february.

lose 10 pounds
new tattoo
hold his hand
brighter hair

Remember paper?

too tired to write poems, take pictures, be creative at all.  i work and i sleep and i update facebook statuses.  i tweet.  i feel sorry for smoking so much, for swearing when there are children around.  too many carbs.  too much sugar.  i should buy pears and peaches and cut them into stars and squeeze lime juice over them.  i hope for tomorrow to be a snow day.  i need to write and edit and throw pieces away, and by throw them away i mean press delete and let them sit in my recycling bin for years and feel safe knowing they'll never really be gone.  remember paper?

Missing July.

1. iced tea with vodka, unsweetened in a mason jar.  make sure to take slow sips.
2. rummage sale typewriters with dried out ribbons.  when you change it you'll have black-ink fingertips.

Better.

he said 'things can't get any better'
but i mention fruit dipped in sugar
music through headphones
a kiss as the sun sets
a drop of vanilla in your coffee
things can always get better
love can always get better
pain, too

Free Wi-Fi

Saturday morning at 1 in the afternoon.  There are painted tabletops with Lady GaGa and animated eyes and poetry and I remember accidentally meeting the artist in his studio on a Sunday when I was wandering the Mill Studios without permission.  He was spray painting a tarp on the wall.
Kanye West is playing and I have a chai latte and a ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of chips and the book that Eric gave me called "Cowboys are My Weakness by Pam Houston.
The photographer I met at a party is here, or just leaving now.  He always drinks his coffee black and asks what I'm reading.  We chat about the things people chat about in the winter in New England.  My tires are awful and it's too cold.  "Did you know it's going to be 10 below 0 tomorrow night?"

Jealousy: An Image

 

A wonderfully talented blogger and film maker created this image using my poem Jealousy.

Check out Steve's Blog here.

Easy.

I am an easy person
to lie to
and I am a hard person
to stay around because I'm always drunk
on love and buying lillies and roses just because
it's Sunday.

I haven't been out of bed today.
He hasn't said a word.  Not even a lie.

Everyone is writing poems about blackbirds

The blackbirds are all dying and the fish too she said
I said yes but was thinking of how many people
must have used that in poems by now and
immediately began mapping my own
It's a sign that god is pissed off.  God isn't really a god,
it's just mother nature, and mother nature is pissed the fuck off she said
She said, I cry sometimes because there is nothing I can do.
Nothing.
Everything is all money and sex.  Money and sex are wonderful, I said.
She has grey hairs at the crown of her head and she's looking
right at me.
Too young.
I go home and put on my shortest shorts,
the black ones with the strings and
I think I finally like my legs because he likes my legs
He tells me all the time
and he grunts when he touches them
even when I haven't shaved them smooth and they only smell
like bar soap - nothing like purple-berry-blossom.
The blackbirds
with the tips of their wings painted
red and orange
laid out in rows in field in parts of the country
we have never visited (and now probably never will)
are beautiful, mosaic
crisp colored winged windows in churches
where god is God and
Mother Nature has to be
taken care of
controlled.  And money and sex and my black shorts with the strings
are controlled and boys can't touch themselves
for fear of being struck dumb
or blind
or down in the field with the
blackbirds