doesn't she just look like a movie star?

Last night again--- my dreams are staying with me.

a river of people swimming frantically away --towards safety-towards the other shore-mud and tall reeds.
A bus and a Native American lover. Gut pulling fear and being held from behind. Big hands on my face that I might never feel blood warm again. Kissing and licking them and feeling his belly against my back. "don't you do this to me"
sharp want
sweat stinking trunks of cars
gunshots

My chair is blue and hard. I feel the tiny rivers in it's surface
and my arm is bruised
Inching all the way around the skin puckers and shines.
The hair folicles stand up and curl at the ends.


I slept in my car on the street.
I worked for poor jazz.
I haven't thought like this in a long time..
I had hoped I never would again.

Soft baking shoulders
bending into and under
currents of sweet breath.

You couldn't be lighter on your feet
with water curving aggressively around your calves
keeping us both half hoping.

The dance fumbles
thin as air
expanding inside my chest.

This motion is the pearl of the afternoon.

Slowly all feet murmur in the morning fog
and lights shine from the walls of locked buildings.


I don't need to control my mind to have a happy life...

I said what I meant
(not so eloquently like I had hoped)
and kissed her feet

"your love is boundless"

I was suprised by the letter but it fell right into place as if I'd already carved perfectly sized little holes for the words in my mind. Ready to hold them comfortably and let them rest.

another reason to keep.

What did I say to Woods?
Freedom, I think.
In as many aspects of the word as I can fathom.

I remember when you left.



I kept your hair in a box for years
and when I found it it was as soft and perfect as that dusty afternoon at the train station when you made the cut and pressed it hard into my palm. It's all bittersweet now. Time moves and builds our callouses so that these small sensations can't prickle us every time. These took years to construct.

I wrote, then, about all the voices yelling over the loud air and the huffing engine and of all the construction workers on their scaffolds watching us. I know well the sound of the gravel under my shoes when I walked back.
I don't know where I was going, though... each time seems like that. Bus stations, train stations, driveways.... watching you leave. You probably don't remember at all. You even forgot my body.