Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Fiction- The Dead Lover

The kiss. It was when I peeked through the base of my eyelids, past the long lash which so close looked gray and thick like a beaded curtain in a doorway, that I enjoyed the kiss the most. Observing that soft place where his nose fit beside mine. All corner in the cheek. The upsweep of lip illustrating a white even row of top teeth as out they peek. And all the pink rawness behind the supple suckle and pull invested in that fucking great kiss of his, of mine, ours.
It is in my brain and it is all I have. The best thing he did was teach me how to fall.
“I’m a second hand smoke machine.” His voice puffed out in the rest of a cloudy exhale, sounding low and choked and sexy. I was clipping my fingernails beside him on the couch, among the mess. He was slouched like a doll with a broken neck; his overalls hiked up on the leg showing all the laces on both boots with feet turned out and spread wide from each other. Sandy floppy hair draped over his floaty eyes. He was becoming exhausted. It was all in the way he breathed through his mouth.
Hung over the couch were two large white sheets. We had pulled all the furniture to the room center and covered it. Somehow, when collecting all his things from his mother’s house he had come across gallons upon gallons of white paint. She was going to “throw it all out, someday. Your father died and I went thru this cleansing period where I decided that everything must be clean and new and blank and white. So I decided to paint both the interior and exterior of the house. But I got about as far as our bedroom and bathroom and just gave up. I rearranged the kitchen cabinets and bought some new furniture instead.”
Inspired, he decided our living room should be done. I agreed. The walls then were goldish yellow and reminded me of a nursing home. A kind of infected-octogenarian-piss color.
I almost wanted to go for my camera and take a picture, he was so at peace and beautiful. I would have if it hadn’t been for the drying paint on my hand. I wanted to take photographs of his hand – the way it looked was surreal, resting on the milky white sheet, his fingers swathed in paint; the cigarette and the little dim fire it held between leaves and white paper- it looked as if all things white were washing onto his color, ready to change him.
We took our first break with only one wall left to finish and I was admiring our job beside him on the covered sofa, my legs tucked underneath my ass. I brushed off the nail clippings from my belly, pulling two out of my belly button and tossing them to the hardwood floor. He was watching me and laughed lightly. He reached over with his cigarette hand and with free fingers began to pluck flecks of paint from my pubic hair. “Hey, you’re going to ash on me.” I protested. He sat up and quickly took a drag as I picked some of the paint out myself. He proceeded to ash in the soft fur purposefully.
“Asshole!” frightened, I pushed at the ash and my body. He giggled again, butting out on the floor.
“You’re beautiful.” I looked at him past the flat reply. I never knew if it was apology or sarcasm?
I was painting naked because all the clothes that I had brought I didn’t want to see ruined. He really didn’t have any clothes for me to use either. Being naked in such a public part of the house became comfortable fast. I was warm from working so hard and my skin glistened. I thought it better after I had been naked for a time. He went into the bathroom and I got up and shook off. Let down my hair and combed at it with my dried fingers.
Asshole. How unoriginal. And funny, now that I remembered that he had been the one to teach me that word. I used to only swear in Portuguese when something startled me or I became frustrated. I was taught never to lose composure or submit to unproductive behaviors like too much swearing. When I met him, all he was doing was swearing. I had only been in America for a week, knowing near nothing of what he was saying as he was trying to seduce my friend and roommate. We went drinking on a night when just taking a walk down the tree lined avenues and calm orange street lights wouldn’t appease us. My roommate had been flirting back – but I’m not the type for those behaviors so much. Instead I sat back and watched. He was intoxicated by then. When she went home with someone else, I had to walk him home. He didn’t live far from our apartment.
“You’re from Brazil.” he said to me after I got him up to his room.
“Yes.” My voice flat. I swung his legs unto the bed.
He smiled. I’ll never fail to remember this smile he gave me. The stay-with-me-and-talk-to-me-smile without words. All with this stupid innocent charm. I listened to this smile. Somehow he sobered and sat up, telling me all the American English swear words in the dictionary and I was laughing all evening. I fell for him as fast as my shoes fell off my feet. Fell like I was just learning how to do it. I liked men in my country, but the American atmosphere with its unsure, mysterious men like this one- what was it? I tumbled like a child in its first steps. He taught me the words asshole and fornicator and facefuck. He encouraged my falling, but kept catching me. My terrible fall. It hurt like tumbling down a well.
A few more evenings and this American man, hard in his soft ways, offered me a kiss and I accepted. This kiss- it was when I peeked thru the base of my eyelids past the long lash which looked gray, so close like blurry lines, and thick, like a beaded curtain in a gypsy’s doorway- that I observed a place where his nose fit beside mine and I felt that facefucking great kiss the most.
I painted the rooms all day and slept at night. And now each of these motions are in a place that can never come back.
Two years. Now we are engaged. We live together in a newly bought house with new jobs and new intentions. Fresh as the white paint.
I picked up the wet roller in the refilled pan and started in on the wall. High up on the ladder my arm reached for the ceiling, for the floor, then the ceiling again. He came back in from the bathroom. I was concentrating when he ascended the ladder to meet me and pressed his hands full against the flesh of my buttocks. The coolness of them made me jump and I turned slightly so as not to escape but to watch his lips move to kiss the flesh caught between his hands. I made myself still, thinking he might want to stop and make love. He likes to make love, and so do I, but not now. Somehow I was determined to finish this room and maybe start another. This painting felt good, and it looked good. It made my muscles burn with a welcome ache. When I stared down at him, I felt interrupted. He looked up at me with eyes that could make a snake feel sympathy.
“I’m sorry I ashed my cigarette into your hair. I was only playing. Did I hurt you?” His hand moved around for a moment and I thought he meant this as a come-on. I almost removed his fingertips from where they gently rested at my midsection.
“I am fine. Please, let's paint.” I said soft and serious. He smiled that smile that I’ve always known before climbing down to answer the ringing phone. He disappeared for a long time into the study, and I finished the wall alone.
I moved all the supplies into the adjoining room and lay out the sheets. When I turned off the ceiling lights the room glowed with the colored shape of window in streetlamp. Seeming to shimmer when the wind rustled tree limbs the light filtered through, spreading shadow over wet paint.
I watched the room for a moment and a chill came over me: It was now a familiar place made new.
Hearing him talking in the study, I became frustrated at his ease with distraction. I left the hall light on, but didn’t speak to him when I entered the shower. I dressed for bed because it was something put into me to do, and fast went to sleep. I didn’t hear him come in, but in my dreams I could identify his arm wrapped around me. That same cool shudder from watching the room bathed in paleness flow in and through. When he began to cry the tears clung to the skin between my shoulder blades. Frozen in the entryway to the unconscious, I could not awaken. Only without words could I ask the reason.
He had set out his painting clothes on the closet door. Hung there like a defeated hero. I focused on the hung man and came out of sleep. He was in the shower. Impractical- he would only get dirty again. I turned over and kept sleeping. He was putting on a tie in the mirror when I woke again. “What are you doing? Where...? Are you leaving? We have to paint again today.” I sat up to say this and the bedclothes slipped off of me showing off the anti-scars of paint splotch. When he turned his face was a bit awry. “I’ll be back and we can paint later. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry you were on the telephone so long.”
He stopped and we looked at each other for a moment. My searchlight glance fell out of me, heady and desperate. I knew I had said the wrong thing, but I couldn't take it back. He countered perfectly: “You’re beautiful.”
He didn’t kiss me. Then he left.

Later I tried, but I could not paint.

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

POEMS: One Rework, One Video-

No Traffic To Our Kiss -
reworked poem by DRH/DMJ

Food, yes.
Money, yes.

who cooks/who cleans/who pays the rent
we agree on most things including

the unicorn left no scars on our hearts
and blessed the inevitable gains of our love
which was an epic, mythical journey
in the very truest sense of the legends of love
granted status and authenticity by the Yeti
with joyous revelation
and hit up
road trips
and sunny days
stormy nights
and long, loving gazes:
to do it by.

It's art: it's
no concern for cool
or the glances of others
as we shine in the world.

It's sex: it's
warm and simple magic
delicious and savored, only for we two
this is what the gods experienced
feels like no one else knew how before.

We live this -
more successfully
as the Great Loves of Literature and Film
what grasped their own dreams
for the glorious-encompassing
never hidden from view
in an eagle's nest for a lion heart
and a plinth to hold honor and honesty for a head
for hands!
hearts! ALL
intersect with this promise.

Friday, October 3, 2014

"Sick bastard. I don't even HAVE a pony." - the passed-note letters

It's the happy heart that breaks.
- Sara Teasdale

The following are excerpts transcripted from handwritten letters written to me by women who shall remain anonymous.

Ken thinks my old boyfriend Joe is still in love with me because we write letters back and forth while he's in the army. He also named his gun after me. I don't think that's so weird.


The girls cry. All the time. But mostly at night. One girl, one of my favorites, her name is Samantha. She's this little black girl with wire frame glasses and braids in her hair. She's the cutest thing in the world. She's fine during the day, but at night she gets really sad and starts to miss her mom. Last night  I was in her tent trying to calm her down and she kept saying "I'm sorry to keep bothering you." It was so sweet.
Her big problem is that she isn't sleeping, even though her body is almost dead from tiredness. She told me that at night she is afraid to fall asleep and dream of her mom because she'll get sad. I told her that meant that she really has something good going for her, if she missed her home and her mom so much.
It actually started to make me feel sad, because I don't really miss my mom and my home... I miss hot showers and fiber in my diet and I miss coming and going as I please and of course I can't believe how much I miss you, and Pennsylvania, which surprises the hell out of me.


Last Friday we had a lockdown for about 4 hours. You could leave, but no one could come in or get around the building without our pass key that unlocks doors. Anyway, apparently some employee made some threatening remarks so they had the cops come to do whatever. All pretty secretive... kinda boring, actually.


Ever had your astrology chart read -> Awesome! According to the planets I've got a lot of work to do and it's not all Suzie Home-Maker and a stack of babies. Although the sharks do say hello. I'm taking them to a zombie prom tonight. Come visit!


No scholarships here, but I did get double honor cords and a photocopy of a letter from the President. And then the real thing. I sat in the back row of the graduation ceremony and talked to Zeke and Shelly the whole time. The highlight was when the speaker told us to never be ashamed of our rural upbringing because many great people were raised outside of the city. Included in her list were examples of people like Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, Socrates, Galileo, Plato... you get the idea. But her last example was Jesus. It was priceless. I mean, really, who sites Jesus Christ as an example?


Heading towards her house, I noticed what looked like a shimmering castle on the horizon. It just burst up out of the distant trees and I had to blink and ask the others in the car if they saw it too. It looked heavenly, and so out of place on that highway. I'm not trying to draw any deep conclusions but I would like to say that sitting her in the morning light, i'm noticing that your rug is a deep green. Last night I thought it was black.
Oh! The castle. Anyway, as we rounded a bend in the road, the castle became smaller and eventually it disappeared from my sight completely. But while it was there, it was something to marvel at.
What do I want to say with this. Why am I telling this story? I don't want to say that you're the castle, because that would mean that you're going to disappear soon. But you are something to marvel at.


I need to figure out my life. I need to make some serious decisions. I need to get back in therapy. I need to start taking my medicine again. I can't keep playing doctor with my own body and saying "okay, I feel pretty good today, I think I won't take my meds." And I can't keep saying to myself that I don't have time for them. There's always time for mental health. Always. (That was laced with sarcasm.)
A moth is throwing himself against my mosquito netting, doing a fly-by ala Top Gun. No big creature problems this week. At least not for me. Anyway it's their home, not mine. I'm just renting.
I am thinking that if I get around to it tomorrow, I will put dreadlocks in my hair. The only thing stopping me is the idea of cutting them off. Ah well. I've had short hair before.
Hey, send me some options for after camp. I have no clue what to do with my life after August 12th.


Daffodils are blooming here and that makes me happy.
So tomorrow is freakin' Valentines Day. Not like I've gotten anything for V-Day for the past few years anyway- but before I always had hope that he would surprise me with Daisies or something... I mean yeah, it's a stupid holiday, but its at least an excuse to surprise people with something and they won't look at you like you're stupid.
HA! Funny story, about Corey of course. So the first Valentines we were together, he gave me this set of candles. I mean, they weren't spectacular or anything but its always the thought that counts. Until a few days later when I realized that you got the candles when you signed up for a credit card on campus. I never said anything about it, but I realized that the only reason he gave me anything was because it was free and happened to be there...
Oops. Happy B-Day... although I think I have missed it?


Tomorrow I am going record shopping and to this vegan diner with Bunny, who is so incredibly awesome. She and I keep talking about whether or not we want to go back to school. Its really just a momentary musing, and of course I'll go back to school. I'll find some way to make it happen even though my mom wants me to quit.
But right now I would like to think of a time when all this is over. The degree has been achieved. I have the steady job (career, god forbid) and a place that I know I am going to be living in for more than a few months. Don't get me wrong, I'm not yearning for mediocrity. Just simplicity. Sanity. A nice, solid existence. The boy who I can count on. The cat on the foot of my bed. A real bank account. One with money in it and checks in a checkbook. I just want to be five years older and five years wiser.
I just see myself as this giant piece of shit that has made all of these mistakes in just the past 6 years, and it's getting so that I can't fight the urge to get low to the ground anymore.


I'm also caught in this 'horrific' nympho moment. All of these impulses, streaming from my head and I can't seem to calm down my cravings. Yesterday I saw Justin and wanted to say "Hey, Tiger" and hug him. These are crazy times my friend. I'm hoping they're just hormonal. I just finished the greatest period ever! Started Saturday morning as was done by last night. Didn't feel a thing. I've had hiccups that were worse.
I also finished that book I told you about, "A Place To Call Home"- nothing particularly wonderful. Just touching and thought provoking. The girl is always trying to get the boy out of trouble and do the right thing. They're separated for years and suddenly hook back up again. Right before they have sex for the first time he says "Help me go where I belong." The next line is "And I did."


I haven't been doing much in the area of looking for grad schools recently. In some ways I know that I should be and in others I really don't want to. I just want to run around and be transient. I want to find love and go from there. Why is it that I feel completely dysfunctional when I'm not in love and trying to make someone else happy? Why do I feel the need to share my life with someone?


Just feeling incredibly lonely right now. There are people all around me, people that even though I've known them for less than a month, I consider them to be good friends, but suddenly I'm sad. And I see no way out. This is like that letter I wrote to Nicola at the beginning of last semester, but I doubt that I'll mail this one. Why is it that I can be fine, absolutely wonderful, for months at a time, and then, WHAM! All I want to do is die?
That's not a healthy, natural response. I know this. But I'm stranded in the middle of Virginia with no outlet. No one really to talk to because to jump right in and dump everything out. But I kind of feel that I should have been up front with them here. Let them know what they were getting themselves into. I told them about the extent of the problems and I really played everything down. But at the time I told them all of this I was feeling great. I was so happy to be alive. I was so high. you would think I would be able to distinguish my regular ups and downs and to know the difference between momentary and heaven-sent salvation.


I wished I could channel you so you could be the one hitting his whiffle ball pitches. So you could be the one caught in his arms as he tagged you on the way to first. He's not a cuddly "let me show you my affections" kind of guy. You're not really that kind of girl.
The two of you could run all over God's green earth everyday. Then the two of you could have mind blowing sex all night long.
You have amazing chemistry. You have an amazing smile. You have my blessing.
Go get him.


I was listening to one of the tapes you made at my house. It kicks ass!! Missy was over here on Saturday and loved it. She says you could really get famous. Cool, huh? She also said that she loves you to death and she just wants to hug you every time she sees you. We all do!
I got up late this morning and didn't get a shower. That's why I look so damn sexy right now! I'm trying not to eat as much junk food as I used to and I'm dying! I am in desperate need of chocolate.
I found a dress for prom but mom's taking saturday off so I can find what size I am- the dress I'm getting is from Victoria's Secret. KINKY! Then I'm getting a push-up bra so I can rest my chin on them. Yep, then I'll get nice and drunk and knocked up. That's my kind of prom!
I'm in Environmental Science now- we're talking about hard water- are you as excited as I am?


I've been walking thru the halls today, clicking my pen at numerous people saying "Burn in hell." Which is strange because I don't believe in hell. I feel that we create our own after life. People are only energy. Death is just a transfer of that energy to another form. Anything is possible if you believe it.


i think i am going to cut off all of my hair before camp again this summer. i have this picture and the chick looks foxy as fuck, and i honestly think i could pull it off.
Also, it really feels like spring here today. its gorgeous out and i just want to go driving forever.


Your pain upsets me despite our friendship being so new. This may not be mutual, but to me, we are old friends who've just met. I feel a connection with you, like we've met in a past life or something, if I believed in that crap.


hello. i'm not sure who you are or where you're from. but two years ago in the summer i went on a trip to Virginia with a friend of mine. we made a pit stop in Washington D.C. we were looking thru some books in a Barnes and Noble there and a piece of paper fell out.

it read:

5 a.m. deep glow
sky grey watery chocolate
tint from dirty sun.

i don't know if it was you that wrote this. but this email address was on it. and i'm not sure if you intended on any one finding it. and i can't even remember what book it fell out of. but i found the paper again while doing laundry the other day. and i wanted you to know that if you wrote this it's beautiful and that you have real talent.

no reply is necessary unless you'd like to. i hope you have a great 2007.

thank you- the girl in the book store.

Friday, September 12, 2014

FOR DON - Wedding Vows

To My Very Dearest Don,

Good evening, my only. My adored one.

I confess here that until recently I have enjoyed resistance. I relish the control of saying no.
Excesses of indulgence always seem to bring me closer to existential dread- to the feelings of loss and melancholy- and less to the truth of my own acutely customized path. 

I suppose this is what zealots mean when they say "temptation", and what I have been really trying to cultivate is a kind of personal temperance. A place for safety, grace, positive work and goodwill.

We are human and so we must go out into a world filled with other humans in order to understand our place. We meet many who do not share our perceived values.
An example: when people say "I have an addictive personality." It's always a red-flag. It sounds like an excuse to me. Like a threat. This is someone saying: "Just wait. I will behave badly and it will cost you. You'll see."

But then we grow, and grey areas come into view. We understand the meaning behind the words being used by those with whom we wish to feel close, even if we don't know why.
And it is there- found among these grays: a sweeping rainbow. In it is the discovery of the nuances of suffering and joy. In it is the cognizance of the magnificence of imperfection. In generosity, serendipity, the azure highlights of unknowable tomorrows.
Here, a tolerance blossoms. A compassion cleans the air.

As writers we understand intimately how, in this beautiful life, we do build so much diction racket.
Our exquisite experience expands in proportion to what we can get away with, which is dependent solely on our vocabularies and how we give ourselves permission to use them. 
It is perhaps we, with our hyper-inflated hearts, who have most used the word 'love' to get over on someone. We've spoken about this. How"I love you" is a phrase often too easily discarded in manipulation.

'Love', however, is not our word, Don.
Amoaeternum is. Amoinfinitum. Eternalove. Lovforever.
One compound word inscripted upon these rings. Coined to get at the precise edge for which we have so long endured search. For this purest thing- slipping past transgressions and accidents and strangeness and fear. This purest ideal- slicing beyond sadness, illness, weariness and poor humor. THIS: an untouchable without any name but what we give to it. The most unidentifiable, yet undeniably alive.
A something like music, or the miracle of a sunrise…
THIS is what I give to you when I give you my future.

Therefore, and in addition-
Donald Ray Hall, this is what I, Dana Marie Jerman, will do for you:

I vow to use all my personal reservoirs of power to help you in your endeavors in this life. To come to your aid, and to trust that you know what you need, and to do as you ask.
I vow to give you my trust by sharing my shame and my hubris. To keep my thoughts open to you. To listen, though I may be at times irritated and filled with misunderstanding.
To continually acknowledge where it all began, and to go there when things grow difficult. To start from the beginning - with a smile and with a kiss.
I vow to know, in the most tender and intimate of my world-heavy artists' heart, that you are first. That our vows of being together will manifest something larger than each of us could alone.

So today, and each day forward, I express to you infinite gratitude, infinite delight, Infinitelove.

Thank you.

I am, most sincerely and always-


Saturday, August 2, 2014

Miranda's Trouble - Hallucinated Fiction

Leaving mid service, her body rising of its own accord in the tilting room. Saying nothing while moving past cardboard body shapes in cut-out suits. Making for the door of the funeral home, frantic for new air to breathe.

She could make out the black stain of her hand. Looking down further to the left pocket of her dress- another black ruin of a stain from the broken pen- ink everywhere. Her vision growing fuzzier in the fading daylight while her body lead her along the wavy blocks and low tide of lampless street it took to get to the hospital.

The chastising hum of things that could not speak still personified persistently at the back of her damaged conscience.
The Pen: 'I'm bleeding! You! You'll never be able to fix me! You've done this to so many of my brothers and sisters. How dare you!"
The Dress: "I was such a beautiful thing. A gift from your Sister. Your now dead, Sister. It's probably your fault she's dead anyway, useless scum. I'm ruined. I can never be saved or enjoyed again by anyone- for seeing or for wearing. How could you?!"
Her shoes began to pipe up about the wear. Her hair clawed at her scalp to protest.

Stiffening, she fell face first into the automatic doors. Voices started a new stream of action at the edge of her dreaming:
"...found her here, Doctor. We're relieved."
"Yes, but to see her arrive unresponsive to basic stimuli suggest the condition is advancing at a grave rate. I'm sure the funeral wasn't the best idea. We'll administer further testing tomorrow."
It was the Lizard again.

The lab coat grew a barnacled bubblehead and a chin that disappeared into a tongue when he spoke. A long red tongue. She could feel her skin seize with revulsion and looked toward her hand for the stain. It wasn't there. She was now wearing three bracelets. One was a link to the bed. Her dress was on a hook by the window. She could see the side of the dress with the left pocket. The hook of the pen cap still caught at the corner. There was no stain there either.

The Doctor slithered out, and her Stepmother and Stepsister came into focus. Their stout bodies on either side of her. "Is she awake?" The Stepmother.
A swerving motion by the Stepsister followed by a hot sting on her face. "She is now."
It was a familiar thing, the slap. From the left, like most of what happened to her, she noticed. An affliction of the right brain.
"Miranda! You are causing Us a lot of trouble!" The sting dulled faster than usual to a sweet throb. In the calm wave of the pain medication it was quickly ignored.
Oh, medication. She was so tired of the endless curative measures that did not include a program of love. The women around her were too strict for love.

When Miranda blinked again Stepsister and Stepmother were gone. Her gaze could not fall on anything directly, and the sting on her cheek melted as if it was years ago. In the woozy warmth, she dropped again into the dream state.

As the smoke cleared, she awoke in her Sister's coffin. How likely was it that she was her Sister?
The mourners were gone, and there was a transparency about her- a halo effect- that gave her a lightness. A sensation of being thin as paper, broad as a sail, neat as a stride.

A door opened and closed and the Doctor appeared. He cranked the Victrola with an excited patience, and the music that filled the room carried her, scooped from underneath. The mourners were gone, and the chairs in which they had been sitting. And the carpeted walls grew closer, warmer in hue. She sprang up from the casket like a marionette, placing her gentle gloved hand into the tall Lizard's grasp. Up and around, they began to dance in the room with an increasing number of flowers and the pulsing smell of them, and no possibility of other women but her.

The Lizard Doctor spoke without moving his mouth as they danced: "It hasn't rained in days. You come to me when the moon is full as a jawbreaker. This dance means we are father and daughter and your life is your extended death. Of course you are your Sister and your Mother and me, a constant cycle of V's in a line. Ideas pointing in a series of messy blackouts to where forgetting breathes deeply and makes... "

His poetry continued and together with the music they made a song.
The song repeated and repeated, and her dress moved and changed.
When Miranda realized the dance and the song were getting slower and slower, she caught sight of her gloved hand on the handsome Doctor's shoulder. A stain was there. Growing.
The Stain. Now becoming a mirror. An ink into which everything, this time thankfully and without panic, began to envelop and disappear.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Diary Of A Sunday Evening

The following are poetic lines which may be read/repeated in any order.

Already a wittier response than the ones I have on hand are required.

I wear a pink jewel.
Today I've gone out of my way to digest pink things. The gummi vitamin. The strawberry frosted donut.

And here's another truth collected: lines are lethal. Memorize limits to bend suppression- make the rules melt. Symmetry is a caterer to recognition.

Also: intimate to existence is silence.
Texture leads to preference.

Amongst shredded steam, touchable musics are blood and tide.
We are searching elevator eyes going up to go down.
Stare for space, stare downstairs.

To continue the exquisite lattice, the trinity's procession is breaking into heaven.
The sound of their harps hug a scream, causing double-sided dreams.

The rope up my bones, eager on watch, does not talk, for it may disappear.
All while their glance achieves the fractions of a kiss.

Rampant in absence- oh how living dismisses objects from their root!
Living- the stubborn slash of it-
could be lists taken out of context.

Each candlesticks jackknifed alight while white flowers grow from books.

There was a pressure then to consider the lonely summer- brown and bleeding into the low water like a photograph- its damage point being a riddle, or an infected burn.

No one weeps to the chime of ice cream trucks, however out of sunscreen.
Biked over the levels- too much reading and books read with the self in the center found blank.

I have been a hopeful nuisance in a potted shirt.
Precious with my ceramic broken flower breasts covered in oil.

When sunk tranquil in that throbbing me-scape, I've tongued my native speech toward audible stippled cramps of sound.
Past greedy bites (lest dread mistake you for an urgent swell.)

Weep not then your smarted carols over untreated milks.
Sinister gargles are instead called forth to comment, to splice, to fit, to magnify.

Either as hungry as circuit or scaffold.
When subject, some come shamelessly down.

Just as surely your grope will goad on to gossip trivial troublemakers.
Their perfected scratches for sculpted stills purchase a punched-up script.

You unpacked your sundance to draft drinks casting crass bets backwards.
Here you are on a night good for nothing but poetry...

Just then someone was stars on a field of napkins...

Sunday, June 29, 2014

Inspiration. Desire. Sweat. Ink.

Audience is considered, but certainly not at first.

When one writes for oneself the intention is pure.
No amount of grad school or publishing is going to make you feel as good or better about it.

They cannot instill passion, only grope blindly after it.
Theirs is a disappointing construction in the face of your will.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

CARPE HERI = Seize Yesterday

I tried to call the suicide hotline a couple of times as a kid. I lived out in the boonies and just wanted someone to talk to. Bored late at night, I guess. I always got some hospital lackey on the line.

I wasn't stupid. I knew the person on the other end didn't want to talk, or couldn't. And when they said "I think you have the wrong number" I didn't ask for the right one.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Repining Polemics

coffee +
wake up
call rushes
off to a 
day of break
fast burrito
and picking
out new boots
and winter
coat before
a recording
session +
still from snot
rocket city
being built
in sinuses-
I blow
more comes...
Free coffee
at the burrito
house not bad
good for
people watching
A day that's
not even lousy
with people.
My nails still
red a few chips
Blissed from
taking a quality
poo. Just laying
the studio floor-
getting reacquainted
with my dirty t-shirt
and a nice long
day off.
"Should I be
her?" The
M. Monroe
question is asked
not of photographers
but of
self- out
of pose in the wet
wet city so
missing birdsong.
Drops of rain
song so many
grey excuses
crave a misty
morning summer
in a wooded glade
with lush forest
peep and call all
the air sweet
as unmelted
Instead- Ill. In
IL. Still. A few
false nights
of sleep is here
for those who 
can take the
current cold
and not pull down
sweats and chills.
I mail a postcard
and go to work.
It's probably what
got me sick OR
all this bike
riding no real
jacket I'm dull
under all the
music and writing
I need to make
For real big
epic too-
the kind I'm going
to get into
anthologies with
I've got
to pour a glass of
wine and cough
evening shot
through with that
Instead- here
among the
a black matrix
down out of the
sky up from
under cars- tiny
burnt broken
skeleton extractions
out from
into the final
So small.
The snowflakes
of hell.
I fear this
as carcinogenic
lodging in the
throat and nose
and soft parts
to recklessly
mangle my own
tender helix
deep within.
What of truth
has ever been
so visible?
Of these fragile
of discarded
dinosaur blood
I give too much
They are
matchless with
the magic babble
of birds- exotic
and not- exciting
the very green
in the branches
with thankful
balming call.
They are not
me- digging
out the gear
for basic warmth
cover-ups and 
slip sliding over
wet underfoot
Whisky as warm
wet as the
The gang of
nightime creatures
awake, hedging
Hard to sit
up straight and
get into
that eveningtime
When you do
all go too the
dominoes what
ached to fall.
I don't think
I can take it much
longer. This
town tearing
a hole in my
I erase number
after number
from my phone
it feels so
good I don't know
why I'm not
throwing the
whole thing into
the lake. Could
be so close to
Running renegade
back to anywhere.
A lump
in a throat
is a knot
in a stomach
and the hot tears
unjam only
if I admit he's not
there. What if he's
not there?
Not even yet born?
I could find him
then find myself
hating myself for
loving him all over
than you
like a fox
to try being alone.
It could take years.
But your time
and mine
wave differently.
You will remember
me mostly
because you will
get the notion
that I knew something
that you're not sure
you know now. You
only know that it's
now you need to
know it. You will
not go deeper to
the place where
you discover it
was only the basic
gratitude that
was required. Too
much will distracts
from a plain dumb
truth of the present.
I may
once have been
a her that
was more for
others taking. Once
I may have been
happy to be 
leaned or lead
It is a fleeting
happy. I feel
the truth is
that I never really
have been. But
the risk is a 
faith-charge to
be again that
sweet post
for the right
they? Him.
With whom I 
eject myself
from the missing
out beyond not
enough cool
stuff happening
to beyond where
I boxed myself
in with work and
sighing upwardly
against the
darkness for more
energy. Made here
the same mistake
as all other friends-
fiends who aren't
punk anymore except
I didn't set out
deliberately to
do this. Aside
all else is this
morning- frozen
and bright and
me- another USA-
born diver and
dodger. Fence-sitter
learning bitch tricks
and bad habits
from the who-cares-
less fit-giveaway
Stand/sit and
wait in the sun. All
that's left to
do in the 
city is look around
at more city. To
be a flame burning up
barstools. Observe-
thee by thee- a
dance made on corners
way out of the
Still into the use
of your own
little world. The
best reality is inside.
Indulging all spasms
that do not soften
one so much
as enliven.
And it keeps coming
and coming
and it keeps coming
'til the day it stops.
Who's safe? For the
So what if I was
a lovely thing
and now I'm not?
That the city
turned me into a
reeking farting
funhouse of lies?
I've got bigger
bridges to burn. All
my chapter
thirteens huddle
into a pleasure forum
of airy dust on old
vinyl. A hopelessly
beautiful melody
seeps in on delayed
guitar. A record
to control time.
Leisure cast
forward or back
over closed tired
eyes imagined
memories. Sometimes.
Sometimes I shine.
I know there is a
light for the darkest
days. Sometimes.
Why, which now?
This year's sloppy
slut update: the one-night
stands the
most satisfying sex
to beat
No expectations of
more, simply the
enjoyment of
another name added
to the list. 3 hot
pussy poundings
in one night- a 
blissful feeling
carried over into the
good sleep of the next,
and the enjoyable
notion that sex
is still sexy, and more
could be coming
my way and if
these dudes I keep
running into keep
having big dicks
then by all
means line them
up. There's only
been one not worth
mentioning and
he moved away,
so we won't
him. I'm really
thrilled to have
ditched mr.
perpetual jealousy
for the duration
and he seems to 
have stayed away.
Life is a lot simpler
without him.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Fumer Peut Vous Tuer

People treat smoking like this cool-kids in-thing lie everyone knows and passes around- a rumor bathed in subterfuge. As a rule, I don't like things like that. I don't like lies or the perpetuation of them, however necessary they sometimes need be.
Addiction is really fucking boring in my opinion, but everyone struggles with it somehow or thru another, and I respect that… but it stinks. Literally. Smoking seems to be an act, as the masses treat it, only perpetuated for the sake of itself and with no higher aim in mind. As if even the possible 'higher aims'- increased concentration and low-level camaraderie with other smokers- could be worth it in the end.

By these standards of abuse, I do not consider myself to be a 'smoker'. I'm a 'chipper'. I chip away.
It will take me months to finish a pack, and I never abandoned that phase where Clove cigarettes stopped being the most satisfying thing I could be bothered with craving. It's even better that 'my brand' isn't available in the States any more. That keeps them foreign and indulgent and at (mostly) further than arms length.

The abuse of tobacco has lead to some heinous health issues we all are aware of and therefore I won't go into here. But only to note that even light use may lead to sickness. As I write this I'm working thru just a touch of malaise for reasons listed in the last paragraph.

I have a note on my wall which I reference from time to time, which doesn't make me feel better, so much as it reminds me of the standards to which I might hold myself inside the idea that:
"If We're Going To Do This Stupid Thing, There Had Best Be Some Fucking Rules"
- Only Outside
- Have some quiet time. Stop and think and observe.
- No bumming.
- Put off the initial desire.
- Only consume the nice stuff.
- Brush your teeth and drink water afterward.
- Never more than 2 a day.
(There's more to the list that I haven't thought of right now, and maybe more will be added.)

And it is this (hopefully) 'judicious use of tobacco that can provide a real punch', to butcher a phrase coined by writer Thom Jones. 

I know how insidious this habit can be, and not only at the start. My brother still struggles with it and used to smoke nearly a pack a day. My dad was told by his doctor "Some people can smoke. You. You can't smoke."
My mom started when she was 15 in the girls bathroom at private school, presumably because most or all of her friends were doing it. All of my grandparents smoked at one point. Two died from complications from lung cancer. An aunt passed away from leukemia that was no doubt exacerbated by her heavy habit.

Right now I'm having a tough time because 2 of my close friends are 'pouch' a day smokers. They roll their own and it is harsh tobacco that has left my throat sore and gives me a cough that leads to a gnarly chest cold. I start to feel a little claustrophobic and like I can't breathe after hanging with them awhile. I don't want to stop seeing them, even as they exchange cigarettes for breakfast.
I just wish they'd smoke a little less. For their health and mine.

But what do you do when you are your own problem? 
What do you tell someone, someone close, who thinks that consuming poison is "A very 'adult' thing to do."?