dense of every level

such a sad life i have if i'm still thinking of him. been making me examine what love is. at least to me. being in love versus loving. gawd dance . i really believe this boy justin is in love. and it stirs me to pity on many levels. i think i'm the kind of person who can only experience a thing once. then it loses its novelty. i can not be "in love" again. i can love but what does that mean? this situation puts me in a place not unlike d's when i was in love with him.

as if there is ever a past tense in that situation...i didn't know that about in love, cuz i had not been.

pale scholars spinning out lists

lavalife is where i go to flirt and pass time chatting with guys who think they want to get into my pants, cyberwise. it's my bar, sans alcohol on my side.


i'm glad you have found a lover who is truly ok. lol not the kind of thing you're used to...what is it about the psyche wants to be mistreated? ooh make my pain esquisite? then the nerves begin to false fire, it's a viscious cycle. more whips more chains more piercings. something ecstatic in the air.

i think that may be why i fixate on the youth of justin. i know he's going to change, but instead of enjoying where he is now, i fret about future. what a dork am i? not always, but in cycles.
sigh. the awareness of the delimma of life does not make it disappear.

so b is fading ? o d
is it something in the water?
i think of your self flagellation
and redemption of word to action
i think of personal apocalypse and lazarutti. i'm listening to a deconstruction of finnegan's wake by terrance mckenna. so this is my background radiation right now. excuse the bs, cuz ya luv me.



*











transparency. associate trees of connection
you get a unique feeling, not anything
you are simulaneously many pov. many places
in the part. riddled with resonance.
levels of obscure mythologies. a dipstick
for your intelligence. mine's a cpl quotes low.
arm your self with simple things. a good map
of ireland, a good book of irish mythologies.
easy to make original discovers.



suprisingly modern. postish with prophecy.
he understood the twentieth century suffecientlyto see with transparency into the how it will ravel.

a skeleton key to finnegan's wake.
it sounds like a life's work.
it infects you. you becme unable
to write or talk any other way.

every part is beginning middle and end.



soooooo last year
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
inevitably hip needs a transplant
tell me your fake memories of me
and i'll tell you mine

you are in a bookstore with a credit card
the card isn't yours. you came into possession
of this card quite innocently. no bodies maimed
no silences manipulated. there was a prerequisite
for flimsy purchases; beguiling footware, negligent
cloth. you wonder as the person slides
the card across the breakfast table, eyes

lascivious on the foot
ball game just beginning,
does the card belong to you? meaning
him, meaning is it stolen? it comes with a PIN.
you peck the cheek then check the wallet.
the id matches. you are playing
a game, paid well. you slip
into something casual from your overweekend
bag. your amsterdam armory. six times now
and you feel your entry
into someone's list. you hope it's for
the well heeled. you adjust your collar.

i watch you from behind the counter.
serriptitious. reading memoirs of a geisha.
you will pay for your poetry and philosophy books
with his card. swipe and enter the pin.
i ask will ask for id this time. you'll not have any.
i'll refuse the purchase, stating how i've seen you
here before and not with this card. watch your eyes
shift briefly inward. i have my best mr smith on.

you lean over the counter, cleavage
snuggling higher, scent magnetic over my wire.
tilt your head and lines of xmas stocking red
etch across a patch of wan sun coming
just now vermeerly through the window.
rayon lineage abuts veinish as silted sea streams.
i put down my pen. recommend a coffee shop
a time of day. you counter with a smoke
shop. i pull out my stash from the counter.
the windows begin to fog.


cut to later
when you've moved in to my apartment
facing a courtyard with a fountain fed
by a polluted underground stream
i'm holding my hands under the water
and your neck is in them. you disolve
you disslove you disapear in blended
chattering. skylarks land on the roof
above me. i remember your curse
as you kicked the door goodbye, stilletto
heels humming. i have my best mr. smith on.





0090


dim. that's my surroundings.
it's been raining for a week
and finally the cold moves in
to accompany it. i face a wall
in a room with no view. all
my looking out comprised of a glass
screen. i miss the natural.

my head is buzz and tighten.
i need to release something
but i don't know what. neck is ok.
eyes, stilted. the dryer
has a sussurration more hypnotic
than waves. circular and spiral
into the a mass sleep. the white
of the screen is a snowy field
i'll never witness. the black
of these letters, droppings
in the blank. i want. i want
but i don't know if it's sleep
or diamonds. some thing could
come and wake me, but i will
it away. i'm tired of all this
searching. they quiz says i'll die
at 71 of cancer. they tell me
i'm a slut, cliched and un
original. i fall from the cold
gray sky, unfrozen. i'm melted
before i hit your hoodie.
i was never a crystal.
i need some energy.
some desire. i'm tired of playing cow.