i get annoyed when people base their writing on whining about their abusive parents.

9:34 PM - 14 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

coins in todays recollection plate
Current mood: amused
Category: Religion and Philosophy

It just dawned on me,

that today I wore a tshirt that said Zombie Jesus across the front with the appropriate graphic to support such a statement. Think cartoon christ rot and

Who so eateth my flesh and drinketh my blood shall hath eternal life.

Kinda funny, right?
Yes. It is.

But the thing is, 
I wore this for the specific purposes of breakdancing
in the rec-room

of a catholic church.

What. Other people don't do that? Well,
I also had on my lifeaquatically redred beanie, as if to ensure, that everyfuckingbody would notice. I am still wearing it. 
And, yes, ofcourse this really happened.

 Earlier today,

I visited the Cal-State Long Beach Campus. I parked at the campus meters and remembered the first visit I ever made to UCLA:

I was dropping off paperwork. It would only take a second which knowing me would somehow endup an hour. I'm sure my outfit then was somehow equally ridiculous though not memorable because I can't picture it now. So picture me in the jesus bboy suit if it helps.

I put my only two quarters in the meter. Unfortunately, each quarter gives you only 8 minutes. I sprinted like shit to the change machine which of course was not nearby. The machine  immediately gave me five dollars in nickels. I have always had a weird disdain for possessing multiple nickels. I don't know why that is and to hell with dimes as well. Especially if I'm parked at a meter

 that only accepts quarters. 

The race is on.
Just like that ticket
on the windshield.
Christ.

Back to present.  Where I'm not in the jesus threads yet but fuck it.

Today was diferent. A new place. A new era. This meter, praised be convenience, accepted all sorts of change. God bless Long Beach, there was  even a change dispenser right beside the meters. I pulled out my cash with hallelujah.

I stuck my twenty in. What. It was all the cash I had.

I shit you not.
It spit back twenty dollars

in Susan B. Anthony's.

Jesus.

4:24 AM - 20 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

no one is on the preferred list--the crest motel memorial
Current mood: lonely
Category: Travel and Places

ok you guys aren't looking here anymore but i am still tweaking

this:

THE CREST

We were residing at the Crest--a motel

and it wasn't exactly right
across the street from the CBS studio

lot so in that respect

it was another one of those flopstops for the fallen stars

who lose their shine before their time you know the young
girls who moved out west with their salmon colored dirty suit

cases that almost matched their pink mouths and they were

often sitting around in the lobby without their shoes really
hanging on correctly only a few years in ballet
flats with one poorly painted big
toe suspending a shoe from its dance-
like dreams you just forget when you finally wake up
and those girls never stayed long but were just a good two-three-four

snap two-three-four years older than I was then
while I was still wearing out

my first bra.

Mom would tell me not to
say that we lived here because no one does
actually live in a motel and i would nod
and listen to her comment upon the roots

growing in dark and quickweedsanding up the lobby
girls heads. Honey,

she'd say repeating herself and holding me
in some sweet snarl that kind of
reminded me of maternal embrace
in those brief moments of lucidity
that surfaced in between her blue
valiums.

We aren't actually living

at a motel  because really who ever does live
at a motel  we are in
betweeen places until we piece it

back together yeah I know mom

you already said that before

three days would go by

mom would turn
in more of her motel vouchers granted from some family
service type charity that let us stay here with the sad ones
and the old ones and the men lurking around

corners and we all took walks to the same shops

pretending we were strangers

and then the new girls might entertain

the lobby but they changed and we were still here
make yourself   useful

and go buy your mother

some cigarettes and i would usually
get two packs at a time from stores
that knew my face by now and it would save me
from another trip later on
that day

but what I remember sadly
isn't shops and cigarettes
nor the lobby and its girls

nor the small green
grey kidney of a pool

where I lapped to get as thin as she was
wasting away near the ash
tray while she consumed nothing

but newspapers and tobacco

half-dressed in the burned holes in her
tshirt where she sat before the window

sugarfix priming her brokenteeth
for yet another loss
at a chance to save face.

It wasn't the other guests

who i pretended not to recognize when i walked

near Fairfax high school imagining what it woudl be like

to attend something so grown and purposeful with all that
grand routine and what if I had all

those funny things that high

school girls have sometimes you know like

lipglosses and addresses.

It wasn't that twenty

year old guy inviting my kid brother to his room

because he had some very special pictures

of Madonna's chest and unshaved pits  and
he showed me too and i compared

our chestsize in my mind as i'm sure he did as well
because my brother relayed the message. Boy,

your sister sure is stacked. Are you sure she is

just thirteen?

It wasn't the good old fashioned
glazed hole in the chore

of carrying the weight of donut bags

of dinner that came to me today.

It wasn't washing the same black
clothes in the sink with motel bars
of pink and shrinking soap or wondering
what fuck thought that donating sacks
of powdered milk to kids

who don't really live but rather just stayed

in motels would do any good yeah

I never drank a drop

of that powder that nursed no one
i just lined it up and pretended
playfully that i was some drug addict and
pulledpranks on mom with the useless

goods which she didn't notice anyway

between the subdued doses of her own

while I ate cold beans from the can with the plastic

spoon i washed and used again
in all its sporkly white far from silver

and I made up

phone numbers to give to older boys
so they could call me without having to speak
to a front desk and transfer to a room
number that often changed even if it meant that
giving out false numbers
would never let them find me
but they were soon forgotten

and it is now that i remember
my mother's birthday at the Crest
and I was grateful that she didn't have me
walk anywhere for gifts

but instead she just ordered deliveries
of plain pizza while i daydreamed

of places that could never ever exist

like two story houses and pools unshaped

like kidneys but more a big olympic
blue and she said  sweet
heart meaning me would you sing me happy
birthday and I was reluctant but

I did it and she grabbed what must have been

her 35th cigarette or year that day and crammed it
through the bottom of her pizza slice like it was
a candle to wish upon mocking a sweet cake
and she said oh nevermind

and she sang it from far beneeath 

the rooftops and to her goddamned self
with those long tugs and black lungs and
from flimsy arms she held her own

slice of cheese pizza

party without hats she rang

Happy Birthday to me

she laughed and I laughed
and then she cried and

I did not.

Happy birthday mom

your pizza is getting cold

but now i am not living

at the crest motel.

I am just staying here.

Currently reading : Mother’s Urn: Memoir Dust By Kalamity J Release date: 2006-02-01

8:51 PM - 11 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

A part at the seams
Current mood: bored
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

Patterns are cut into our fabric
clothed in one design of the future
mortician's stitch applied to the stiff
individual just like today's
fashioned statement
tailored to fit a custom
ordered fate.

Already knowing it would come to some
cause of death, perhaps this time
from a bloated heart that shriveled
once the pins came loose
from a cushion left thumped
upon a cap sleeve.

11:28 AM - 25 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

A Funeral Service
Current mood: rejuvenated
Category: Life

The time machine waits;
it is just exactly as if it were
moving, though idle and it is
somehow standing upright while still
in line and circuiting all around
the stubbornly bending minutes.

It is incubating old soil and new
hours. Its engine all the while
muttering points just past the plots
where soon, it already was exactly
the right moment to plant
 its cold, fertile, metal forceps
 into the grave

faces which mourn the clock,
spinning their wound up tales,
trying so hard to unravel blood
and do their time. It continues
to clunk its service as if the dead
were ever born again.

1:15 AM - 29 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

uh, two poems that im not deleting, fine
Current mood: argumentative
Category: Games

2:41 PM - 22 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

why life is awesome--true story
Current mood: high
Category: Writing and Poetry

1. yesterday at dance practice, we had some guests.

one of them was an asian woman in a blue track suit. she was proably pushing 50 and had a short fro perm in her hair. she, with a partner who was an asian man in a matching tracksuite, performed for us. they joined arms and did the wave.

2. sunday night i was bouncing around on the sideline regions of the dancefloor because i didnt want to be seen, so that i could practice stuffs. a (goodlooking) chick walks up to me and says. 'hey, i just bought you this water. i jsut think what you're doing is beautiful so i thought you could use this.'

i think she was on drugs. i think i love her.

3. 4 am at the gaspump. really homely annoying guy harrasses me. like to the point where i'm politely rude. he mumbles incomprehensible crap to me and wont go away. i say, look. i dont want to be rude. but i have no desire to flirt wit h you please don't make me be mean. his response is 'i like your ass'.

i slame the door to my car. lock it behind me. he drives over a bottle on his way out of the lot.

i dont know why i shared that. i think it was the asian tracksuit lady. or the remants of whatever drugs i took last.

1:42 PM - 11 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

the mean (of writing) babyface
Current mood: exanimate
Category: Writing and Poetry

uh, im not sure of the title but i think this might suck anyway. maybe i'll erase it. i kinda wish i didnt write it but i was asked to but i didnt mean to write somethign 'mean'

the mean

(of writing)

babyface

You, girl, I want you

to write me one of those poems,

he said. Yeah, because that would
make him, like, feel

so fucking great.

I mean, sure,
it would draw his well

put together lips
upward in a physical motion
if he were to know

that I have been taking

notes of his face, yeah,

I  mean, I certainly could
discuss his clean,
close shave, coupled ironically
with a rough guy's grip--
the kind that calls your face

to close range as if testing

the weather of still water
when you're already cold
before the ink dive and
the paperless plots of open dirt
minds blowing up like the lost
mines which work way too hard
at being found explosive.

I get stuck looking
for reasons to come up with some

warmth from the cold other
than the cruel and almost
foreign ether of kindness.

Upon demand, I grab
with my pencil and I grow
two inches of distance from his face
feeling something completely unlike loss
and not completely unlike sadness. But his complexion
and the smooth pear of his chin
does have something sweet to it. Maybe,

I could write about that.

Yeah, I never knew that

I liked such close calls
to the razor before. I will french

press hard and strong for some

awakening. But why
and what for and with hesitance,

I mean, I could
keep on tapping
at the desk's edge, where my hips sometimes

lean in opposition to my shoulders
beneath my face that grazes against his
while holding onto my eraser

that can't seem to stop hanging out
at the very end

of my pencil wood.

I mean, I could
muster honesty and heat
blank stares again and say, hey,

boy, with whatever pencil lead
I have lost and I can only write
a sorry note,
because I couldn't think
of anything to write that was

so fucking great.

(and I watch him grow

his very first thoughts

of stubble)

4:37 PM - 17 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

clown mouth
Current mood: sneezy
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

eh, im not so happy with this. but the story i'm writing keeps sucking so let's change it up randomly and at will

clown mouth

With regulated parting,
words came out of him
as if I had been delicately
pulling a string of red
scarves from his tongue.

So, I said something
funny which cut through
the shrinking ice
that had been stirred up
with drawn crazy straws.

 And once I laughed,  I let
 his words become warm
as they were so much
less than what it would take
to really ringlead my ear, 
promising a window mist
future of strange tongue
tugs by the lobe.

Oh, good show, my dear
sweet boy, whatever 
it was that you  
just said,  is what I really needed
to hear cannonstunt through
my head right now.

And if I struggle,
against the punch
lines, I can almost feel
the water spray from the big flower
resting upon his lapel.

And in giant shoes he began
stepping in toward the center
and away from being the stand in
sideshow where the freaks
and  the elephant lions trumpetroared
somewhere beyond the sillycatch
unlatching in my throat.

You sir, step right
up into the nets and the safe
spot which I have saved for you,
for when the scarves have been
coughed and there is nothing
but a more serious approach
of mouth, then

I shall put a finger to your lips
and in all seriousness, I will jest: 

    Just you wait
'til the crushed velvet
    curtain falls.

10:15 AM - 21 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

a piece of what i’m doing right now
Current mood: implacable
Category: Writing and Poetry

k, im over the poetery for right now. and am working on a real story. stories are in the air i suppose. im envisioning a shortnovel sized collection of interconnecting shorts. whatever that means.

your destructive criticism is not jsut asked for, but begged for. pwetty pweeeez.

THERE IS NO PLACE TO GO BUT TO ARMS

It was sooo weird, how everybody just, like, fucked each other. And then sat around and laughed about it while drinking the liquor I'd shoplifted, just for them. It was so weird too, that we slept here, all of us. A clan of reject cousins. And it was so weird, how

I had never been kissed.

Even at Crown park, in the sandbox, when the cops told us to go home and we laughed in each others ears "what home?"

 When Fox held the pipe into my face and whispered that I should inhale deeper.

" There you go. Good girl."

When he moved in close, coaching my technique. When his eyes suddenly got stuck looking into me with vast pause, like a set of refrigerator magnets,  like I'd never seen eyes do before.  When  he said,

"Fuck. Jade. You really are, just, so fucking pretty. It's weird.

It's like, you're just too sweet to kiss."

His finger accidentally brushed my cheek

then he pulled his pipe away

and I coughed.

Right here, in this office place— or at least this place that I think once was an office when people paid the rent. I could tell by the flat, grey carpeting that offered no cushion whatsoever to my head at night,

on the wall behind me, when no amount of smoke could make me sleep, I had written a poem in blue permanent marker. I called it the Nomads. After that, we all called each other the Nomads too. I remember the first line said

'there is nowhere to go but to arms'

I don't know the rest now. Waiting beneath the window that led to them somehow made me scribble it out. Fox will be pissed I did that. He liked it.

"Jade, your dumb poems make this shit hole beautiful. You don't belong here. Go write that poem in your notebook. Fuck this place."

"My mom is a wreck. You go home to her."

"Why, do you think she'll fuck me?"

he asked jokingly and I punched him and leaned over and wrote something that began:

There is nowhere to go but to arms.

Quiet

in the next room. Thankfuckinggod they are done.

Those words I wrote, are completely blocked out now in really thick ink. But yeah, we're the Nomads. Fucking each other in abandoned buildings. Well, except me.

Above where my poem was gone, there was this window in the wall, without one single pane of glass to shut any thing out. It was a hole without a purpose. Just a square hanging out there, making their actions audible. Making twenty minutes into a timeslot past forever. For fucking ever.

Jessica came out of the doorway that held no door either, just like the window. I was drawing an adorable sad face in blue across the back of my hand for the fuck of it. Just as she approached me, I added a waggy tongue to it, to make the whole thing cute. I flashed it at her but she didn't notice; she was still buttoning her pants.

I totally grilled her for news with my eyes. Her recently grown out bob haircut now had fuck trampled into it. By fingers. By flat carpet. By cigarette butts and the air that didn't ventilate properly despite the useless window.  She wiped something black from underneath her eyes and began smoking like a little girl

with the grip of a man..

"So yeah, I wouldn't go in there. It smells like sex in there."

She laughed real big.

I wondered what sex smelled like.

I didn't want to find out.

Not right now.

Fox didn't come out yet.

A lag in my speech wafted up over her claim.

Down the hall, four days of shit still wouldn't go down the toilet. I still wondered who kept using that thing that way. Fucking pigs.

"Eew, you're gross," was the only thing I could think of saying. It was the only thing I could think of thinking as well. My knees felt stuck together as if there was some syrup stuck there, with the consistency of glue. I slipped my hand between them and grabbed, as if that were the only way they'd separate. The black polish on my fingers had already begun to chip.

Jessica had a shitload of freckles. Almost too many to be cute. Everytime she looked at me real hard, I noticed. It was the first thing I noticed in English 8 Honors where we high-fived each other for getting kicked out of the gifted program simultaneously and became good friends and I introduced her to sleeping on the street.

It was as if we were celebrating having a gift

being taken away.

I remember Fox, hiding behind bleachers with me and cigarettes, telling me.

"Watch out for your new friend. She's a rowdy one. Keep fucking around with fucks like us, and you'll be nowhere real quick. You'll be one of us.

His eyes turned colors in changing light and I always thought that was cool. Mine did that too. I wondered what it would be like to be one of something and put my head on his shoulder.

Now Jessica pushed me on my shoulder.  She grabbed my Old English, sipped its froth, then spit.

"Now THAT is gross. How can you put that hot nasty shit in your mouth, girl? What the fuck is the matter with you?"

She poked me between my eyebrows that I didn't realize had been sticking up for me with big arches. That were pleading with something-is-wrong.

"I can't believe you guys actually—"

I paused, to lower my voice for effect.

"did it".

"Jade, for fucksake. How did you get to be such. a fucking. virgin?"

Something about that hurt. I felt ashamed. I shrugged.

Regretting something I never did.

Fox came out now

and went straight for that shitter down the hall

without speaking.

Yeah, Fox, he was like, my best friend

or something.

1:14 PM - 32 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

one day done in the drain
Current mood: drained
Category: News and Politics

the drain

The drain is done malfunctioning.
It has already coughed up the clutches of held hair
clung to from both places with such crazy
 that it was torn from roots
and these remnants come up
and fill dirty tubs yet are somehow
refreshing with this increasingly muted
failure.

The gurgles gasp and bring silence
reminiscent of breathing through dirt
burials, though rekindling of life
that is all these things at the same time
like some whirlpool circular pattern
caught in the drain
of my throat. Hush,

because there is no noise
right now, in  these stuck places
that make the process
hard to go down
softly.

It is still
something sucking
at my brain to remember
in occasional and increasingly quiet
bites near the chin and then
fear.

The drain, just like the battery gone bad,
like that constant hum of a cellphone
that each day, dwindled with yet another instance
where that telephone eventually died 
with the allday draining
onslaught of your insistent descries
coming again and again before
the sun could get sucked into the shore
with  justanother day drilled and done
done, done, is the hollow
of this pulled ear
drum.

Still now,
each trill I hear of some new phone
message which hurtfully makes me flinch and slip
and instantly refill with this gutclearing wrench
of alcohol hope that it is, please,
 the comfort from anyone, exception being, 
you,

lest this cancer in my hair fall out and clog places
where I drunkenly long to go 
and clean myself up again.

It has been one day of silence
which I never knew could coo
such great relief
and that is why it is so
sad.

3:34 AM - 11 Comments - 14 Kudos - Add Comment

the study of tears
Current mood: fabulous
Category: Pets and Animals

shit, i almost forgot to mentiont that this is utter garbage. what if one of you got away without noticing that

THE STUDY OF TEARS

Recently, i was formulating
sentences with sticks,
into the dirt.

Twigs dug to write
but they just snapped
and in the dust and splinters,
I saw that my life

is absolutely not unlike like the ways
of the tribe who receives messages
which wrongfully attempt to decode
the  ink of tears.

It really brought on
quite a  torrent
of discussion, these tears.

We know them well,
as they are quite common
amongst the mammals,
yes, the animals.

Look, just watch them get
on a roll, particularly, on those
suspiciously neglected faces
where no monkeys stop
to lick the wounds
of their fallen own.

Afterall, studies will show it
not to be
one of the general habits
of monkeys
who sling shit.

Surely, there is something wrong,
these habits seem destructive,
perhaps it is atypical
of the species?

Oh, quarry that  but it is
as curious as  it is ridiculous,
this study, where local dwellers
somehow never before noticed 
this knowledge, these tears,
that through brand new attention become
abound enough that the more observant
onlookers sample them upon request,
which is worth discusssion, of course,
for the sake of man
and nothing else.

(Heavens, what a study,
don't you think?
Or at the very least,

you'll talk tears
or sling shit)

2:48 AM - 24 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

dudes, youre not missing anything
Current mood: intense
Category: Friends

i like how the private blog that no one can see is the most popular. maybe because you can't see it, it's the best thing of mine you've ever read. i'm just too lazy to open up word again and it's a total fucking mess. its not my suicide note or something my suicide note is actually attached to my forehead and reads just like a bulls eye symbol.

but here before i cut off this latptop that i didnt realize could be poison, let's paste the best bitsy from the invisible blog. the rest sucks. i'll either delete it or bury it in other places.

that time

And then there was some blurred
 point just past hesitance,
when I found that one and only spot,
 hmm, I'd say about two
and a half inches beneath that line
that creates your shoulders into something
that seemed so much like a man
accurately curving around me
just to  capture
the rounding corners of my head. Embrace
the second hands
just doing their rounds.

SHIT. I THINK MY VERB TENSES ARE WACKY. FUCK IT I HATE GRAMMAR IM OUT

11:27 AM - 10 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

clocked--rewrite
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Games

hmm this needs trimming but its not as terrible as it read the first time around.

clocked

Like a bitchslap of a busride to no place
in particular, I just emerged from some time
piece and unwound your story.
It felt like hours and it was
only these moments that I'm left with:

 two blind minutes in a taxi to the liquor store
and we'd better get there quick
as the doors of stores will
soon slam shut.

Then there was some blurred point
just past hesitance,
finding that one and only spot, I'd say about two
and a half inches beneath that line
that creates your shoulders into something
that seemed just like a man
accurately curving around me
just to  capture
the rounding corners of my head. Embrace
the second hands
just doing their rounds.

It was getting late or maybe it was early
but at some times, I found it
frightening and I whispered this
across a desert and it roared beneath
the reassuring gallop of your heels
that soon rushed you close
to some skid row bus station parking lot
where I was even late to get you
but that lot somehow showed
its glass broken bottle promise
glistening upon pavement
reminiscent of wiped tears
had i bothered to look down
long enough to notice
such foreshadowing.

And then we were on
to some hand-in-hand basket to hell 
 onslaught of cheap drinks and what-the
fuck airguitar wackjobs and it was right
 in the middle of the funny bar story
when i heard that click
like the thrill of close range danger
and then I just  watched
the clocks do tricks.

They really wound up for it
and did a jukebox serenade
where time stopped and slowed and sped
and shined a rapid still slide show
of this whole ridiculous spinning room on this
spinning globe, quite dizzying, where the story spun
and soon stopped

all at once, like some drink dance of
dripping days, just because
we were in the same room.

The morning snuck around and wrapped us up
and the clocks still kept messing around like that. 
 I watched them

and I reached over and plucked
stories from their game for you
from the places I remembered best, I was
pulling pictures from   boxes
 and you were pouring
into your cup that was killer at keeping more 
than half full.

'Hey,' I began again. 'I remember
 this one time...'
and  that seemed to pull you through
the room of looming minutes and receding clutter,
where I laid out tales out with 
the softer side of my inside voice 
or maybe I just kind of pressed
across your back with fingers
that just completely accepted
the holes in your shirt.

It bent your smiles and stares
in ways that made me jump
start the clocks to do their tricks
again. Soon,

the busses left and skid
row was just skid row again
and glass bits, sadly enough,
just threaten to tearjerk the future
effectiveness of tire treading anyway.

Yeah, so once you left,
time felt uninspired to do tricks,  
so I sat at desks and with furious routine
I punched clocks around the hours
that crept between and around a whole
day full of your words that, fuck,
just kept coming like clockwork. 

So fuck it,  I floored it
 to the hot spots where I could
find some constant
nook right there, I was hooked
up to your arm, the one that sprung
from I.V.'s to unraveling the glucose
disappearing acts that let
the map gobble you up again
and  here, with these pictures I've seen

and the stories I've told,
the clock just punched me back
and slapped me with yet another story
I'd like to pull from my clock
later and right now

the end.

8:56 AM - 5 Comments -