Tonight I drink alone.

it is increasingly easy
to unbuckle these straps
and slip arms out of ropes
step out of this harness

dream of flying with no strings attached

Once upon

spinning gold
needles in haystacks
prick fingers
I'm waiting

come wake me
come take me

stealing salt from
every ocean
bathe me moonlight
wake me sunrise

I'll do pennance
when the time's right
pearls in cloisters
it's a silent affair

eating apples
from unnatural branches
never the fairest
only the boldest

this overtakes me
please try to don't break me

I will find strawberries
in the winter
barefoot in my paper dress
I won't come back empty handed

back to spinning
tales
and falling from
branches
while searching for pearls
in the ocean blue sky

I won't come back empty handed

But I'm tired. Write. It's late. It's 2:41 and i don't like odd numbers. Write. Come on, this sucks, i have work in the morning. Then hurry up. I don't have anything else to say though. You're whining. So what, it's almost 3 in the morning and I want to go to bed. What about what you've been hearing. The laughing, the high pitched chorus of something (screaming?) Stop. You're getting scared again, aren't you? STOP IT! Yea, I can feel it. Your eyes are itchy and watery and you are starting to get the nothing tickles. LEAVE ME ALONE. Then write. Fuck you. Oh great, that's original. I want to go to bed. Go ahead. I can't. I know. Come on. Pleeeeease. Just a little bit more. End on a good note, your reflection is still staring at you in the window even though you are looking at the screen. Does that scare you? Please stop. One more. Fine. One more.

un escape perfecto

quiero escribir en un diferente lingua
y quiero pensar con un diferente mente
porque ahora mi cuerpo
mi alma
no se contenta
cansado, si
pero mas
hay problemas
diferente que antes
diferente que familiaridad
y necesito sueno sobre
otras cosas
como
playas que lastima siempre
y el mar mas azul que sus ojos
porque el aire es seco y tiene frio aqui
quiero respirar el aire pesado y teine calor alli
ahora mi alma se contenta
porque pensado diferente que antes

Family Ties

It's coming, let it come. I'm used to fighting it. Fought it last night and won. Kept it down and body surfed until I hit sand. No reason not to, it's in my blood. And what is in your blood is what you stick to. It's what you know. What the hell did we ever know?

Freedom

tried by fire
so little was burnt away
and i like the way that
you are a singed around the
edges

your hands still feel
like they are in the furnace
burning fears off of
all of my surfaces
resurfacing old hopes

four years old
and I was telling
you secrets under my bed
forever friend the kind
that doesn't have to know
to know

never had it in me to
say what I wanted
what right did I have?
what right do I have?

but one of those fountains
broke apart at my groaning
and washed me away
without asking that question

and both of my hands were
annointed twice over
with alabaster oil
that cost more than I'm worth

by the three that is one
who pours without measure
and dreams outside of my means
and makes pure with his fetters

never had it in me
to know what I wanted
but he dreams without measure
and I like the ways you are
singed around the edges

forever friend
you saw the fountain break open
when you burnt off my outsides
and I knew what I wanted

Flake.

I was supposed to go upstate today. I worked a shitty short shift and made a terrible fifty seven dollars while the snow flakes fell in union square so big I could hear them splat. Or was that the crazy lady at table 213 slurping her spicy seafood soup? doesn't matter, the snowflakes were huge. The tents in the farmer's market were so heavy with them that they might have caved in on the turkey sausage or organic strawberry wine at any minute if vendors weren't jamming broomsticks into the white tarp ceilings to fling it off. And the customers were all a mess. One old lady in a floor length fur coat had at least a twelve inch puddle around her feet and everyone's hair was matted wet and itchy looking. A few europeans were smiling early in the day, happy to be in New York when the first big storm was coming in. By two o'clock even they had sculpted ice faces and the steel resolve of New Yorkers. No point smiling about the swirling white anymore. The brown drudge of sidewalk reality had spared no one in its ruining of sneakers and splattering shopping bags. Everyone had their chins tucked in, their umbrellas up, and their eyes on the next destination. You can't really sled down fifth avenue or have snowball fights during rush hour. In New York when it snows, you just hustle. And I was supposed to go upstate today. So at 3:32 I changed out of my work clothes and hopped onto the N train. The weather had only gotten worse. The snow was wetter and then harder, little hail balls mixed with the residue of white fluff still floating down. I stepped in five puddles at different corners and didn't stop to shake out my shoes. I pushed past umbrella people and poncho people, and angry tourists who didn't know where they were, let alone where they were going. The escalator was wet, the stairs were puddles of sludge, and the crowd was miserable looking. Inside Penn Station now and it was past flower vendors, pronto pizza, and the stupid stocking store with all the legs in the window. There was a tree up in the middle of the grand room and good god, more homeless people than I had ever seen in one place. They were curled up and sitting on newspapers around the entire edge of the Amtrak station. And who could blame them? Who would dare to kick them out in the ugliest weather of the year? I hadn't thought about the kind of havens that airports and train stations must be for homeless people in winter. I squeaked and squished past them and others to the ticket vendor and called Jason to tell him I was coming. The next train was to leave in thirteen minutes. He finally answered and told me not to come. That it was too messy and they couldn't get the car out. But what about the sleep I would get on the Hudson River line on this snowy night? And how awful it would be to venture back out and go home to Queens? Didn't matter. Can't argue with the weather. I was supposed to go upstate today, but instead I went back outside and headed for the closest subway. The E on 34th and 8th to Queensboro plaza and the R from there. No place to sit, it was rush hour. The air was whiter in Woodside. More flakes, less hail. My head still feels like it's in a sieve. Whiplash neck, sore throat, stuffy nose. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll make the trak back to Penn and catch the train to Hudson. Tonight I think I'll stay in.

cue

taking a cue from the past
cue balls and blue moons on tuesday
wondering who would be home
and if she would be dead when i went back
last i heard she was
tatted on the face and hair in dreds
i watched it shake him at the core
watched him shake it off three times
she rolled up dirty towels and opened the gas valves
i held her once when she cried
cataracts eyes and HEP C
couldn't put her down, afraid she'd turn to dust
further back and i remember coffee
and piss and sleeping half on couches
keeping secrets and finding
new dark places to explore
three on the bridge
braiding our bloody entrails together
until we were sisters
i still have the stupid green shirt
and the damien marley mix
that pissed everybody off.
and what about the time we danced
until we forgot that we weren't drunk?
i'm taking a cue from yesterdays
and remembering when grace
found me in the shower
no miracles
just stuttering through
shitty fears, curled up like a baby
rocking back and forth
wishing i wasn't afraid of alive
the time dad came to see me
and we talked in the park
about love, and life,
and he asked me to tell him where he'd failed
we both bit our lips and cried a little.
never been good with that sort of stuff.
so i'm taking a cue from the past
remembering all the secret places i've found
and the guilt i felt on easter morning.
i've learned a lot since then.
am ready to explore again,
still remembering when grace
found me in the shower.
no miracles
just hope. and maybe
i'm not so afraid of alive.

Christmas

getting closer to Christmas now.

Thanksgiving here and gone

and I am getting older.

my glass eyes are smudged

with fingerprints and charcoal,

the season approaches anyway.

Christmas is coming in candles

windows

first snows

children.

It is a dirty ordeal for me

blood and after birth

on hay and manure

sweat and breathing

and him wondering

if she has really never lied with another.

he is the first to hold him anyway,

he will raise the child as his own.

the ground is cold and hard

here in New York

the occasional manger scene

and snot dripping noses

tell me Christmas is coming.

spiced rum eggnog, cheap tinsel

and memories of grunting

and afterbirths,

waiting for the first wet cry.

hope still sits candidly on the

glass eyes of children this time of year.

they turn rosy at a spirit

that they don't quite understand.

others slaughtered hope and lambs

with their fears long ago.

the cynical ones fill up motels and inns

fulfilling prophecies in their filling of

drink. No room for you here.

it comes without pretty trimmings

or l.l. bean sweaters

for me. Christmas is the painful

bloody birth

of salvation.

It is messy and it is mine.

sinew shadows paint dragons on walls
breathe fire on me
don't stop til I blaze

only honest

silver planes with cracks that run
deep below the surface
soot settled because
up here there are no
strong breaths of expectation

a storm blew in when the sun
stumbled and fell below the buildings
I hardly noticed the taste of night
another night, a sweeter smoke
a smell that's worth remembering

these were books not meant to be read
but your fingers were gentle
and the pages turned easy
stories of then and now
wouldn't ask anything more than honest

tomorrow when the frost reminds me
of the first snow
and the gentler arms
I will slide soles into city
and ask nothing but honest

Embers

I felt this anger rise up in me
that isn't normal.
Like to keep it in
until I'm sleeping
Let it work itself
out on my teeth.
But not this time.
Not when it's you.
I pictured big dirty
Jesus.
When he called them vipers.
They are poison.
Jesus would ask
them who made them such bitches too.
WAKE UP! WAKE UP!
It's a heart you are stepping
all over you bitch!
I'll hold you til
there are mostly embers
left.
Still warm.
You have always been warm to me.
Sunshine in your hair
and oceans in your eyes.
Come away with me.
They are dead.
Zombies with too much
foundation
and money dripping out
of satin pockets
no part of them is soft.
But you.
You are soft, love.
You are fair.
There is no spot in you.
You are good.
My friend.
And we will hold on
until we are embers.

Truth.

a scribe
like the angels.
only better,
cause you're real.
Flesh that bruises,
and hands that know
the texture of
a sycamore.
lift up your
broken song,
embracing night.
wish for simplicity
maybe,
but don't ever take
the easy way out.
your time has
come
to speak.
words drop
into an old glass
bottle.
A complex fragrance
of mountain night
and calculated risk.
a scribe
like the angels,
only better.
your time
has come
to speak.

Tomorrow's Today

sleep felt better than I could have
dreamed.
emptied my stomach
of another uprising,
torrents of old words
and new fears
while the night was
still
around me.
I begged him
to stop it,
anything but this.
instead he sat
on the bathroom floor
and held me
in the mess.
Didn't even shower
just climbed into the
bed that remembers
and drifted into
dark.
Woke up with
fingers still itching
ribcage still humming
hair still curling
questions still burning.
But pain floods me
without mercy
and often
leaves without
reason.

Season's Greetings.

I'm tired and can't make sense out
of years of not sleeping.
what do you mean they were days?
Nothing lucky about 7 tonight.
I'm wrapped up in yesteryear's
swaddling
bury me warm
by the ocean.
A beautiful sound
the water on sand.
And the moon is up now
and my skin is pale glowing.
Tired now, of years of unthinking
and where have I been
and why is it hurting?
No space left for
thinking
eat
sleep
drink
be merry.
Ho Ho Ho
set up baby Jesus
in his little glass manger
Mary's so pretty
the barn is so tidy.
A man fell asleep on me
on the 7 tonight.
Some lucky number.
He only grunted when
I shoved.
Invisible woman
with coals
for eyes
and a button nose.
No time for presents.
Is it warm there in winter?
Could we get away for awhile?
I want to go.
I WANT TO GO.
Island of the misfit
toys with the idea
of sand in December.
Fuck I've got to get sleep.
Fuck I've got to stop saying
Fuck.
Merry Christmas to all and
to all a goodnight.

dflkjafwih

Shit.
Can't stop writing.
There are too many to read.
Don't keep up.
Just let me write.
I'll take my time as it comes.
It comes
when I least expect it.
One Earl Grey misto
and three days of
not enough sleep.
More than enough
sustenance.
Sustain
a writhing ball
of where the hell
did this come from ?
Just go with it
she says
and I shake
twitch a little
and then sit. for
one
two
three
hours or more.
and now I click
without the music.
or the sustenance.
Can't keep it underneath my
shiny blood fingernails
click
clickity click
of keys in hand
hooves on pavement
I want dirt paths
and wooded forests
and a mane beneath me
chestnut ripples
cool sweat
and sweet hay
and where the hell
did this come from?
Go with it
she says
and now there are
eager children in my fingers
running circles
playing hopscotch
on the keyboard
scary dreams
that last a lifetime and
some things take time
but this is coming
in rivers
through the mountains
ride through
rock filled waters
and toward the ocean.
The ride is longer than
I expected
It comes
when I don't expect it.
When muscles are tired
both mine and the beast's.
Cool sweat dried to
salt.
And sweet hay to panting
desperation.
Penumbras of yesterdays
catching up.
We're still running.
Through rocky waters,
toward the ocean
don't keep up
just let me write

The Signs

Daddy put the first signs up.
He pounded a Do Not Cross sign
between the tables and the bar
when Aunt Robin took me out to eat.
She put her finger to her lips and scooped
me up onto the high backed stool
Tony winked and made me a Shirley Temple
we didn't tell daddy.

A few years later he swore there were
flashing danger signs at my cousin's
wedding reception.
He saw them when they made a toast.
So we sighed and climbed into the car.
Mom cursed under her breath.

Flash forward to Amanda's birthday
fourth grade. Her mom's liquor cabinet.
vodka in coffee,in orange juice
and straight. I was holding it
when she came down the stairs.
Her eyes flashed red stop signs
and I begged her not to tell daddy.

Sixth grade and boys in cars
and policemen and daddy's
eyes said whore.
but daddy's mouth said harlot,
whoredom.
Sounded like a place to me.

Ninth grade and Baptist
Churches and teary altar calls
and Restricted.
pounded on my lawn
in my bedroom
and so I stopped.

Away from home and
he said he loved me
pulled restricted signs out
of my bedroom
and pounded them in front of
clubs and bars, and every other man.
at least I had the bedroom.

Back to church and signs all over
Do not touch
taste
smell
or listen.
I was skeptical at this point.

And old signs are spray painted now
and new signs are fresh and bright
Posted, Warning, Do not Cross,
Forbidden, Caution
and they make me dizzy

And some are at the edge of cliffs
and some are outside of secret gardens
and more are rusty
bent
and ugly
but it's still hard for me
to tell the difference

10 seconds.

I was on my way to Civil Rights. Late, as usual, with my open computer in one arm, oversized, overstuffed bag slung over the other, and scarf trailing almost on the floor behind me. I was also clutching the final paper that I had just finished in one hand, crinkling it until it must have looked like I wrote it a year ago and found it under a couch cushion just a few moments ago. My boots have no traction and so I slid on the marble lobby floor as I was rounding the corner, balancing my luggage to catch my elevator to the fifteenth floor. The door was already opened and I stepped in and took a deep breath.
Still a little bit happy that I got to have jamaican food for lunch. Anxious and warm from rushing to the elevator. Scared that my paper wouldn't be good enough. I glanced up at the screen in the upper left corner of the elevator to see what time it was. 5:04. Four minutes late? Not too bad. Above the time are fun facts, or CNN headlines, and sometimes even celebrity birthdays or 15 minute dinner recipes. Today it was a CNN headline. A two year old from Mumbai survived a shooting that killed his mother, father and siblings. His nanny rescued him and escaped the open fire without injury.
The next ten seconds of the ride slowed down. I was standing still in what I imagined was Mumbai, in the middle of the dirt street watching a small rundown house crammed in among other shacks and homes. Gunmen with brown skin and dirty camouflage suits, bullet proof vests and hard helmets rushed down the street and looked through me at the house. I could hear gun shots down the street but no one had fired here yet. A woman was in the small yard hanging wet tshirts over a string above the window when they approached, and her eyes grew wide. She grabbed the basket and didn't have time to turn around. Shots were fired and she crumpled to the ground leaving her life on the wall behind her. I felt dizzy and they rushed into the house and I heard a man yelling in tones that translated perfectly into English. Shot, shot, shot, shot. Silence. Crashing, the faint pounding of feet on stairs. Blam, blam, blam, blam. The sky spun and I stood still.
Out of a side window crawled a woman clutching a tiny child. She was covering his mouth and his eyes were wide. He couldn't breathe. But he wasn't bleeding and so I breathed. She ran onto the narrow road over broken bottles and piles of trash. She ran through me and a pleasant bell rung.
The doors of the elevator opened and I was on the fifteenth floor. Heading to a beige room with a mahogany table and huge windows. To listen to presentations about civil rights organizations. Organizations like the Polyamorous Society where adults fight and protest for the right to be respected in having legitamite three or more parnter sexual relationships. The group holds snuggle sessions and swinger's parties where you can hook up with multiple partners without the pain and fear of society's rejection. Parade's where women make out with other women and then their husbands, and then their husbands' boyfriends. And feminist groups who protest any laws that would deter young women from having abortions. They pound their fists and say, "No they shouldn't have to tell their parents! No they shouldn't have to be over sixteen!" Some of the more enthusiastic members even weep when they plead, "These are our basic rights people! We are sick of being oppressed and silenced! Give us freedom, give us freedom!"
And the room spins for me again. Inside of four insulated walls on rolling chairs with arm rests sit about thirty of us. Toying around on our laptops and tuning in to hear about activist groups that want affirmative action, abortion rights, communism, to be protected in their sexual choices by the federal government. We are educated 20 and 23 year old college students. Presentation after presentation.
Break for pizza. Garlic knots.
But for ten seconds I was somewhere else, seeing something else, and I can't make it stop. Can't bring myself fully back to midtown Manhattan and listen to a language that is my own in tones that I can't understand. Fight for what? I see a wide eyed little brown baby, and the strong hand of his nanny slapped hard over his mouth to keep him from screaming. To keep him from dying. It hurt when she hit him, and he'll be mad when she finally puts him down. His momma is dead now. So is papa.
If he's lucky he won't remember. But I will. And I can't come back yet.

Neat.

I take it neat,
because I am not.
Cleans out the fith on its way down.
On the way down
there are roads to diverge on
there are old rusted warning signs
crumbling rock
construction ahead
stop
stop
stop
I do not.
I knew the signs before
they were rusted
and bent by storms
I hardly notice them any more
Any more and the hill
gets too steep.
Branches scratch on my face and
leaves press into my
knees
and hands.
when did I fall?
Why am I crawling.
Up again. I'll take another
neat.
Because I am not.
And make it a double
it's cold out here.

they called her easy...

like it was a joke.
and it was.
she asked them to hold her while she fell asleep
and they agreed until she started sobbing quietly.
sometimes shaking a little.
they weren't the type to pull her closer
and let her know she was safe,
even if it was just for a few minutes.
truth be told, they didn't think she deserved
the security.
love isn't free.
but she was.
so they would pull away,
and after the first couple pulled away
she stopped holding on.
let her head fall back on the dirty pillow.
she pulled out small chunks of hair
when she finally fell asleep
and they were gone.
driving their trucks on the interstate.
still laughing at their luck.
she wasn't bad.
just easy.

Sum it up.

Thanksgiving in 2 days
my birthday in 7
and where was I last year?
You don't want to know
but yea I remember
the stairwells
the phone calls
I was waking from
4 years of drowsy dreams
a warm cocoon
you slit me open
and pulled me out
and pulled my hair
the night was cold
but smoke was warm
dashboards were hot
it was almost 6 months
you don't want to know
but yea I remember
sleep in eyes at 3 am.
and heavy boots crunching pavement
1 day until I go home
to wood walls painted red
and mama's cool hands
on my forehead
dad watching football
with gray socked feet crossed
Lyndsay's playing cards
with my friends
she always wins,
it's the name of the game
5 of diamonds, not of clubs
Ace of spades and they quit
Because it's her house
this is her game
and 8 months from now
life changes
air gets hotter
I get freer
keep on writing
eat your heart out
mine stays right here
nine months to birth a child
I remember
mama's cool hands
daddy loves me
times are changing
Thanksgiving is getting closer
and no place like home
has a whole new meaning this year
Count down from 10 if your feeling stressed
before you know it a brand new
year will be here.
Thanksgiving is coming
I'll remember it next year.

he tilted my chin up and looked me dead in the eye.
and then he kissed me until the world fell away
and I was left nowhere.
love dragged me by the hair
and I could only smile.

An Annointed Song

my throat was so dry I couldn't swallow
when you pressed a cold glass
of colder water to my cracked lips
you played solemn songs on the ivory keys of my rib cage
while I drank and drank
the water spilled down my chin and
annointed your head
you coninued to play
sang into the hollow of my navel
the echo was your harmony
and you were my cold water
and there was no storm on the horizon
only golden blades in shoulders
and green waves in fields
this doesn't have a tragic ending
your words were hope
and your fingers belonged
holding my keys
when hot salty tears
mixed with cold fresh water
swallows sang their song
flowers did their blooming
it's hard to imagine an ending not tragic
a dream with no waking
and a touch with good intentions
but cold water spilled
and annointed your your song
blades were not sharp
only fitly set in gold
arms spanned the heavens
and bare feet left the grass
an annointed song
and a final hallelujah

dreams

sheer sheets falling 13 stories and
never hitting the ground
I walk barefoot in my concrete jungle
no backyards
only rooftops
sometimes I call strangers friends
if their hands are strong enough
the soot on my soles makes me dirty
souls are sheets falling 13 stories
never hitting the ground
when wind whips wisps
and rain coats coats
in silver sheets
and slick black oil wells
I imagine birds drowning
when they only wanted dark water
to rest in
I am floating in a white
that the water makes pink
flesh and dark secrets
tell their stories
when the water is cold enough
sheets fall 13 stories
through concrete jungles
lead me to old wooden tables
and down south cooking
bare feet on thick panes
and collard greens to go with
my fried chicken fingers
lick the grease and wipe
my mouth with mama's favorite
kerchief
this soul finds no rest in remaining
throw me from the 13th step
worn to the shape of my running
I will float down past the ceiling
and buildings and rest on
dark waters
secrets meant for keeping
but cold tells the truth

Again.

my words have lost what gentility they once possessed.
they once possessed it because for a moment I believed I was worth it.
Worth love.
Once He whispered in my ear Beloved,
and I shivered and I shook
like a kite in bursts of wind.
I tried to pull out of his arms
but the weight of the world
pressed me back against him
triple gravity.
He told me I was pure.
I sneered.
The ugliest face a lady can make.
He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand.
It didn't give me nothing tickles.
He pulled me close and sighed at the weight
I refused to let go of.
It was nothing to Him
but I feared it was too heavy.
I was too heavy.
Put me down.
Beloved.
He calls me Love and I blush and shake my head.
He tucks loose tendrils behind my ear and smiles sadly.
Let go love.
It hurts.
I know.
I want to cling to Him and not let go.
It's harder than it looks.

Bloody Words

I woke up this morning needing to write. I was frantic almost, in my twin sized bed with the sun shining on my face, gently nudging me awake. Gently nudging me awake but I woke up with a start. Where is the keyboard. A pen. Paper. Need to write. Words gushing out of the wound that is my mouth in crimson squirts and splooshes. So I packed my lips with gauze and felt them run down my throat, into my stomach, back up, searching. For an outlet. I must have holes in my fingers because the words are splooshing out. Making puddles on keyboards and I'm not quite sure what to do about it, other than write. My mouth is dry and it's difficult to breathe will all this gauze. I'll take it out before I leave home. Bind up my fingers and find a stranger to bleed on. I'll call him a friend.

Another Page.

I am spread out on your kitchen table
a few pages torn
but generally an open book otherwise
only promise
not to let m get dusty
I don't fall open for just anyone
and it has been minutes or months
other papers are piling high
and there I was spread open
but you had work to do
fever in your hands
for other loves
I couldn't drag you past the intro
spill your coffee on my pages
if it means you'll run your fingers
over
and dry me off
with the truth.

You

I didn't hear the floorboard groan
your echo is not waiting for me in corridors
forgotten
you never promised to stay
I never told you you should
the dripping from the sink
is constant
you've taken up more time then you are worth
would never hold my hair back
when I was sick
you only want what I want
we only want freedom
and my tendrils
are chains
that I would beat across your back
is there a coming back?
why did I look for you in the first place
Keep your adventures
and I'll keep mine
will try to block out
the sounds of nothing
when it's groaning that I want

ich ich ich

Monsters in my bones.

let me out of this itchy skin
two small lumps don't mean I have a heart
don't look to the shadow between my knees for comfort
there are razors
where my teeth once were

can't keep me still
but don't worry
I tire myself out real fast.
with playing, dancing, gin and boys

the hollow in my clavicle
is a pocket for lips
Venus fly trap
you're dead before you know it

I'm dead before I know it
didn't have a chance
of not choking in my blood
waves of it return

over
over over me
reminding me
a blessing
a curse

a week of weak
razors for teeth
I'll build my armor
with kisses
nonchalance

build up your walls
keep kisses out of
collarbones
everything will be alright

let me out let me out
off to where?
Doesn't matter
swells in sweaters
barely
significant

you stare anyway
eat your heart out
before I do.

Mornings

Would you treat me like a princess
if I didn't leave so early in the morning?
I didn't know I was that girl
until it happened.
I kissed you on the forehead before I slipped out
Did you know?
I did it almost every time.
Once I swear I saw the corner of your mouth curve.
God your lips are pretty.
And I was on fire all those times.
We weren't. Never were.
Once almost.
Never came close.
You never held the door from me.
It was easier for you to protect my heart.
No one else knew how.
I didn't ask you to do that.
Didn't know how to respond.
Why were your words so final?
Because they were best.
Maybe one day I'll thank you...

Wtf?

When I said five I meant at least.
there have been more than I have patience to count.
I don't have patience right now.
Just mono.
Not a patient.
Just Bottom. and could be everyone else.
Why the hell are we supposed to shave our legs again?
I still don't drink enough water.
My pants still don't fit right.
Because I'm gaining weight.
Shit.
That's not romantic.
Are you romantic?
Give me something to work with here.
Is it blasphemous to say goddamnit?
I like the way it sounds.
Is he still sitting home?
I'm not supposed to care.
I do.
Gin.
I didn't want to take them home with me,
why did I ask.
Cause I'm a cunt and a half.
It's late and wine served in plastic cups goes down easy.
Goes down easy.
Summer days.
These ones were hot.
Last year was sticky.
I didn't always want to be this way.
I just wanted to wear my hair in a french twist.

Time

I can still taste the residue of last night.
I took an extra hour from you Time.
I slipped my hands in your back pocket
when we were dancing last night.

Found an extra hour there
Crumpled up like an old receipt.
I figured you didn't need it as much as I do.
you'll get it back eventually
You never let me get away with anything

I may have taken an hour from you
but I know you've taken more from me
I don't talk about it much
I want you to like me
Be good to me Time. Won't you?

Don't make me wrinkle before I'm ready.
I want my skin to stay close to my bones
and not have to wear it as an oversized coat
even in the summer.

It was worth it for the dance though,
wasn't it?
My hand fit
in yours and the stars stood still
when we spun.

I'm worth keeping close Time.
if only for the way our feet
leave the ground when we touch.
You've taken so much from me Time.

But given even more.
I'll be a generous lover if you let me.
Will you let me
Keep this hour for awhile?
Maybe just til Spring?

You might start to miss it then.
And I might let you
slip your hands into my pockets then
to take it.
I might even wink when you do.

Only, let me keep it for now Time.
You've taken plenty from me.
Let me prove I was meant to have it.
I'll do my best not to let you down.

Home

went home for the weekend and the leaves were on fire.

driving north on 87 with mix cd's i got for birthday presents.

and the air was crisp like a potato chip and cool like vapor rub if you inhaled deep

we talked about God a little. about men alot. about what we wanted and what we settled for.

we stopped for jamaican food on the way. curry goat and rice and beans, an extra side of sweet plantains and two beef patties. the sun was shining warm on our grease smudged red table and we laughed and spilled water and made the old jamaican man with his kangol cap snap his newspaper and shake his head. we didn't mind. picked up our crumpled napkins and folded the waxy white bag over your half a patty that you couldn't finish.

the rest of the ride was me and my cd's. you were sleeping and i was watching the forest catch fire. yellow flames and bursts of red. at four o clock the light was lazy and golden and i was glad to be home because i wanted to curl up on the corner of the black couch where i knew the sun would still be warming.

i pulled up our driveway and turned the car off and when we got out i remembered that it's always colder up here. the air is always cleaner. and i felt tired and at home and you were excited to be there. i grabbed our bags, my dirty laundry, my school books, and let the house give you its own tour. speak for itself. you oohed and ahhed over my mom's interior design and the brownies she left out for us. i walked straight to the back of the house. it used to be my room, but that was three years ago. It was very much Lyndsay's now. Her pictures of our dog and the perfumes that lined her dresser that she never used and her big sneakers on the floor. Mom had made her make the bed.

She had four comforters just like I used to. It sounds crazy but it wasn't. The old log cabin is drafty and dad is about as thrifty as they come.

Four comforters were necessary.

She would be home in a few hours. I yelled to you that you could eat some brownies and watch tv or go for a walk if you wanted. You already were. I pulled back the blankets. the light blue one with clouds was at the bottom. it was mine from highschool.

No sheet.

I never used one either.

I'm not much of a host. But you knew that when you came. I can hear muffled voices from the tv. My Cousin Vinny. Perfect. You know where to find me if you need me.

Lyndsay's pillow smells like home.

mono.

I've got infectious mononucleosis and lots of things make sense now. why i've been so tired. shake it off. come on don't be a baby, you're fine. and really i am sometimes. sometimes i just wake up tired and that's all. nothing spectacular. why would i stay in bed because i'm tired? i tend to be tired anyway. and the tonsils swelling? waking me up in the middle of night because i can't breathe? yea. that makes sense too. they crack when i swallow. they are almost touching. but i want to go home this weekend. i feel fine. a little tired. a sore throat. nothing serious. damnit i don't want this now. been sharing juice and water with friends. and who did i get it from? some phone calls need to be made.

Jumbles

here I am.
take me disconnected and falling to pieces
and tied together with ugly strings.

what you wanted pretty?
Well I never promised that.
Yea, but you thought.
well, that sure isn't my fault.

here I am.
take me in rotting pieces and
shards of ceramic
cerulean and white

remember kate?
don't you remember
i put it in my pocket
and said remember.

it cut me today.
i forgot it was there.
i'll let him think what
he wants.

you let him think what
he wants.
(between you and me
they never know what
they want)

just smile pretty one
all curls and keep
your piece
and we'll keep our peace

and some days the string
is ribbon.
satin and pretty.
mostly when i'm
with you
at the pond before the bureau

my palace

and then today I sunk deep into soft pillows of vivid reds and royal plums and burnt oranges and i let my neck stretch and draped one arm over my head and felt body melt into smoke that wound around teak posts intricately carved kissed curves and settled into the shadows of the heavy drapes
and i was so completely yours because you were no where in sight. and i drank cardamom liqueur slowly and let it slide down my throat. opened my throat and let fire stir up in my belly. it would have been harder if you were close. but i kept you far away and bathed in rose scented water. i wore the perfumed air as a robe and walked through the gardens you never gave me.
you never gave them to me and so i turned the soil with my own strong hands. i watered the vines until they ran far away. straight up toward the heavens. and they wound and they wrapped and they covered my palace
and i let them with one arm draped over my head and my body melted into everything you never loved

Done?

I've almost got enough then.
Fuck it.
I've got enough.
Deep breath.
What does that look like?
Another almost?
Another unfinished masterpiece?
No.
I can't.
I've waited too long.
This will get finished.
This will get finished.
I can't not.
Too many doors still cracked open
too many jobs undone
I will finish this damnit.
And I will do it soon.

Qualifications for life

in four minutes let me tell you why I'm worth it.
let me tell you about my skills.
I'm a great server I could probably make you smile and even laugh on a great day and I make a mean guacamole and I have frye boots and I think that that is really something and I can hulahoop like a master and once I start dancing you can't make me stop and my roasted chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans almondine are almost as great as the way that I can cut your hair. but none of these things seem worth much. but really, I could make you smile on a bad day. and that's something.

Butter

I keep spread thin like butter on toast
melting in crevices and shadows that seep deeper than you wanted
not substantial I won't hold you over
I won't make time stand still for you I wish you wouldn't wish
for more than nothing.
It's your crevices that I want
it is the spreading
thin
that I can't help
the thickness of voice
keeps me floating on the surface
good thing I never put my feet down
you are up to my ankles and I want
deep
and sound sleep and bare feet on rough bark
and braches that bend
and getting lost in boughs
together
but I am too much for
that thickness of your voice
so I'll keep it spread thin
make butterflies crawl
not fly
just flutter
and didn't we want the same thing to begin with?
Oh no. Oh you thought...
I do apologize.

You

I think it's sexy when you say shitdamnmotherfucker and atrocious when he says you look purty
purty is a dirty fucking word and i don't like it one bit
and when you say shit you mean it and when you say fuck you don't trail off at the ck
and when he says purty i want to put on a glove and pick up steel wool and shove it down his throat until it bleeds and is raw and he can't say anything for awhile.
i like when we can talk and smoke a cig and pretend like we are on top of the world
i hate when they ask me questions about the practical parts of my life
it'll work itself out when the time comes, I want to say
you'll never get it I want to scream
i like the way we get lost in love together but not with eachother but we can be lost together
i would never get lost with him, he always knows where he's going
what's the fun in that?
what's the fun in that and why can't they fly away the way we do? let's giggle and climb our rocks
never say purty okay?
instead we will whisper secrets to flowers and I will keep the steel wool under the kitchen sink and he will stay the hell away from us.
they just can't fly away like we do love. it isn't their fault.
there there dear.

My Secret Garden

admit it. unlock your secret garden and loosen the noose that chokes and tightens around the delicate neck.
yes, mine is a delicate neck
and i don't like to admit it
don't want to unlock my garden unkept and grown over
with flowers too wild to be plucked and put on old wooden tables
and I am adorned in weeds that hang green and show secrets
darker than the rich soil they sprung out of
and yes my soil is dark and rich and smells of earth
overgrown but never barren
never barren only too full
and I would never ask you to get your hands dirty
but my soil is dark
and my roses have thorns and I don't like to admit
that my garden, my secrets,
are waiting for a key and for hands that aren't afraid
to get dirty

Cultured

When I say I believe in the Bible you might laugh. That's alright.
But it admits that we live in an unfair world.
Admits that death stings.
Doesn't say that we deserve what we get.
Doesn't ask us to pretend everything is okay.
Everything is not okay.
But you knew that.
We all know that.
That good people do bad things and that some bad things are too much too bear.
Little ones don't deserve to die hungry and cold and without dreams that last beyond
tomorrow.
It isn't karma when a little girl is raped.
She didn't deserve it.
She didn't deserve it.
And we aren't moving toward perfection here.
I haven't met Mr. Perfect yet.
Neither have you if you're honest.
You don't have to hide your left hand, he can't read this.
Pain is a problem.
Death is a reason for mourning.
It isn't the will of a just Creator for us to drown in suffering.
And with all of the shit and the hurt and the wrong,
we can still find beauty here. We don't have to pretend that beauty isn't.
A rose by any other name is still a rose.
Earth was made with pleasure in mind.
Sex is allowed.
Great sex is even better.
Keep context in mind.
Without context we are animals anyway.
Justice here is a poor reflection of what should be.
We are significant.
I am significant.
So are you if you're honest.

Happy New Year!

all I want today is soup. and maybe some turkey and brie and maybe warm socks and if all was well in the world than he wouldn't have lost all that weight and his knees and elbows wouldn't be all sticky outy and he wouldn't have left when he was still so young. but he did and all is not well in the world, and i've been told that he's in a better place and I smile and swallow the fuck you's that climb up my throat and threaten to jump out. so what if it's true. and so what if it's been awhile. all i want today is soup and maybe his bed and the sleep that we drifted into because we weren't thinking about time then. why would we think of time? i'm sure the sky is blue today and for some reason this is the time that feels like a new year. not in january. not when everything is all soggy celebration and muddy sidewalks and hardly hope for better tomorrow. no, no. days when soup and brie and friends are remembered and longed for. days when even the air smells like change, those are the days that make me know there is something new and old and continuous and growing. it is a new year today and not all is right in the world.

Goodbye

we said,
let's not
and then we didn't.
and then we did.
and then we said,
let's not.
and then I thought,
it might be too late.
and it was.
but we said let's not.
and we didn't.
and you kept up your side.
and it looked like I did too.
because you couldn't see me sleep.
and because you couldn't see through my skin.
and it hurt but don't worry.
I also said let's not.
and I was lying and telling the truth that was best.
it was the truth that was best.
because one day I got better
(I was sick with it you know)
and then you said plans had changed
and all I could do was breathe deeply and thank the Doctor for His cure.
For peace in alone. and for a touch that didn't singe the corners of my heart anymore.
it used to do that, did you know?

Another Fall

autumn tasted like hesitant freedom last year
like boundless adventure this year
and my eyes are not swollen and flooded
so I am excited for the blazing reds and
glowing yellows
am excited for crisp cool air
that won't be as hard to swallow
I've got a hold of this freedom thing
this freedom thing
has a hold on me
won't let me go
and I am lost in this freedom thing
a pile of reds and yellows
that have no bottom
no end
and i don't wonder what my end will be
just what color my jacket will be.

would be nothings

a spoonful. not even. a grain of sand? nope. not that either. the body will die. the writings will be forgotten if they were ever even read. the food has been eaten, and wasted and the feelings have all been felt before. so why do it? why write? live? breathe? think? all of this will fade, melt, burn, crumble into nothing. it might be the soul. it just might be the soul that keeps me, and you, and all of the other would be nothings as something.

Summer

my taste is spicy and lingers. swells the lips as if they have been stung by bees. as if they are his.
my mind is overwhelming. underthinking, overfeeling, touching and unravelling ideas. leaving things unfinished.
undone.
my face is open. too open probably. easy to read, easier to misunderstand, hard to hide behind. My face is not easy to hide behind.
my eyes are even more often misunderstood. although they do tell the truth. the truth of what I want and not what I will take. curious, burning, wanting, my eyes are windows to the warmth in the pit of my belly.
my touch is warm and lingers also. wraps itself around new materials and fabrics. skims across every surface in reach and stops suddenly when met with the inexplicable. I won't even try to explicate
all this and it is summer. all spice and warmth and open and misunderstandings and burning under a hot sun and thick wet air. sizzling pavement and cracks of lightning and downpours of water, rivers of water and too much work and all I see is rivers run down panes that make my pain ache duller. More distant. bad tips leave a bad taste in my mouth and dark clouds in my eyes. easy enough to read.
boring people who order boring food special ways make my touch feel nothing. numb fingertips.
I've spent too much time there, so much that sometimes my taste becomes bland. and I can almost hide behind my face.
But only for a moment.

Friday

What will I make? What can I get my hands into? We should start with a big salad. Mescaline greens with roasted almonds, asian pears, gorgonzola, and white wine vinaigrette. And then for an appetizer? Maybe stuffed portabellas topped with melted mozzarella that is just starting to turn golden. The meat will be either chicken or beef. I don't know the palettes of everyone coming, and those tend to be more agreeable than lamb or fish or seafood. Chicken francese with linguine? Or marinated cracked pepper steak with fresh green beans and mashed parmesan potatoes? I want there to be music. Eclectic. Maybe softer than usual. Sade, Nora Jones, BB King, Ben Harper, Lauryn Hill. We might have to eat on the floor. I hope that is okay. I like to be in the kitchen when I get to cook what I want.

Cold.

It's as if nothing ever happened. No miracles. No sideways glances or comments made that I always heard. Always repeated to myself in different voices and tones, and I wondered what was meant by them. A world was created that never existed. My mind built castles and wove intricate webs with fibers and threads that my imagination had braided together. There was nothing magical ever. Nothing so exciting or uncertain as I had invested in. My mind was invested in a game so much more complex than chess. But the pieces are gone. In fact, they were never really there. The skin on my face might burn off with embarassment. I wish I had known sooner. I would have done things a bit differently. Instead of creating the possibilities and testing the waters I would have given myself a new purpose. To think I have been so unproductive. Employed by devious creations of my mind and nothing else. A storm is just a storm and a roof is meant for protection. Bare feet need shoes and food is meant for filling. Sideways glances are coincidence and comments are prettily wrapped statements of boredom. Nothing ever happened. Oh my, this does present a problem.

Bermuda 1 day
St. Thomas 1 day
Grand Turk 1 day
Puerto Rico 1 Day
Paris 1 month
San Diego 10 days
Washington D.C. 5 days
Albania 3 weeks
Macedonia 3 days
Places I have been since July 31,2007.

What I have learned of friendship.

I have been showered in a love that did not let up. My painted face repelled the warm water for awhile. But you did not let up. You pried. Your fingers were streams that ran over my heart, widening cracks in cemented walls and smoothing sharp edges meant to defend and protect. The paint began to wear under the shower as well. It is running down my face now, and my bright colors and intricate designs are mostly gone, only remembered by the faint tracks left behind. I have been showered in a love that would not let go. I fought its grips with indifferent smiles and shifty eyes, but you held me with a steady gaze. Poured coffee into my endless cup and asked me questions that widened cracks. Spoke to me of life and beauty. Of purpose and wholeness. Told me that I could be whole. I have been showered in a love that does not end. You challenged my forgetfulness and showed me how to remember. Showed me that beauty does not end. That good things will not all fall to pieces if you try to cherish them forever. Walked me to the edge and asked if I was willing to jump into a friendship that would not end with a new chapter in my life. I was shaking at the thought. But I see now, it was worth the leap. It was worth the leap.

College 101

Step by step. Little by little. I'm sitting in class right now. I'm being productive by blogging. It makes me a little bit sad that I am paying ALOT of money for this education and that productivity in the midst of a class is my ability to blog. Because I am not getting much out of my class right now. Even though I am paying A LOT. Shoot. Now I don't know what I want to blog about. Stream of consiousness here we go have a lot on my mind these days been thinking about the webs that I am tangled in. I feel like God has just finished unravelling me has cut chords that were binding me and like a moth to a lamp I was drawn immediately back in I wonder if that is a problem with my self control my sense of self worth or lack thereof I don't like being tangled although being busy is better than being nothing I'm going to have lunch with Sanj today work on my paper going to meet a spider later they used to bite me in my sleep now I'm wide awake and expect the venom pitiless predators are they sometimes smiling often not even aware of my screams what is this darkness and where is it coming from I have flashes of good moments on bridges coffee shop laughter arm as my life preserver arm as my life preserver I'm in a strange place always rocks hard places I live in those situations and wonder what I would do in a green field sit and cry and wonder where the cliffs were bit by bit I am unraveling your back talk secret speech you love surprising me no you don't you just can't make up your mind either well that makes two of us that makes two of us no it doesn't because nothing could make two of us and I still have the heaviness of the stage in my mouth still have questions and nightmares because it was the first time in a long time that I've let myself so completely fall into darkness and that place was close to home it wasn't so far and the blood stung my nose and the invocations were not that much different than my prayers but I could never follow through there is something that holds me that keeps there from being two of us and I look in awe on the words of truth and the power that they have and wonder why do I run from them into the darkness that I fell so deeply into and am climbing out slowly molasses and my lungs are filled with liquid that lets movement slowly and is he still teaching my mind is on lunch on chords that bind me and I'm ready to tell Delilah my secret just get it over with pluck out my eyes but no there is something much stronger that holds me reminds me and that is my thought stream right now and class is over

Friday Night

Last night I had to get out. It was Friday night and I had to get out. Wanted loud music and sweaty bodies around me. Wanted to let go of inhibitions, hold fast to steady rhythms and move until the sun came up and all of my energy was gone. It didn't happen. One place was having a concert. No one would call back with directions for the other place. I felt nervous. I came home to reconnect, make some calls. Nothing. I couldn't stay though. I wanted to take beautiful things and fling them from my rooftop. Scream until there was no sound left unmade from a raw expended throat. It was no use. I changed clothes. Exchanged a satin halter and heels for nikes and sweats. Walked. It wasn't really the dancing. The dancing was just an outlet, a faucet that would release what it was really about. There were lots of lights on my way. Graffiti on trucks. People who had found their forgetting. Where was mine. Walked further. Heard music overflowing from brick buildings. Too late, I had already traded my halter and heels. Walked on. Where was my forgetting? Hiding from me. That much I know. Ask me if I found it. It's a temporary forgetting I know, but it's something. A night of it is something. I found other things on my walk. My New York by night. I wasn't impressed. It's just home. Plastic garbage bags are mountains, the pavement is my valley. But I had to get out. Give my obscure frustrations names, and curse those names. There aren't walls when you are out. There is no sitting with stale frustrations. Things are moving at least, not bouncing off of walls ten feet away and mocking you. It's hard to find your forgetting when your obscurities must be contained in the same square room all the time. So I got out. And although I didn't find my forgetting, I at least found my New York. It's just home. But it's home without walls. That's something.

San Diego in Retrospect

The West Coast tasted like salsa fresca and American Spirit to me. It was laying outside and talking for hours about life and men, and food, and choices, and change. It was hands in soil and conserving water by keeping a bucket in the shower and watering flowers and vegetables with it, and it was picking snap peas. It was new bathing suits that just barely fit and coconut oil instead of sunscreen. It was down comforters and a warm puppy at night and puffy eyes and wild hair in the morning. California was San Diego for me. It was the zoo and the beach, and crumbling cliffs and late night lounges with wooden floors that pulsed with bass and heels. It was all woman, feminine and strong, more leisurely than I'm used to and I loved it. It was shorter dresses and no makeup. Pride in being a female and forgetting about what I was supposed to be. It was unemployed hipsters with prominent hip bones and bodies that wrestled waves and kind eyes and unassuming curiosities. Herbs from the garden and wine with dinner, San Diego was windows rolled down and arms singing along and sunglassed eyes. It was Lemon Grove and adobe houses and it was dancing with the doors open and shedding layers of clothing, layers of pain, layers of what was and what would have been. It was being a woman and being young and feeling every second of every day of every year that I've lived and not doing anything about it but feeling it. I felt it all. I felt everything that I could and then I slept. I slept and I woke, but not to bells or nudging, not to agendas and foot tapping. I woke to every day and was alive and stretched my body like the cat that I often am, and San Diego was not cell phones or computers. It was being there and nowhere else, because I was there, and not anywhere else. It was finishing Kerouac’s On the Road and knowing that I had my own stories to tell. San Diego made me wonder why purpose and productivity instead of simplicity and survival? It reminded me of the me that loves water and sunshine and let me forget for awhile about the me that thrives on change. It smelled like salt water and cooled the skin at night that it had warmed so well in the day. It begged for balance and I yielded and promised fulfillment and I found it. Because San Diego was God’s gentle hand and His easy gait and I rested in the yellow comforter and purple sheets of His goodness and walked in His gardens filled with tomatoes and cilantro and knew that He was good. He must have been to make oceans so big and stones so smooth and conversation so rich. I knew that He was good, and that San Diego was where I needed to be when I was there. Knew that I would return. Know that I will return.

San Diego

I'm going to San Diego for Spring Break. I will be there tomorrow morning. I don't think I could be more excited. I have all of these ideas of what California will look like, and what I will do when I'm there. I want to swim. Even if the water is freezing. I have to swim in the ocean. Walk in the sand. Get a sunburn. Put coconut oil on. Go to the zoo. Dance. Maybe go to Mexico?! Talk with Shay about everything under the sun. Get advice. Read in the sun. Wear flip flops. Shorts. Eat guacamole, made from avocados from Mexico. Just be there. Let myself be all there and love all of it. Plus it means flying alone again. Traveling alone is exciting to me. Even just in the U.S. And it's somewhere new. Warm. With different people and different smells and foods and soon it will have me. I'm going to San Diego

The night was a mosaic. Broken pieces of glass not all of them beautiful. Some jagged and sharp, some smooth and polished from crashing waves and gentle waters lapping over and over against the glass. We talked in rhyme and words and hands and hugs. We walked bridges and glued shards of ourselves to it on the way. Left red drops of blood trailing from our chest so we could always find our way back. Back to the mosaic of night and music and depths of souls and shards of glass that cut and smoothed. It was our night. It was our mosaic.

Rooftops

I have a deep appreciation for rooftops. It's almost an infatuation actually. And to be barefoot on a cold rooftop at night? Few things are better. I'm not sure why I they make me so happy. I suppose it isn't unlike the comforting feeling that some people get from having their bed made perfectly, hospital corners all tucked neatly, no wrinkles. Or the excitement that others get when they win a prize out of a claw machine. Even if the prize isn't worth fifty cents, let alone the five dollars in change spent to win it. But neatly made beds and claw machine treasures don't do it for me. No, I'll take my rooftops, best reached from fire escapes with bare feet. Preferably when the sky is lit up with the bridge, and the Chrysler building and the only visible stars shine from overpriced apartments. I recommend cherry cigars for the occasion, although silence is sometimes enough.

What next?

I want to write. I have all of these thoughts and ideas in my head that need to be put down on paper. That other people will read and say YES! YES! YES! YES! they are Kerouac words and Parker words and Chopin words and I can't figure out how to get them out of my brain and through my fingers. Does that mean that I don't really have the thoughts and ideas? Or just that I don't know how to write them? I want movement to come from the thoughts formed and I want relationships that are hanging on a thread to fall to pieces because of the epiphany of freedom found in my words. I want realizations of more than friends to start fires in hearts and in back seats of cars, and I don't want to make people better but helping them take a two inch step away from the ledge would be nice. I want to write. To communicate the things that have been bouncing around in my brain since 4th grade that ring as true today as they did when I first thought them. Maybe it's just a matter of sitting down and doing it. To make you say Yes! Yes! More! More! But for some reason I think that there is a lot more to it than that. I'll work on figuring out what it is.

Cold Panes and Bare Feet

I woke up at 6:45 this morning. And then I went back to bed. But not sleep. Until 6:47, and then 6:56, and then 7:05, and then 7:15, and then 7:23, and I finally got out of bed at 7:28. It had stormed a few hours earlier. I know because I woke up at exactly 4:20 a.m. to rains and winds beating on the window, throwing trash cans into apartment buildings and stretching telephone wires like sling shots. I jumped out of bed and leaned my forehead against the cold glass. The sky was light pink, from pollution and streetlights, and I thought everything looked so beautiful that way. And then I stretched a little, and went back to bed. And tossed and turned and slept and woke at 6:45 a.m.. And I only went back to bed because I thought I should. Because as restless as I was, I was tired too. And when I woke up at 7:28 and climbed out of bed, I saw only puddles and wet and white grey skies, and I wished that I had stayed awake with my face against the glass. Wished that it was still storming outside. That I could climb up the slippery black ladder right outside the shaking panes and onto the roof and jump and play and dance in the rain until I was soaked through, icy cold and sneezing. I would tire quickly, because I was tired to start, but I would throw my head back and let rains hit me sideways and let wind send chills down my spine and my feet would be bare and frozen on the sandpaper shingles beneath them. But I didn't. I pressed my forehead against the cold glass for a minute and stared wide eyed outside. And then I climbed back into bed and imagined being outside. It was 7:28 when I finally got up.

Radiator.

There is a strange calm that washes over me. The calm of a perfection that I cannot even comprehend. A sweetness in the stillness, a comfort of knowing that it is what it is what it is and nothing more. Maybe something more. But it needn't be anything more. Because as it is, it is perfect. Heat that radiates and hums even, but doesn't scald. Never makes me jump. It is there, within my reach, and far enough away that I can bask in its glow and sleep sweet. And sleep sweet I did. Even when the winds beat against the windows and rattled the old panes. Even when the heat burned hotter, it never burned me. Only radiated and hummed. And let me sleep sweet. A strange calm washes over me, glazing eyes, and unraveling hands from fists, and tugging at the corners of my lips. The calm of a perfection few will ever understand. I cannot even fully comprehend it. But it lets me sleep sweet. And sleep sweet I did.

I don't like.

I don't like the sound made when the tongue unsticks from the roof of the mouth. Or the feeling that you get when you focus on any one part of your body, a tickling nothing. I don't like being pacified or touched softly when I'm annoyed. I don't like men whose faces turn weak and ugly without warning (was there a warning?). I don't like being bored. Passive aggressiveness. Awkward pauses and drawn out explanations. I don't like being told to stop asking questions, being misunderstood, having to maintain a reputation. I don't like doilies on dresses or frizzy, half up with a gold barrette church hair. I don't like monotony, uniformity, predictability. I don't like tediousness, dirt under my fingernails, or fake smiles. I don't like not being able to say everything that I have to. I don't like that I don't have much of a choice.

I like.

I like the sound of clicking keys and speculative pauses. Also acrylic fingernails on counter tops and the smell of hairspray, cigarettes, and perfume together. I like full lips and strong jaws, also hot coffee with cream, sugar, and some cinnamon. Ripe avocados with salt, precisely applied mac eye makeup, and bitten fingernails. Hot days with burning sneaker soles, 25 cent sugar waters, and beef patties. Roof tops at night, and bare feet on cold ground. I like shirts off, pounding drums and sweat that pours from pores until its barely salty. I like laughing when hardly anyone knows whats funny, and dancing on the subway to pass the time. Barely kissing but tasting warmth, and swimming in creeks that are clear and cold. The unexpected from the predictable and climbing trees like a monkey. Coconut froz fuit and winding hips until my spine melts away. I like mangoes and rhythm and popping packing paper under jumping feet.I could go on forever with this. I like that I won't.