also

i am soon to be in:

admit two (with nathan logan)

bear creek feed poetry series ('falling stars to smash motherfuckers in their face')


the other day my boyfriend asked what some qualities i look for in music are. i said "so real" and i hold this to be true.

i think Why? is so real, i think my morning jacket and midtown dickens are so real, i think neutral milk hotel is "so real".

not everything can be a poem, i guess

poem retrieved

constructed this one today after going through all of frank o'hara's poems retrieved and highlighting my favorite lines

the result:

i want you lost in
the bed of the world
don't i deserve you

personification leaves me only
bruises from your nudging
i will contain you
it's dirtied

all that failed to find me
removes itself

i am entirely gone

13 or 14

here is a poem i would have written if i was still thirteen or fourteen

there is enough cat hair on this desk
for every one of my ribs and then some
i'm just kidding i wouldn't have written this if i was fourteen
i would make the poem go in one direction
like a bored star
at the start of the next stanza

i would say something like
you see, you never wanted any poems
and i would say 'this is what i have'
and you would fall asleep or maybe i would fall asleep

i pretended that i was asleep when you read my favorite book aloud
the honesty of the moment almost made me sad
the pressure of your arm on my back was
something new, i guess

it's strange
i am learning all of your rhythms and that's something new, i guess
i am dreaming that i am too forward with everyone
that my breasts are mirrors to look through
that if i stop writing poetry now then i will have given in
and that math course i have to take next year will cause me to suffer

we were sitting across from each other at waffle house
those big round lights were above your face
you were like a hundred madonnas
it was 2:30 a.m. at waffle house and these girls were singing something holy
i stared at your face and i thought, i am learning about you right now
i want to take the test before i forget everything
i want to write down all of your mnemonic devices

when everything goes to shit can you please be touching my collarbone

you said

if i could write this all night i could fill my poems with bones if i could write this all night i could fill my poems with bones if i could write this all night i could fill my poems with bones

i want to be the white marble hands in glennview cemetary
today you said i was brilliant
and that was really strange
right now i want to be virginia woolf and i want stones in my pockets
i want to move my hands through a river and nothing else

is this "confessionalist"
was that a threat

atmosphere

i feel like i've been walking out of my poems but i really don't want things to go to shit just yet

nothing is as melancholy as a train shaking my chair (feels like someone is shaking my shoulders)

you were a coelacanth in the river
according to wikipedia:
as a food, you are almost worthless
as your tissues exude oils even when dead
imparting your flesh with a foul flavour

i remember all the times you looked at me, our hands clapping in unison
i really hated that.

durham always felt more alive at night in the winter to me
summer was more like a dissection;
necessary and likely that i would faint
all full of worms and plastic bags
(as i image all dead pets are)

i think this might be a song or something