stars, stars, snow
wet.
stars, stars, snow
wet.
there is nothing more desirable than the sound undisturbed snow makes under the feet,
clad in quilted old-lady shoes,
sockless,
as the moisture seeps slowly through the leather...
late night kisses stand up to this.
there is a heat - but more of a weight - the deeply rooted disappointment one can only instill into one's self.
stop.
right now.
The weight is -
- and look! a plain of desert shrubs -
the weight is in me. My chest -
- shrubs is covered in puddles and small patches of snow -
It is a feeling that spreads through the abdomen -
- and the mud, i can imagine running through it, my feet -
and invades the limbs through the veins.
my feet covered in clumps of clay, the clouded water splashing up my bare calves, and the air would be burning in my lungs.
cough.
i a m n o w h e r e i a m e v e r y w h e r e .
iamnowhereiameverywhere.
the mud is clinging between my toes.
right now.
i am thinking of being in europe drinking a dark italian wine wearing a thin clinging black dress
i could bullshit about the arts the hours devours and how much weight my prose-performing lover lost when we first moved to vienna and lived out of a cockroach infested one bedroom apartment in the slums...
wait...
Wait.
That was something he told me. That last paragraph, I must admit, was only original on a loosely casual level. He said that to me, once. He was a poetry host, he was fat, he had a temper, and for all the gods he was self-centered. He ego hogged the stage, his ponderous form filled the spotlight
and his verse.
his verse would cause me to cry in bed at night, or laugh at the most inopportune moment, or intensely fear dark corners...
his verse was Powerful.
he was an Artist.
He told me that -
that paragraph -
late,
after a poetry reading,
after having unprotected sex
in the backseat
of his parents' Nissan.
What an asshole.
But it was a dream and his verse and I needed a dream and I was young and his verse and I was
I was young.
I'd like to hope that he made it big.
i'd like to hope he got his break.
Paths in the snow.
The paths we take.
the lives we lead.
Wild. People change.
i am thinking of wearing a clinging black dress and bullshitting, but i am not in Vienna.
i am in a jungle, deep, a shack. i am in South America. i don't even know where i am.
Pirates.
they cut my hair and sold it, and now they are selling me, by the hour, but i am on powerful drugs, powerful drugs, verse, powerful drugs, and I like it.
Use Me Like a Dog.
The bruises on the insides of my thighs, like the bruises my ex-boyfriend used to leave, from his hips, he was so skinny, he smoked.
My ex-boyfriend is in South America, now, too, and he is babbling at the pirates, no entiendo, observing me, poking me with the butte of his pen, and babbling with the pirates, no entiendo, no sé que él puede hablar Español.
Se están reyendo, and he is observing me, me alone, me with men, they are laughing, I am laughing, spin, the room, he is psychoanalyzing my behavior with others, sociology, after he failed calculus twice he decided to become a sociology major specializing in the behavior of those under the influence of a controlled substance, he is observing me, on powerful drugs, verse, me alone, me with men, he is watching.
pero, no estoy en, i am not in south america. he and i are on his parents' bed, i am a freshman. he is a senior. we are in high school. my bra and my shirt are in a heap next to the bed. i am wearing my jeans, green silk underwear with bows on the hips, my combat boots.
his shirt is off, too.
i am a virgin. he is lying between my legs. he is rubbing against me. i feel warm, i feel safe. i am falling asleep. he lies still.
He had come in his pants, and I didn't know until our second time around years later and he mentioned the occasion. He mentioned it in passing.
I miss him. There is a ingrained sense of attachment.
I don't miss him. I miss being pure, being wanted, being touched by cold pale fingers and asked for help on college calculus homework.
cough.
the air would be burning my lungs.
right now. i am breathing mud and disappointment. i live with a child in a man's body in his mother's house.
i feel small and weak.
Alone.
Mud. I want to wash off of my feet.
Mary. Mary of Magdelen.
I WANT TO PERFORM LET ME OUT OF THIS
I A M E V E R Y W H E R E I A M N O W H E R E
i a m n o w h e r e i a m e v e r y w h e r e
iamnowhereiameverywhere
iamnowhereiameverywhere
iamnowhereiameverywhere
nowhereeverywhere
everywherestop.