covered in pine needles, its tricky today
the sky is ripe and heavy
it aches to let go
and the earth wants for nothing but mist
the hot chocolate of each building is getting stale
the smoldering is not quite a smolder today
but more of a drum, drum

there is still time, come on
we are a falling ash and right before we burn out
right before we hit the sun, eyes will blaze
and the rockets will breach the orbit

you have shifted my gravitational pull, strange one
you have lifted my veil, my blindness recedes
only to lie thick on the floor, but i am calling every inch of gratitude
will you look my way again

excrement

i am going to call this different, because it should be. it should be something that i can touch, but it wont be. i have decided that I am the only person in the world. i have listened to the calls from the hills, and my language skills wont quite cut it these days.
i will pray, for the lost, and the soon to be lost. O, holy. so holy to be found.
the screaming isn't the last of it, and i can't help but find myself afraid of the ticking of blue things and the decisions that facebook takes. the commitment that it is to have a facebook account, and one of these days when i write out facebook it will come up in the spell check, because that just seems to be the way of the world these days.

i dont like to edit my work. my typo said 'i dont like to edit my word'. i liked that better, so i added it just now. its not so much that i demand perfection, but i demand the grass on my skin, and the woods and the lakes and rivers. i would eat one thousand mosquitos to taste their skin. too small one at a time. a meal of collected blood and life.

there was a man i knew, who told me the story of mosquito. a giant who ate man and woman a like. i dont want to retell the story. that is not my place.

it is interesting to me that in spite of everyything the crab apple tree takes in its breath and it lets out its breath and i could only learn to do that. i spent the day at the bus stop, trying to convince myself that leaving wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. and i am a runner, and my feet are tired of germany and the last 12 years and the problem never seems to go away but maybe if i just back it into the river i can sneak past the tigers and the yellow hair and the yellow this and that because yellow has been a huge part of my life, but i don't like to think so, because yellow broke my heart and i haven't been able to touch green since.

earlier i received a strange phone call from a man who had his shit figured out. the only reason that the my doorway is blocked is because the times to recieve phones calls from help has passed and now i am shitting the world out, and it surfaces like a whale, only so much larger, because i am atlas or so id like to believe.

he stretches his hands, and then he touches his balls and licks his fingers. he does not see that i see, and i will pretend that i didn't, so he doesn't feel uncomfortable. harriet the spy was always just a little girl, and it was slightly heartbreaking to see her nanny get fired. i read the book once but nothing stands out to me more than a girl covered in paint and tears. i wanted to hold her hand and tell her that she will be fine. O, harriet, i too was covered in pain, but i did not wash myself of it. i let it sit and thicken over the years and i let the dust and air mix with it, and now i have several different colors reflected in my skin like a soft game. the game was over, and i never completed my assignment. which was to reflect on the meaning of life, but i said 'hey honey, im livin it. i wont know till its over' and i liked that answer and i was pleased with myself for giving that answer and so i thought to myself that maybe just this once i would be able to take my shirt off and stand in front of the mirror with a smile on my face and then maybe it would be ok to have a date or two or three, or maybe the girls in the dressing room wouldn't actually snicker at me and then i would wake up and it would be a whole new day.

maybe this is a book. maybe i am writing to the editor of the nearest publications and then maybe i wont ever sell a word, but i think that i am not afraid. i am not afraid. and i will say it everyday until it isn't true. but then when it is true i will find the biggest stick and beat the shit out of everything isee. i hope there will be breakable important things surrounding me. i hope that when i snap i will take the wind and ride it until i reach asia.

asia, where i have never been. i hear that its ok to beyellow. oh yellow. oh yellow. i have missed you so and still i cannot get you out of my mind. and maybe this is a tribute to you, you who lives within me like a candle and its your flame that burns me and warms me and tickles my throat and i want to touch you on the outside or bring you to the surface, but if i say that does it count? do we count??? because i miss my friend alexandria because it was her who might have saved me but i wont admit that except for right now, when i am being most honest but will most likely regret it later, but i regret everything and nothing so it doesn't even matter and now i am thinking that maybe i should just put that whole thing in ( ) but now that ive said that i dont think i need to.

i am wearing all black today, and i am taking my objective eye out and putting it in the spirit that floats like a boat, only much thicker and achier and i wonder if i will lose that one girl who i thought i liked so much, but is turning out to be a sad story. maybe i will let go of all of this, and write myself to death, because i think that is a very reasonable possibility. and now i am ready to SCREAM IT LONG. maybe i am just crazy. but its mine, so i can say it as often as i want. and people who are insane actually live in society all the time and get away with it, so maybe for now i will get away with my unnamed and untouched disorder which i find to actually be of the HIGHEST order, and maybe i will sing the rest of this.

the chances that i will ever feel the break are slim. when i was young i thought life was a basket of fruit, until my heart was broken of what i cannot say. there is that pull. come on now. there was always that pull and then i found it and i let it take me and now i am the slave of the blue and the blue and the blue who never seems to take my hand but always seems to touch my hand and i think that maybe i am just a little girl in the body of a one hundred year old mountain lion and then there was the lion who i actually knew, and the one who never let me know him. he was a coward, and the other lion, the girl lion, that wasn't me, was so sweet and true and afraid and i pushed her out the door twice and she hasn't asked to come back inside yet.
but i am not worried.

i might be the end of the world. i could be the incarnate of the truest evil and not even know. it happens all the time that way. the road to hell is paved with good intentions.i have given myself the last dose of crying games and the last night of rotten raindeer and i am so sick of spell check because i dont really care about how a word is spelled, until the ape man took to writing and stole the wind from under me and probably hurt me more than i can admit to myself. and then the sorrow that i feel for mistreating that wounded thing who only pretends to be wounded. i wonder how her heart feels and if she knows the truth behind her name. she is a fawn. she is the fawn in my novel. and the boy who smells like a fish but hunts like ashark and i think that he is more devious than even i could have thought and i respect him for that because people that i can figure out bore me and then i dont want to be near them because i think that i am better than so many people, when im not. im not at all. im just a girl in a horses body and the cast of characters is as follows of not not limited to

the wolf
the fawn
the fish
the scorpion
the lamb
the crab
the blue
sweet yellow
the mouse
and the brown mouse

i could write a love story to the brown mouse.

its funny how you expect it

through the songs that were sung under the trees
and falling leaves
and something beautiful
ive been waiting for this
this tiny moment.
and it has not disappointed.

i keep telling people that despite the way i feel, there is no meaning behind the mask
and the longing, the longing, the longing, how i have longed for that
that idea which the palm tree will not register. the oriental rug is starting to tear
i am asking all the wrong questions
and with such hope
such reserve
'i would die for you'

last night

last night was the time when my head was full of dreams that might have in truth been real.
the dream was a warm whistle and it enslaved me, and it enslaved me and it reminded me of a soggy sock and a sticky rag, but i didn't think that that was the end, because usually in dreams i am falling at the end, and i am falling into my body and it tastes like cherries, which is strange because i haven't eaten a cherry since i was ten, and life was sweet, like a cherry or a blood spot.

in the morning, i think to myself, that i will ride a bike across the lawn, and then maybe i will be able to sing along with the words that never really registered to me, but the melody was nice and so i loved every minute of it. it was like a heart attack, i would later think, in the morning that had not come yet. it was like a blue lagoon where i spotted the blonde top of a woman who never trusted me, of a woman who appears in the background of every one of my thoughts. but sometimes i mistake her for a dream that i never had, and so instead of living like a rotten egg, i sit up and let my pounding heart stare at the wall until it can catch its breath, and i can catch my breath and we can all see the end of the story coming, only its less strategic than you would think.

the you is metaphorical, this in turn leads to the horrible night when no one ever showed up and i was in that pink party dress and i waved my hands and i let the yellow light drink me up like i was the nile, and the skin was the nile, and the impressions that we all left on each other were the ones that would matter, and this is why the night was stinking of sex and sin and oily bodies that never seemed to stop seizing, and i was like a hurricane but my name is not new orleans of frank or anything stupid like that, and i killed more people than the surrounding wars, and then i kicked my way into a prison and let all the prisoners go, where im sure they would still be if it weren't for the narrow arrows that shot us all down from some kind of cliff or ledge.

i did not see the shooter, i did not see the the whip us into the sky, or the motorboat whir its wheels and i am so bored of this tangent that i am awaken with a shout and a hug and i missed the exit and i lied ota girl who was actually really nice to me even though she pretended that we were in love when we first met, but i never thought that it was ok, because i dont believe in love at first sight. except for that one time when everything was still and it wasn't even really like a first sight but a first smell, or taste of a first world rocking and then the night ended and all i had was in my mouth was a nervous laugh and a cotton candy piece of tar gum.

this morning

this morning I slept with my eyes open
the cradle rocked, but nothing happened and it seemed to me that the way everything was floating was probably something needless and long.
in fact, everything is needless and long and even though we are touching at the hips i do not want to touch any further
you are a dusty barn
i am the cattle who ran off the with spoon
much to my chagrin the owl pellets only contained birds eyes
i didn't know that owls were cannibalistic, i didn't know that the bats could fly during the day
but i read it in a book somewhere, a fictional book, but it could be true
because i like to believe things like that, because i like to think that there is something out there
something like a tap dance or a real dance or a barn yard dance because we are the melting particles of a life cycle that i don't want to end.

the end is like a nutshell, and i have throw the seeds to the wind like a robin who tweets, who tweets, who sends mobile tweets to mobile senior citizens and then i realize that i have to sign up for a bank, i have to sign up for a bank because currently all of my money is hidden under the glass elephant that sits in my corner, that sits like a small paper plate. but much larger. but but grander. because he is an elephant and because i am a falling leaf.

i was encouraged to steal words, to hide them in my lungs. and so i do, i have a connection to the real world that tastes like gravy, and im not sure that i like it, but im not sure that i have a choice. so instead i sit in my room and listen to a blonde boy ask for danishes that will never taste as good as they did when i visited oxford.

where the streets were paved wwith gold and under the blue sky sat lyra and her friends and then i remember that she is fictional too, and so am i, and so is this headache and so is the room where im sitting with the emptiness of conversation and the blue dust that is actually yellow and actually orange and actually lodged in my nasal cavity.

the emptiness touches my back, and i promised that i would never drink another gatorade again because i hear that they have weird chemicals in them, and i like to be the purest thing. the most pure thing. the only thing that i could never be, because under the secret elephant that lives in my room is a black bird, only this black bird is real, and is the only real thing i have ever seen, and so i keep it under the fake elephant and it sits and squawk but it is a muffled squawk because i can't let it go, because if i did i would mush it to pieces and eat its feathers and then it would be gone and i would have no one to sing me to sleep.