striving towards recollection,
all efforts are
futile;
the tug, tug,
pull
of decades and
oceans.

all efforts are
fragile.

-Patrick.

Swish
sliding
sounds
across
the grass, bare
and queer
feet
pad. The
moon alights
my thoughtless
silent moves.
We dance
mud
between
our toes, wet
prints stamped,
seals
on our
seams.

nobody really posts here anymore? i'm posting anyway, i liked this site a lot when it was alive.

bus ride, with sweater

if i wanted i would
skate on the ground in all
capital letters and        make
myself say the things i know i can say if i want to
but it's a matter of wanting to be that                      person who
can't take a left step without taking a right and
if i could i can i will
not be the toe i split on the bathtub rim
with the porcelain
a little brown from the old
or from my feet
it's hard to tell.
six inches twelve inches nine inches how far apart are the
tulips i don't know the names of flowers but i can shake
shake shake it shake it just like i can sit
on still, still it's something isn't it something isn't
everything
something i can be                                 that person who
knows the dictionary and knows the right
face but i will never be a rockstar baby, rockstar's baby,
the phone rings too loud,
i'll turn it down.

knitting

I've got a nickel
no a dollar
no a dime
no something else that says i'm listening
at the door, at the crack,
in the knobs for something important that i can't get.
when your fingers are the sweaty bits
and your eyelids are the dry ones,
in the matching plaids and numbers
we are dancing when the night comes,
and this isn't something else that trots around and dies
cold, on the ground.
we are
soundless and i make the loudest
quiet cries. they echo off the tile.
in the dark i can't run,
but i can't say
what i mean
if we're not allowed to lie. ethics or
morals or
something or
whatever. it is. that you say. when you want. what you want.
so what, manipulation is
an art form
and i'm the one two three, the statue, the plaque,
the nobel-something-or-
other.
it's not my interest.

i used to write in blue ink and now
now, now now i talk fast instead like there's
something else to be doing besides
recording recording recording
my own importance.

is this rich, is this done, if this is full enough
then
say so. i can't afford to spill or spell
something wrong,
and i've never been to such
a warm place
but i left at least
three quarters of my organs
there, all the same. and they're baking, baking, baking
in the sun, like cancer victims,
like little doomed
philosophies, sandy and done.

This is the first time I've visited in a very long time...How terribly depressing.
The below is in repsonse to the aching, empty feeling that I got after catching up. Keep writing. Never stop.

[I visited a place that I used to live.

All it is is a wasteland now.

Bodies litter the fields that we used to roam in

and blood pours down the sides of the box we kept it in.

There are still bits of juxtaposed beauty;

the colours have faded,

but have not been washed out completely.

Like Hiroshima or Auschwitz,

the survivors are gaunt,

in need of something I could never give them.

For your sake,
I'm sorry I missed it, loves.]