Sitting here reading friends pages and I am amazed how I can read two lines
of a poem and get turned off. Can't even read the whole thing. Guess, I am
overly critical...when I love a poem or someones writing you just know.

Love, love moscato and sex.

A fiction, imagination ( Read more... )

fur fell in front, the rustle
of leaves kept it still.
A torn coffee lid tall tell:
what was left on the road.
Last week, a cringing site.
Wish someone would take you,
blink a railway, gesture
a swirl of empathy.
Your eyes will stop staring,
allow guilt, a grief uncustomary.

A bottle of wine...whole
Blood fingers, yourself
fucking. I keep meaning
to write you a letter, but
I can't gather the courage
to call you, its been awhile
and I can't forget how to
write these words.

Things I cannot live without at the moment ...

... Roasted Seaweed snacks
... Baked kettle Salt and Vinegar chips
... Sugar Free Jolly Ranchers
... Presto moscato Dolce
... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AYC2FUutdKA
... The apartment beneath me being empty.
... Leave a comment

I have this false notion
that I need to buy a notebook,
carry it around with me and I'll go back to writing.
I don't have childhood journals anymore I lost them in
the flood in 2008. I always have the greatest ideas when
there is no paper around. I bought this tape recorder for
a school project its still unused I should carry it around too.

No offense but mildew sheets compromise my grief ( Read more... )

what it feels like to sit, think by myself and memorize
the lines submerged in water; their no longer prunes
but counting seconds until I breathe, fresh air.

Their beady eyes captivated me,
the cracks in the sidewalks
didn't listen to their stripes,
scurrying the cracks.
To wake- up, and walk-up,
onto the highway,
the orange poppies misplaced before.
I wish you would not have driven by
so fast, you missed the piece of grass
I saved for you.