i love you guys, like a fucking lot. but you know that.

it pretty much sucks that you guys are so far away from me right now. 
i'm so tired of seeing this breaking-up,
getting back together breakingupgettingbackgettingbackbreakingup
i wish i was there to boss you guys around so i could save you from all this shit
you don't need to make these mistakes, i swear you're better off with some lessons unlearned
didn't we learn that at the end of the day, we're too bloody young- don't give me that "i'm 21 shit-"
"don't give me that i'm 19, i'm immature, it's my fault."
don't give me that, don't don't don't.
it's not your fault.
you're still young.
you're not immature.
just if i could only...
i'm no saviour, i can't help everyone, i know.
but fuck that relationship shit guys.

(boys are such a headache with their crushes and sweaty palms, especially when the girl is
nothing special at all whatsoever and way too short and yuckylooking & loud and complicated and justttt...)

anyways whatever join a nunnery i feel safer that way, with you guys there.
because it's big to you guys but oh so insignificant later (it's not enough for baggage i swear don't let it)
because the world is so much bigger than this? you know?
i'm here for you, and you know that. so keep calling at 4 am falling apart & i'll keep picking up.

i'm kind of lame, i guess.

the complexity of my inability to properly recuperate is often miscommunicated.
i'd like to say i'm falling all over myself in celebration, but i'm simply just another, run run (distilled).
it's just that, yesterday, i was five (it's oh so clear) and then i was eleven and thirteen and seventeen.
and yet i speak as though i have been affected by a cataclysm
or like i am thousands and thousands
 nineteen is just, like the most, a drop of youth. i'm unchanged. i'm hardly here, in minutes.
in the inevitable span, i'm less in infinite, a glitch in time.
maybe this year, as i say so every year, i'll wash my hands of misdemeanors.
i'll crash into cowardice, sans seatbelt & clenched fists.
i'll run a marathon.
i'll hover above the ground, because we know aging lends wing to feet.
i'll learn spanish.
i'll grow.
i'll stop my heart, right in its place, at the right moment. and i won't run.
(but we know, this won't, i won't, you won't, probably not.)
because nothing's all that different anyways except
i can buy porn

(no subject)

sye: "is he dancing with his shirt off?"
dee: "yeah..in the last seconds of the video"
sye: "but it's dark!!"

my quiet cousin is actually a perv

And maybe it was I who betrayed his majesty

I'm holding here a book; notable, but not the greatest, stolen for me by the latest in a long line of thieves-I kissed you on the street that night on the far side of four. But I didn't like the taste in my mouth or yours....-ANI DIFRANCO
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drawing blood for nameless gods

the pain, that day, was inevitable.
conversely, the smell of
 fresh grass on the back pockets of 
our jeans brought about
an unmistakable vivid tenacity for life, the kind that leaves your
shaking palms drawing blood for nameless gods.
i would then press my damp fingers over your eyelids, and tentatively
bite at each and every indicia of vertigo-
hungrily, not
 even as testament of our liaison, but as snow white, as eve.
in benevolent curiosity and abysmal indignation, in genuine,
 back-aching, cardiac exploding, nail biting candor and naïveté,
 i would let crucify, just for you.     i would cautiously desperately
 foolishly exultantly
acquiescently do what i can
 to elate, as to your appeal.
when i would wake, i would find
myself alone and arching, with greened knees
your fever
wrapped around me like a bouquet.


I want to form a trapezoid with our legs

and crush lemons and strawberries
between our toes-
lick off each film of blistering taste, until we turn to dust.
I want to see you in sepia, in slate, in pearl-
shuffling your steps towards pressed elation.
I want to corrupt and debase every tangled
misword against your temperate name.
Flush them down the sink,
along with the toothpaste and of course
your self-reproach.
In the high of your chafed scowlings,
I want to let you keep my sedulous adulation.

you know
We could be electric, rhythmic, elliptical.
If you let us.



Our metaphysical disturbance has led to a declination in our elegiac effigy
The lines of your jaw are no longer a distraction for these parted lips
I have no thirst to trace a lone finger along the lines of your hipbones, your cheekbones
The lines that once anchored me to you have detached themselves reflexively,
unhooking and
like days shifting forwards and backwards                        (unresponsive, really, like the lines through time)

I must admit, idea of lines bearing witness to a tangential but consequential vision is sultry.
Hard expressions aside, I like lines. The lines of an era,
the lines of the atlas you call your palm, your proverbial glare-
the lines of a square, the lines in prose and those that form linkages and lineages and history

I was drawn to this, with you.
But enough is enough and I’m no longer prepared to tango with Mephistopheles if he won’t let me lead.
I’m willing to remember that we all have the same lines under our skin-
I won’t forget it this time.

last chance left to dance

You had said, “place a finger through this
chasm and let each pound- thump thump thump- embed themselves into each
echelon of your inner self-” like you are important, like you’re someone, like
you are a fortune cookie or Gandhi or my neighbour’s dog- (I don’t even like dogs)
and now I’m frowning (in indifference)
because I can feel your heartbeat (much to my dismay)

and you are expecting me to simply dive back into you even though last
I recall I was submerged headfirst without a life jacket or adequate wading
skills and most importantly without so much as a glance in my direction from
you, the certified instructor, the avant-garde liberator, the affable, cordial
Back track to my unwavering mortal reflexes, the innate requisition for
I’d find my way back up.
It’s not even that you left a wound because I’m breathing aren’t I?
Poised, I surfaced, with my hands searching, attempting to grab onto nothing
and everything.
It’s that you left me there, flailing uselessly, naught in the
direction of aid, or even a smile.

(So here we are.)
A hole in your heart left by my gun and my
fist leads you back to where we stand and while I stare into your frighteningly
cerulean blue eyes and your matted flaxen hair (look at you with your palms
facing down and that shamefaced grin, you may surpass me in age but you’re no
more than a boy) I’m grateful for this calculated self-created deficit of
I won’t allow for more than what we’re here
for. (I won’t succumb, not again.)
There is an awkwardness in you I am
unaccustomed to.
It must be that I can see right into you,
and at any moments time-
reach out and-
Oh you’re defenseless and I haven’t got a
bandage made for that sort of perforation.
(Play dough would cover the draft but you’d
like that and I’m not here to amuse little boys.)
Let’s just keep this between us and move on.
I promise, at best, that when the hurricanes come, to stand in front of you so
you won’t have to feel the storm pulsating through you.

At least, for the first five minutes.


in a stretch of dependence, i let myself into you.
holding you, with your jubilant smile,
is immeasurable.
speaking in moderated tones, with gentle,
we fall asleep together.

despite your insistence on keeping me near
you do not drive me away.
your archaic virtue, the unworldliness
is undoubtably endearing

the soft of your back is spongy, delicate.
so malleable.

i can’t imagine
that i was once
we were all once you.

i am afraid of rolling over you in your sleep
the air in my lungs crushing both of us.
you are hardly a person just yet.
just enough to mollycoddle

when i try to roll away from you
to put you down
you cling to me, tiny hands clutching and pulling
at my hair
my skin

i realize then, what it is like– even if, for a transitory moment
what it is like to be truly needed.
in that moment, you, the most susceptible
needed me

stricken with this bit of humanity,
i awakened.

& sometimes we don't change.

I wanted to explain to you once, the differences that make the lines between us
but in my flustered state I must have inverted or subtracted or multiplied;
I made an entirely macabre mess. I was never good at mathematics.

In allegories I speak my truths, skimming around it with my spoon,
lapping up the ends and licking to every last bit of everything but the middle.
I’d never get right to the point. I’d never let you in. Never fully.
I gave it a chance, just a little, with you.

I let you in through the backdoor before I let you know my surface cover.
(Imagine seeing the skull before the face. )

I let the spoon graze the middle. I’d have to agree that the hereafter is this,
tastes in all the weather—the middle is fresh but never the first bite.
It’s always backwards, everything, here, under this skin.
I should have never tried math.
I should have never ate from the middle.
I’ve made yet




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  an unseen love affair.  you might know how it begins. you'll never guess how this one ends.
  is this what you wanted? this is what you get. (desperately)

- - - -

mediocre ramblings are my stable diet.  this cold weather is making me nauseous. i'm dying for balenciaga's new boot stilettos. i could never walk in them, or well, afford them. as consequence of the ever so quaint constant wakings per hour, i'm  crestfallen & absent under the eyes. i walked into my past the other day, the collision was minor but left me transparent, and slightly off balance. i'd like to say you always brought about a poetry in me but i'm simply caught up in your intensity. your name these days seems to be coming up as more than an ever so eloquent slip of the lips. with a one love rendevous
, the fawn is often to the slaughter. i can often be seen digging my feet into the ground. someone buy me some ben & jerry's. cookie dough ice cream is the cure for dementia. there's a drought in my mouth, right now. i would ask for rain, but my pass card says that i still have to buy four more until i have a free go. sorry. i am (in) regret.

old emails to the gang about adventures @ work/as requested

My favourite old lady is this 76 year old woman who called me one day on the phone wanting to cancel her appointment. Let's call her, Annie.

"I want to cancel my appointment today. I'm sick."

"Annie, if you're sick, that's why you see the doctor…anyways…" So I search through the entries and find out she does not have an appointment today. "You don't have an appointment today, Annie."

"Oh, okay."

We hang up.

Later during the day an old woman shows up. She's adorable for an old lady, she's got these extremely large eyes like a cartoon character. It's so funny because when she smiles, she's got like three teeth, and she looks soooo happy. So, I find out this is the woman I'd spoken to on the phone earlier, Annie.

"I'm here for my appointment," she says.

Okay. She's here for her canceled non-existent appointment.

I book her an appointment anyways because that's what you do for cute senile old ladies.

When she's waiting for her appointment, she comes up and asks me where the washroom is (even though she's been to this clinic like 100 times). I let her know, and she goes. She goes, and sits down. Five minutes later, she gets up and asks me where the washroom is. I tell her where it is, she uses it, sits back down. Ten minutes later, she gets up, and she asks me where the washroom is…I think you know where this is going.

About after the fifth time, I tell her, "Annie, you just asked me where it is, and used the washroom," as if she'd just done it once.

"Oh really?" She says. "Oh….I must be crazy." And she grins.

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