see saw

seven year olds drinking nonsense by the see saw
she has crossed them off her list
twist
into braids
fish braids
french braids
french twists
come later

invited to the birthday party
the shock of other people's lives
and rooms and small places
and taking home little boxes
(consolation prizes for not knowing her best)
little plastic boxes to put
rings and things
that girls are supposed to have
in

birthday parties
pool parties
slumber parties
come later

you are this name
this is your seat
gulp what you can
but there are people waiting
line up
cross your legs
and listen

spit it all out at the
see saw
and guess about the rest.

requirements

this requires a dedication
& an introduction
consisting of
at least hours
if not
a complete hiberation.

this requires a shirking off
and closing door
and withdrawn eyes
and a sinking in

a solitary sinking in.

forget

"Sometimes.
We forget.
things.
people.
moments.
Don't forget me.
the end."

and I said I wouldn't

but,
upon further thought,
people do forget.
people are forgotten.
even sometimes,
the most important
become names from old stories
sometimes.
But.
But still,

I have not forgotten.

consent

A: how u
L: sick of work
A: so sick of work too. and we have so many yrs left.
L: seriously. why. why is it necessary? this is life.
A: it's ridiculous. nobody told us this nonsense at birth.
L: i do not remember signing consent.
A: exactly. "Hello baby. You are here to work. Deal with it." "NO."
L: woulda crawled the fuck back in and rotted there.

L: and people are like, "but your job is meaningful. you get to help people." really, I don't give a DAMN about making a difference most days. if someone paid me more money to go back to burger king, i would. i'd go back to burger king and "help people." that's just being real. jobs are for making money or meeting people to distract from loneliness like the old people at walmart.

reasons

if i never attempt to get published, i attribute it to the residual effects of middle school rejection.
i blame adam bartlett.

blood

phone calls sound like business meetings
:What are you doing with your life?: injected into every question
disapproval coating every comment
money work school car whenareyoucominghome

but i do not wear your brand of adulthood
no size to fit me
cannot be contained

i listen to your arterial ups and downs
but i do not hear the same beat
attempts to interject in vain
my blood runs free and contained
over here
in me

i bite my tongue at the way jesus pours out of your mouth
as the reason and cause and effect of every thing
i bite my tongue until it bleeds
through the phone line and across the distance
silent
like i wish you would sometimes think to be
hail mary
til it bleeds
and in my own way it is-
let that be-
the way i say
:love:.

middle times

we write during middle times.
either other side brings
a dizzied state of living
snarling or laughing but not forming words.

in the middle state
words bubble up from either other end
and we catch them
splatter them
squash them
freeze them
onto paper pinatas

stretching------
exaggerating the now.

natural as

i am no fool.
i know that those things we feel
are not unique to us-
chemistry has rhythm and rhyme-
natural as a -
and as mapped out as a
table of elements--
columns of caresses
periodic and cyclical
the ebb and flow
the pulling in and pushing away
as known as the way home
or the address of the house where you spent your formative years.

A home in a million places
formed from a million mothers and stand-ins
needing them all; rejecting them all
being needed by them
being rejected by them
and I know I am a home
now, too

but i am no fool

there is the beginning of knowing
and then the aftermath of undoing all the assumptions

a move toward seeing as is
without the distraction of long lashes
without drunkenness from kissing new breath
without the judgement of slowly accumulated resentments
to see as is
and as is always shifting
changing moving toward some new development
a catastrophe or renewal
waiting at the end of
each calendar week
or month
or year
or hour

knowing full well that none of this has much to do
with me being me or you being you

that this deep breath
this shipyard knot
this one face in a sea of other blurs
is unique to me and shared by everyone.

i am no fool.

catfish

three things that have moved me in the past week:
1. on Thursday, Frost "After Apple Picking" and "Stopping by the Woods...". There is a tension there, an exhaustion, a restraint, a disappointment, the terrible play between expectation and reality. attempts at reflection, cut short by promises to keep.

2. a stimulating conversation with a real live person. it involved adult babies, serial killers, and pubic hair.

3. The movie Catfish: "And there are those people who are catfish in life. And they keep you on your toes. They keep you guessing, they keep you thinking, they keep you fresh. And I thank god for the catfish because we would all be droll, boring, and dull if we didn't have somebody nipping at our fin." The movie in general, made me feel repulsed by and so sad for and a deep love for humanity.

i am thankful for the catfish
i am thankful that at least one of the above experiences involved interaction with another human being

expectations/reality
intrigue and depth/bar swimming full of shallow faces

i would like to move more. i am offering. i am ready. i would like to be moved.
calling all catfish.

mingling

That repulsive smell of too many lunches mingling in the faculty room.
Little lunches. Big lunches. Lunches planned with excruciating detail. Lunches warmed in the microwave. Lunches raised from the air tight near dead of little tupperware coffins. Garlic. Low Fat Low Nonsense Dressing. Pasta noodles. God, so much pasta.

Individually, they might be alright. That garlic bread or Mexican dish might smell good on its own. But together, it's just too much. Like a floral headache from Macy's.

Little lunches in plastic bags. Lunches from houses filled with little screaming children. Lunches from houses full of fat people who eat salad every day. Lunches from people who *gasp* live in sin with their significant others. Lunches from houses whose people choose every piece of deli meat with care- eyeing the ounces- forming the curls and folds of honey roasted ham like some kind of private art. From houses full of cat hair. Lunches for people who won't keep it down. Lunches from houses full of fighting and lunches from houses full of too much nothing.

Houses full of little lives and big lives and pungent smells that, together, are just too much.

whitman

of the entire lecture and discussion-
the barbaric yawp and the circle of life and loafing and boot soles and all that celebration-
what they remember about whitman
is that he was gay.

the end of september

an effort.
the placement of desperation
a pity
a shame
d
own the spiral staircase of doubt
unwanted for reasons unknown
the help is in the trying
an unveiled effort
an effort.
to express gratitude
or release a sob.

still

learning

breaking

a fix makes
me feel like
something is
broken

breaking.

eternal whine of the daily grind

ever notice how there's nothing really too grindy about the daily grind? i think most of the mental or physical exhaustion comes from having to be somewhere for a given time each day. the fact that i am not free to nap right now multiplies my fatigue x3. we just walk around all bitter about that, dragging our feet through the day. marking hours by trips to the bathroom, organizing desk drawers, making copies. logging in and out of various distrating websites. having silly contrived conversations with people desperate to fill their hours too. we feel all worn out because we know subconciously that what we get paid for each day could probably be accomplished in 45 minutes, and will some day probably be accomplished by robots in 45 seconds. so, that's kind of grindy. just let's not fool ourselves into thinking any of this is all that taxing.

necessities

"I'm thankful for my past. It's made me who I am today."

Of course it did. That is the definition of past. It is a before in an order that ends in after and points to now. Of course the past was necessary. But THAT past? THOSE choices? THAT life? Who the hell knows? How can anyone ever claim to know that their choices were for the better or worse?

free agent

it feels less stable... the walls less soundproof... but to look it all in the face and say
THIS IS ALL SUBJECT TO CHANGE
feels more satisfying in the honest kind of way.

less energy spent trying to protect the things you think you know for sure. Content and allowing contentedness without needing to understand its implications or lock down the source or scrutinize the possible effects of choices today ten minutes twenty days thirty years from now.

because it all just keeps going, you know? men and women and cats and tired weeks and awake weeks and filling up gas tanks and wondering what will be next and thinking about and forgetting the details of what was then. judging others and judging our past selves and mostly thinking our present self above reproach

i am today, and subject to change.