||[10 Nov 2015|10:59am]
I have some cashmere sweaters but I feel I don't deserve them.
||[30 Oct 2015|11:32pm]
via fb i could see she was lying to me about having to wait around
prob first time i have experienced that dishonesty in someone i liked. want to confront her and say how hurt i am by her lie, but i feel too much shame.
if i respect myself, i will cease all overtures, stay away, and do what i have to do to sober up from this infatu and stay clean.
||[18 Feb 2015|01:13am]
||what to do when you're over-stimulated. coffee AND wine. AND poets.
When you shouldn’t, but do
When you grow to like the feeling even though it’s bad
The doubling back across the borough when she finally does respond
As you grow cozy waiting
As you feel increasingly delirious in your own company
As you start keeping count of all your rejections
until they light you from within
A sort of badge
you can wear
How long before it looks good on me,
is what you really want to know.
Every time someone says Abject you know you feel sided with
When someone calls your poem Personal it is
the highest praise
When you hear LeAnn Rimes on the radio as you wait alone
for your liquidy order of red beans and microwaved maduros
and you almost start crying, and then,
The gratitude you feel
when the woman Honeys you as they close up, like
the whole world is in that Honey that you are
How after one-point-five glasses of Pinot Grigio
it’s all out there so there’s nothing left to touch
even if she wanted to.
The whole issue of asking yourself
whether someone meant to flirt
How you regret the text before you send it
and smile when it says delivered
You can’t drop the email thread
You can’t resist tagging the tangents in order to
come back to each one, methodically
There’s the way you are so present you literally don’t taste anything
There’s your pit stains which you are also growing to really like
There’s blushing in front of her, liking that, liking it so much the
false trap of “Being Seen”
And the way you’re such a hungry dog that you forget her secrets
even as they come marching out of her mouth
||[12 Feb 2015|10:47pm]
||prematurely grieving, why do i still do this?
you’re on gchat
a green circle next to your name
it’s 10:34 and you’re 83
you’re at your desk with your bad posture
and your head tilted toward the computer’s light
the stereo in your living room is blasting classical music
which you’re not hearing
i wish i could stop thinking
about another night like this where i’ll be online
and your name won’t be there
|from IRL "epitome" prompt
||[30 Jan 2015|12:34pm]
He Would Lay Down in Traffic For You
Well, he would.
In the fanatical, white light-filled
doorless edge of the mind,
white light is blinding –he would
walk out into . . .
What does he know of me?
In that mind, there is a whisper
in that mind, a curtain blows
a sensitive man
needs only an impression
What decorates the shelf of that
mind as he moves forward into
danger he does not fear?
Everything in a frame –
eye color, stubbornness
the shelf is high
he doesn’t look up.
But why always the would? Notice –
that it never happens.
In the conditional tense
his unconditional love finds infinite space
to lay down.
||[30 Jan 2015|12:32pm]
another poem for levitsky
i keep asking you out and
never drop the email thread
first but you showed cindra
a picture of your “new hot
friend” & she told me abt it
at your party as she danced
close to me & you tried to
make out w/ everybody else
i was sixteen in that picture
& wearing a witch’s hat lol
poem for sarah
when claudia read & i got so moved in front of you
and hugged you too hard but you understood
so soft-shelled for friendship lately &
somewhere i feel you understand that too
poem for january
for weeks on end i kept missing the trains
seeing their retreating tails ferrying away
but today the sun light holds my head in its hands
and kisses my greasy hairline on its way out
||[13 Jan 2015|01:16pm]
Maria: I left...I was frightened...I was confused, I felt, I've never felt that way before. I couldn't stay. I knew that here I'd be away from it. I'd be safe...I can't face him again...Oh, there were times when we would look at each other. Oh Mother, I could hardly breathe...That's what's been torturing me. I was there on God's errand. To have asked for his love would have been wrong. I couldn't stay, I just couldn't. I'm ready at this moment to take my vows. Please help me.
Reverend Mother: Maria, the love of a man and a woman is holy too. You have a great capacity to love. What you must find out is how God wants you to spend your love.
Maria: But I pledged my life to God. I pledged my life to his service.
Reverend Mother: My daughter, if you love this man, it doesn't mean you love God less. No, you must find out and you must go back.
Maria: Oh, Mother, you can't ask me to do that. Please let me stay, I beg of you.
Reverend Mother: Maria, these walls were not built to shut out problems. You have to face them. You have to live the life you were born to live.
|and a draft
||[11 Jan 2015|03:35pm]
I can't quite tell what it's about yet.
What haunts you?
At birth you were given an offering
it dissolved in the blood like salt.
You thought it was goodness. You didn’t think.
Haven’t thought about it
in years. Drops of blood but not red blood
not real kind, blue and green and yellow
spattered. You can’t get inside,
can’t get deep enough to scrub. You’ve never seen
inside yourself. That’s the truth.
But you recognize the colors
some nights the screens
some nights going home. It was
the season of static.
It wasn’t you. The faint spark
of light your hair carried.
Your pee was blue. Your blood yellow.
What did it mean? Each day in this season splatters
new blood on your walls. M&M colors.
They reappear and no one knows it. Maybe it’s hope.
Maybe you didn’t
tell her the truth the first time. You could
hear it creaking down the hall
(the truth) but which floor? You definitely heard it.
You couldn’t have heard it. Is it worth saying,
the unformed, unseen truth? Tell her
anyway, anyway the truth. Whatever. You were given
something. It courses through you
still. Now a nauseous heat,
now an icy slip. All these years
and you never thought about it.
You smelled its breath. You knew it well.
It was covered in layers and layers of paint.
Somewhere those colors were a good
idea, someone you loved held them
to their chest. A concentrate.
A new color, dissolved
in your bloodstream. Here and not here.
Gone with the rest.
|self-indulgent writing exercise
||[11 Jan 2015|03:31pm]
self-indulgent writing exercise featuring selected subject headings from emails from all these people. but actually i think these do say something about each of these relationships.
some very useful writing tips
unsolicited advice you’re free to ignore
of possible interest
In Response to the Village Homicide
my office and the plant
Fwd: lovely being with you!
key ot my office?
a delightful read for anyone interested
letter I mentioned regarding civility
how are you?
bed bug sitch
doc on police in montreal
off to Italy
Reminder to RSVP: Judith Butler reception
to cheer you up?
no real subject
question for you
possible event for you in NYC
I think you’ll enjoy this
have you SEEN the disgusting weather
Yes, birds do have sex.
wanna meet me at 3pm at…
I love you
last email/cheesy song for morning
I just want to tell you
The asking message that I said I wouldn’t send
To discuss later, perhaps
On being hopeless and still fiercely happy
I can’t stop listening to this song like allll year
You’d be perfect for this
Getting ready for bed
sleep well, beauty
I totally just got attacked by a bird!
Fwd: Seat sale extended!
Fwd: cute. Also a little bit like yoda…
Fwd: Fw: clam harbor solstice
Fwd: New House!
||[23 Dec 2014|01:32am]
Rickie Lee Jones' "Night Train" saves my life, over and over and over.
||[22 Dec 2014|02:25pm]
they go around
with no idea of their worth
tucked into the deep pockets of night, their dark city blocks
whisked by the night trains under water
at least now when they’re angry
they know where in their bodies the anger lives
the minute they start to imagine our approval
they know they’re in trouble
they begin to take comfort in each others’ greatness
to walk through it, admiring, as if in a cathedral
they take supplements for: warmth, perspective, humility
the ability to hold their liquor
to refresh themselves they give parties, steal,
make plans to see films
in a diner one orders a grilled cheese
and then the other wants one, too
love to touch
after swimming all afternoon
your heart is weightless
you hoist yourself up
onto the raft
a sack of green lake water
you lie on your side
your cheek coming home
to the sun-warmed wood
||[15 Dec 2014|12:42pm]
bucket of ashes by the bed
is it sage is it the body
how small would the heap
of small body be
in this room
is energy with no movement to it
is a silence whose elation
is saved for the next generation
you have pre-ordered all your movements, it’s
one foot in front of the other
it’s the smell of sage
it’s the wine glass where it always is
next to the sink
why you like to put away the dishes in the morning
a way of going forward into the day
or seeming to
like how we buy things
put on lipstick
like how i fight,
all to make us real
never seen you so angry
as when your step-father was sick with pneumonia
& his son-in-law revived him
it doesn’t matter that you’ve got
your yoga practice your country mansion
your well-worn escape down-the-hatch
you just want your silence back
the one you’ve never known
did you say to me or did i
only imagine you saying it:
there are many things worse than dying.
||[26 Nov 2014|12:18am]
When you don’t know a poet
When you turn up some place to look at someone
& roll around
in your mind
all you don’t know –
When you see yourself
or think you do –
When a smile that may mean one thing
may mean another –
How far down the road would you walk
to meet the poet you don’t yet know but want to –
Would you walk in the snow
as the leaves fall
in the Laurentian mountains
as the raspberries ripen, as the
snow melts, would you go back
year after year
to meet the poet you think
holds what you hold, a heart
like a pocket full of snow, melting –
The cicada’s monotony –
yours & the poet’s –
||[18 Nov 2014|11:37pm]
I'm 28 and it's been I guess 14 years since I discovered Blue and I still just want to quote Joni Mitchell lyrics at the internet and play this record over and over. I never liked "The Last Time I Saw Richard" and for some reason, it has just OCCURRED to me as this amazing song and I wake up and go to bed with it in my head. The way she sings "love so sweet, love so sweet" -- how did I never get that before? Funny, timing.
My life continues apace. I continue to fear that I have bed bugs, and to be enchanted by new people who I don't know, and to pay way too much attention to them while pretending to be neutral and making up stories about them in my head, and to fall back in what I give to people I have gotten to know. I hate this about myself but can't seem to stamp it out, and don't even really want to.
||[10 Nov 2014|03:24pm]
You got tombs in your eyes but the songs you punched are dreaming
My friend calls from prison to ask what I’ve been up to
& I’m ashamed to tell him that my work lately
has been trying to redistribute wealth in love relationships.
Not as formidable a foe as white supremacy,
the proud singular light of love has nevertheless got me beat.
I want to do so much better, and so much more.
Feeling vain and foolish, embarrassingly utopian, I notice
that it’s only the young who seem to really try this stuff.
Quoting her friend Richard, Joni Mitchell says
that All romantics Meet The Same Fate some day,
cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark café.
Neither cynical nor drunk, for now I just think
I need a stock email (//stalk email??)
to send to people I have loved who no longer
want to talk to me. I keep trying to ask what that pattern means
but anyone who could tell me
I have kept poetry at arm’s length from politics
for so long, I fear they will be perpetually awkward
like lovers of mine who hear everything about each other
but never meet. Poetry and politics, two cats on opposite sides
of a door in a house they share.
The other night in Al Anon, someone said
All I have to do right now is show up.
Maybe that’s right for me, too- just show up for the demo,
the coalition meeting. Open the Word document and show up there
for that miserable blinking line to witness me in my impotence
recall the horrible, whiny, true things I’ve said like I JUST DON’T SEE THIS IS A REVOLUTIONARY MOMENT or IT DOESN’T ACTUALLY SEEM LIKE WE WANT A ‘COALITION’ / WHAT IS OUR STRATEGY?/ WHAT IS OUR ASK? Or HOW IS AN ‘EAT IN KITCHEN’ EVEN A THING? WHERE ELSE SHOULD WE FUCKING EAT?? FUCK YOU NEW YORK Or another conversation with another friend with bedbugs, debating the merits of forming a support group. Well FUCK YOU AGAIN NEW YORK.
And then also there’s showing up for the torrent of words
my lover has for me, the cruelty that is her blinded pain
the slicing shards of truth. Take a look at yourself she said,
and though I feel like that’s my real day job already (grad student, har har)
I can only say, I will. I can only let her deliver the angry
blow (by text) that knocks the breath out of me, sends me spinning
across the floor til the floorboards stop me, coated in diatomaceous earth.
Non-monogamy has got me beat, but there’s the seduction of trying anyway,
of delicious defeat of fighting for something I actually want, for once.
Besides, my fellows are sexy, I’m just one in this army
of lovers whose dreams are so beautiful they cannot fail,
this army of queers. QUEERS!
Queers and our permanent squints from searching for accountability, never finding it
Queers and our bright colored eyes polished from too many tears
What can I say? I’m just
one of these LESBIANS.
Lesbians, with our endless talk
Lesbians, with our good instincts
Lesbians, with our landmine phones
Lesbians, who believe HOLDING EACH OTHER may
in spite of all odds
make everything all right.
||[25 May 2014|01:41am]
||absurd, tired, pleased
Ooooooh god the dance at this conference is the best time. Historians at their best in a way - not their most graceful for sure but warmest, and there are always surprises.
I fall in love so quickly at these things, also. I get tiny glimpses of people - I see what they look like; their intellect; the edge of personality - and then they are on my radar all day, looky-looky-looky-look. It is absurd and exhausting, but being passionate is what makes life worth living. I told you this was a crush log. NB, BA. What does it take to get in?
||[26 Mar 2014|11:28pm]
We move toward the diner in packs of two or three.
My second time around these people & already
I have taken E’s arm.
I want her number.
Not like that
but because I’m desperate to believe
that my newfound strangers are held somewhere
even when they are out of my sight.
Because it's dark and she’s lonely.
She's used those words:
God bless her
& because of the way
the other E slung her arm across my shoulders
as we walked down the church steps,
like we too have known each other
There’s this thing they say, we say:
We aren’t perfect.
The welcome we give you
may not show the warmth we have
in our hearts for you.
It reminds me of when I want to blurt out
I love you
& picturing the faces of people who look angry at first
& all those who never know
what to say.
the wind gnashes its teeth
rattles the plastic bag that covers the balcony’s empty planters
C said she almost didn’t make it tonight
because it seemed the ghosts were out.
At the diner, I feel them all
admiring my youthful vigor,
what they see as beauty
if I don’t glow like this,
without the incandescence,
I’m a lampshade without a bulb,
I’m trash at the mercy of the wind.
||[05 Mar 2014|09:50am]
If I were keeping a journal May Sarton-style, I would include this passage from someone who is becoming a dear new friend, Alyson. She wrote to me recently:
I began to learn that when I don't tell the truth about my life, I send myself the message that I'm not good enough, or that what I've experienced, is shameful and should be hidden.
When I dare to tell the truth about my life, I send the message that I am exactly as I should be. It reminds me that I am not above or below anyone else, just walking through my set of circumstances.
Unapologetic truth creates space. When I risk myself, so can the proverbial you.
|reading william's letter
||[15 Feb 2014|11:31pm]
& it's breaking my heart.
systems are the worst. are they just the expression of how shitty humans truly are?
||[31 Jan 2014|10:39pm]
The other part of this is that I'm reading David B. Feinberg's most excellent Spontaneous Combustion. It's all about gay men and they are witty and dazzlingly flirtatious, just totally over the top and I want to be like that.
Even though it will be read differently on me, a rather earnest, politically correct, and diminutive lesbian. I just want to.
Feinberg also does this thing, esp at the beginning of the book, where he evokes the cadence of all these gay men. Mostly he italicizes every other word or so. I also want to try speaking like that see how far I get. I think I'd sound like a valley girl - again, not the intended effect.