REPORT A PROBLEM
On the seventh floor, my eyes slide in and out of focus tiny lights throb and recede in soft, distorted comfort. This labyrinth of luminosity bends to the room.
Tiny stars in late October gleaming, appearing hazy, though ignored by feet pushing the asphalt black as tar, holding light above us still.
I’m waiting, in the warm, ruby glow of the windows, shadows spinning my blind corners to elevations around the room. The ceiling stopping escalating, fuzzy perception, ending at the door. Scattered foreign light glides in shapes across the rug, drops me into further darkness in and out again.
While watching rain streak the window he wants to appreciate my form; beads travel without sound over an old glass frame while their shadows push at hands that travel over my idle abdomen.
But my attention is behind the desk. A shiny purple mass of material Carelessly tossed and sagging against the closet door, waits for me and my sore feet that shred on a tattered, colorless rug hooking the skin and tearing at my heel; more worthless pain from rejection.
My sweet boy will touch the center of the moon with dripping fingers and a sleepy grin, exhaust me.
Nightmares of musical instruments
mainly flutes, ruined a tender youth-sleep.
Fingers and toes spiral through space
an endless wrapping of sheets
covering the glossy opal shape in the sky.
the screen blares static above the noises of the street.
Musing, needling at the essence of nudity
I can see warm colors replace the greener,
formative memories in his eyes
as we stare out over natural transformations,
and fiery masses sloping into the emerald chill of early
Over coffee and a ginger sky,
cracked, split amber mist
falls over oak wood benches,
swathed in dusk beading the grass.
Yesterday we were walking around town, and I came across a chair set out on the curb for trash. I immediately sat down and fell in love with it. Steve carried it all the way from Market to Sharpless for me. I’m already in love with him. We disinfected it thoroughly before either of us sat in it again. I am sitting in it right now. It is made of chocolate-brown bamboo, and is weathered bare of color in some places. The cushions are yellow paisley and smell awful. There are little brass star-flowers on the corners of the arm-rests.
Micheal bolton sings opera now
B: What is that thing? (the chair)
R: I found it in the trash.
B: It smells.
R: Yeah I tried to make is not do that…hey guess what steve said the other day?
R: I was saying how much I hate my green tea perfume…
R: He said it he didn’t like it either. And that is smells like bug spray…so I threw it out.
B: Really? What does that have to do with the chair?
R: Well…that’s why the chair still smells.
R: What fuck are we listening to?
Naked from the waste up
In brown corduroys,
Rotate around stiff nipples;
He talks to me in german and it turns me on.
i’m Norwegian again and limp to the taste
not ashamed, but swimming in the fog
of a shower in December’s bitter raw adjustment.
Black strings that tie around my neck
and bring us closer,
like a shockingly cold afternoon
waiting on coffee with the captain,
drinking lacy rum swirling in cream
arguing about Gandhi, the severity of nonviolence
and the importance of the lime green velvet couch
we were sitting on.
I’ve never had better.
Moving through a morning
less impatient than she was
for a change.
Spilt coffee on soft, nubby fibers
mindlessly rubbing the now stiff patch
daydreaming of days before this one.
Sliding through grass,
avoiding opaque, verdant shards
sun exposing the jagged, glossy glitter
of broken beer bottles.
Skinny girls in thin, cotton skirts
legs pale and untouched,
pure and fresh like dogwood petals
all around us enjoying beauty,
pushing it further into the ground.
she can still feel the evidence
of their entanglement.
Soft pink skin,
stretched like leather
lust draining out,
leaving a wet, sticky stain.
Smooth is her motion.
Drifting like a dream
in my arms,
we fade into each other
and watch the sunsets sleep in her eyes.
In the evening:
she lies belly-down on the blue rug,
twisting her face at yellow-lined paper
and endless, fluid black text pages,
skimming wax from the sides of
a glass jar; it smells like orange tea.
Space and time fascinate me:
cosmic paths that stretch over
days and shine like we were lively.
From bare-assed to shriveled kin,
sparking a wick and admiring blood flow
hands weigh softly on woolly shoulders,
bend and give.
Down the hall,
a meek, gentle soul
watches me like I was the devil
in a red sweater and rubber thongs.
Perhaps I am.
Wandering uneven, red brick walkways
at 4pm roots poking out and tripping us up
glancing under tangled feet;
A small, grey mass of fluff
blowing in the wind, violating the smooth
obsidian glow of the road at night,
attached to the wasted softness of a body
presently gnarled and stiff.
A new absence of twitching tail
between trees now picked at by the wind
rolling up the street.
I was shocked but did nothing.
The other night I took 2 Ritalin tablets and ate and entire box of jujyfruits in 20 minutes. I’m not just talking about your basic 50 cent deal either….try movie size. Frosty green botanicals burn up my glassware. 5 out of 7 days a week I like to drown my morning coffee in rum. Lately I realize how much of a fucking whore I am to the voices in my head. I just don’t think I can complete the task at hand without a little chemical stimulation. It’s sick. It’s lame. I’m lame. I’m just your usual Monday burnout bitch.
Breathing down the street
in the rain,
looking in on wax glowing
and dripping under glass,
wandering towards the car.
It smells like snow.
Still confused about what happened;
little green stars
might have fallen from the sky that night.
scalding the hairs on my arms
wild around the concrete
and then dark.
Weather dueling machinery,
slate versus metal,
wood fire somewhere
these events seems less important
under the moon.
Something warm dripping
from her ear under glass…
Don’t make this more than it is.
A wasted afternoon
always pushed and judged by others under glass.
So I'm home again. It's getting harder and harder to exist between these two worlds I live in. I'm basically a stranger in my own house when I'm here and it's just a temporary living situation when I'm there. Lately I've been thinking about permanently moving there, but there are people I still love that live here. I never asked to be a fucking nomad. I never intended to offend anyone. I didn't mean to break the coffee maker here, I don't even own my own coffee maker…among other things. Ugh...only three weeks away from making the switch again.
Tonight I tried really hard to understand...I really did. The whole emo scene confuses me. Scenes themselves confuse me. The kids at the show reminded me of the whole faded punk-mallrat thing that I witnessed in high school. They all looked exactly alike. Skinny and tragic; completely non-threatening. There was actually a mosh-pit full of these geeky emo-boys with thick-rimmed glasses and black hair, throwing themselves into my shoulder blades all night. It really hurt. Like eric said, upstairs by the bar is the “dad’s section” and the action is down by the stage. I really wished I was upstairs.
While a couple up the street
grows marijuana in their closet
and dreams the collective outcome
under candlelit dinners
in an ugly corner kitchen;
on the sixth floor,
she pauses by the doorway
humming in an attempt to hold herself still.
A new long, calm frame leans,
waits for his feet approaching the stairwell.
She once told me about the olive trees
blooming in new orleans deep inside spring.
I seek to replicate the scent
with fennel and alcohol,
passing time with wet tea oil
between my thighs,
sighing within the mess I’ve made
folding my back against your chest.
The other night,
we played pool alone
in a bar as usual,
these men who must have been pushing thirty
came over and tried their luck,
at wooing the only two
single ladies in the place.
Would any of you ladies like to be my girlfriend?
He should have said instead of giving
pool tips to the goddesses.
Yeah so he and his buddy
“left the establishment,”
another poor guy trying too hard
should have said they were
“leaving the hole.”
Sarah’s curlies are consuming like
how I control movement around the room.
Loose or stoic but staggering as hell.
Two strokes of pink mica
drawn together over headlights
on highways at 8pm.
Winter white in wool,
waiting in a bitter hollow space;
liquor bubbles and slides in a bottle,
lost in the mess of clothes,
knapsacks and blankets in the backseat.
I’ve been more beautiful other days,
face glistening in the windows..
better turn the heat back down.
Though not exactly that old
I still feel like a girl,
passing exits lit by dulled floods,
counting larger green signs
and the minutes left in these hours
directed towards the time my body
will spend under yours later
Some of the things I see
when heading home
on a tuesday past her wide Alaska moon,
weights in her hands again and ready to
oscillate over the bridge on tiny wheels.
Bee’s wings and snow are what those skins are made of.
From across the floor,
a man is swallowing a goldfish;
I’m not impressed.
Our eyes locked when he gulped down
wet paper-thin flippers,
and I frowned and wrinkled my nose in disgust.
I wonder what the goldfish was thinking
halfway down his trachea.
There’s love in me
but I wished he would have choked on it.
Yesterday I was listening to mother,
but channeling motions while eating a pear.
It was red and cool and mushy,
like the way that you kiss me
on chilly, wet back roads
of the town at night.
So I was thinking…
maybe we could go to Alaska someday
and do it in the snow.
I want to touch everything I see
and make imprints with my hands.
Warm impressions in the glow of fresh fruit,
my palms on the curve of your lower back,
toes in a rich man’s Persian rugs.
Nature sex and finely spun textiles …mmmmm.
While talking to the bass player
about the bones in her wrists,
tough, peeling skin at her fingertips.
Another taste of addiction.
Scarlet floors dotted with radiance,
reflected by traffic lights in the windows
peaking like we were in a rather late hour,
through the smoky, dark mahogany
of the bar.
Balsam swung low over nappy-haired
kids, bums, balding businessmen
swept together for an evening of killer jams.
Liquid-lime tongues are great for kissing,
fog heading up-rail again,
weathered scrawlings glitter through
blue enamel doors…
and grabbing our coats
fell out onto the street…laughing.
Tonight should sound like crickets.
Instead we have terribly distracting music
or firewood cracking northwest from here.
Boiling water and orange liquid
overtake what last nerves exist this evening;
those with more patience might objectify
I’m spitting blood into my acoustic again
it might clarify sound this time.
Resurrected vintage for effect,
and for fucking,
might have been more effective.
Two fingers trip and fumble
over a small golden pot,
remove what they need to get going.
Chocolate-grape flavored anything
can’t be good for anyone.
Wearing through along the river,
ice lifted from it’s waters
ruined our walk and knocked out our immunity,
incredibly sick tonight.
There has to be something else to do
other than eating apricots and cookies
and spinning pennies on the desktop.
Saw some old friends tonight
didn’t think too much of what they are
or miss how we used to click like spirits.
Loose and free in the past,
heading back to that in the future
or maybe just die while I’m ahead.
Iron fire escapes
and long, long red-brown hair
in a six-year old photograph
haunts me lately.
That lively, little smirk
that I wore like a medal;
Where did it go?
Sophia’s phlegm is the color of soy,
and my mouth aches together with
purple skin breaking
over worried eyelids.
Pulling paper over mirrors,
obstructing faded wallpaper
and giving me a reason to stay awake.
Nudging at porcelain mugs
under strains of muted jazz standards,
someone drops another command on my
already aching forehead.
Something other than reminiscent this afternoon
This day ends as most do;
we stumble to the bar in early morning
the dried flavor of moldy lemons
in flat soda and stale alcohol,
a crude venom that clouds the revelation
of tomorrow‘s already set schedule.
Things I like:
Taking a shower in bare feet
Fixing myself a strong drink in between classes
Mocking the business monsters
Loosing my head in a turtleneck
Watching steve walk around nekkid
Drinking hot tea in front of my little windows
Touching things I’m not supposed to
Things I dislike:
Rich people who think they own me
Being taken advantage of
Poor ventilation and extremely hot air
When someone says “no”
Driving home with a hangover
Suits and ties on men
That sound your eyelids make when you rub them
Guess I needed to make a list.
Shouldn't you be alone for Christmas?
This question hangs over his head.
Next time you express concern
over the grind of your coffee old man,
it’ll be Turkish so you shit for days.
Returning home after driving for hours
around town and playing rachel-claus;
I see my sister cleaned up again,
and as usual I’m getting another beer.
Staring through the brown bottle at
the same stupid holiday movie
that’s been on for years.
Every year it just gets worse
and I sit around waiting for it to all end
waiting for sleep,
so the morning will make everything normal.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I want to live in a place that I understand. Inflation and commercial style lead me to believe that I belong here. I thought I did. This summer I wanted to drive out to California like I’ve always wanted to, but that’s not going to solve anything. Extracting my soul is not the answer right now. Especially when I’ve felt closer to myself than I have in years.
I’m trying to say that I want to move to Thailand or Korea….teach kids my bastard language and live in a hut.
You should have stayed the night.
Days apart and weak from the heart,
We made-out in unisex dressing rooms;
Muscles shaking and throbbing,
hushed by the sounds of preteen girls and
middle-aged mothers shopping with their sons.
Later we hid under wooden bridges,
moving like shadows over the canal
frightening the ducks
with clouds of hot breath,
against cold, black air.
And you wanted to sing to me
in a warm café off the street.
Faded strings of lights haunted our meal,
as I dreamed you onto white sands
outside of Bangkok,
tugging at my wrap and grinning down shore.
Cheating the clock again this morning,
should be on the road
arriving at the game.
Hmmmm….sitting in the backyard
wrapped in a huge sweater coat
burning down perfectly rolled j,
or ass-flat on a cold wood floor
at 11am listening to thirty kids
throwing basketballs without coffee in sight.
Rolling over and over in blankets designing
rolling out to the kitchen
snap on the sweet new coffee pot with
the digital timer,
slouch in wicker with a newspaper,
And completely rounded silence.
Victorian period movies are awful
on any level,
but today I’ll watch just this once.
Stress is equal to open sores
and taking elevators.
I wish we were sitting closer together,
so that I could make you understand.
Jam your big ugly feet into my tiny shoes
sink into my three-legged chair,
and sit there everyday for 21 years
hoping for it to never tip over.
I want a fucking dog
something to love me until it dies,
or I do
whichever comes first.
It’s okay to love your pets,
I know I didn’t write that one.
You get what I mean.
Nightmares repeat here most nights;
turning another time.
Getting drunk and listening to loud music
hanging over the edge of the stairs,
giggling and starting something
with my eyes.
I need no occasion to
lose my shoe in the pool,
ruffle the hairs on the back of his neck,
breath gently onto a glass of ice,
watch the steam and slip out of here
Same damn thing every summer,
swim in the dark
drive like assholes in busy traffic,
smoke weed in the dry woods.
My life could have been in those with
less reckless hands.
There’s still time for an amendment, it’s only
So I quit my job today. I can’t believe that I’m not more upset. I’m not upset at all actually. It’s pretty damn cool. One should be allowed to quit one’s job everyday because it feels very nice to assume absent responsibility. But then all you have and all you are…is one. I’m not saying I quit in order to be alone, or to make everyone hate me, I just quit. I identified my discomfort as “work” and abandoned it. Discomfort comes from people taking advantage of your sweet persona and laid back exterior. So GET FUCKED to you, Yardley.
Gluttony is greatness.
Spending hours without you
and maybe two more,
trying to find you
in your own backwoods hill
made my frustrations fade at the door.
It could have snowed
for all the quiet we had,
making our own reverberations
with wine glasses
stumbling up the stairs with the bottle,
hushed only in the passage
of a twitching wooden cat.
I know how he loves to feel me
he knows how I love to let him;
annual revelry only seems fitting
in the mess we made.
Baby I am soooooooo sorry that I backed into your tree.
The Tip Jar