<input ... ></input><input ... >so.
I'm going to attempt that writing-a-little-bit-every-day thing again, and see if it gets me out of the haze I've been living in for the last two months. I'm incredibly frustrated with myself, lately, and it's exhausting, and I need to get over it. anyway.
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she smiles
(a little too widely)
and takes your hand between hers

holds on tightly to the 'I' she's built
calm and strong and level-headed
while the waves crash and the sea-foam gathers around her
tryin' to catch her breath
before the dam breaks.
to make the best of the mess she's made of it all.


I was writing for an 'about me' thing on some profile somewhere.
that's how I was feeling last night, I guess.
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updations cont. cont.

more poetry. I keep finding it everywhere. :/



I ache.

I'm choking on my words, and god, I ache.

I feel like I'm melting
like I'm on fire.
much more of this and thank god, I'll be gone forever.
(so I guess you can keep it coming.)

I don't know how one can be so empty
and so full
of love and hate and things that tear at each other
hope and despair.
it'll be okay.

it'll be okay.

six months of experience.
in the last six months I've experienced life
and I have experienced death
laughed and cried and broken glass and broken hearts
I have chased you down dark streets and empty alleyways
but I have not served drinks or bussed tables.

I am overqualified for this life
and underqualified for the next
(because I have never found you).

take me out of it
I cry and scream
and shake my fist at the sky in a fit of ineffectuality
and fall back on my pen, because there is fulfillment, somehow,
in ink and rough paper, where there is not fulfillment, somehow,
in life and rough dreams.

give me a sign and I'll hold it up for others to follow --
I don't grasp things well, myself.
let me be
let me be
but let me be elsewhere.
here is so smothering, and all I want is to breathe.


okay, I think that's it for tonight.


'kay, so. this is a dream. I've been attempting to commit it to writing for the last.... three or so months. thus far this is as far as I've gotten. I haven't proof read any of it so guaranteed it's wonky. haha. but anyway.


she is walking.

there are a million lights, in a myriad of colors, so many that it's hard to tell whether they're reflecting off the structures that surround her and multiplying in the air, or whether they are a part of the structures or the plants growing around them, or whether they are a part of her.

the structures are buildings, communal places, or iridescent pinks and blues and purples and greens -- everything glows, refracts. it's hard to look at one thing for too long, because nothing remains the same.

she's walking with people. it's hard to tell how many, because she is so distracted by the almost intolerable beauty of the landscape. "this is paradise," she thinks, disrupted for a moment as someone brushes against her arm.

she looks up, and is mesmerized by the apparition floating above them. It is a temple -- it has to be a temple. no structure that stately can exist and not be a temple, not be holy. it glows of it's own light, which flows across its surface as light flows across the surface of the water when seen from beneath the waves, ripples of light.

suddenly they are in the temple. she can feel the light, as though it is a part of her, and she is a part of it, and therefore a part of the temple. she is aware of the people around her, but only as she is aware of her arm, or her tongue. they are simply a part of her, ans she a part of them.

there is a man, however, who stands separate, apart, a whole entity. his isolation breaks the unity. he is a wedge between she and the temple, she and the others. perhaps he is a wedge for them as well, but she doesn't know, because she is no longer them.

she is separate from the temple, and though she understood it moments before, now she does not understand, does not commune.

"why are we here?"

the man, his name is sal, salvatore, something like that (how does she know, how?), looks at her questioningly. "existentially, or....?"

"no, no, why are we here? in this temple, instead of on the ground?"

"why be on the ground when we could be here?"


she is no longer in the temple, but it hovers on the edge of her thoughts. she feels as though she is forgetting herself. she is missing something that she must find.


she stands in front of the doors (there are three of them, in a row on a wall. the wall is white, lined with silver), simply standing for a moment in simple silence, admiring the lines of silver, the contrast of the alabaster, the curver of the wall, then she moves forward and slides the second door open just enough to slide through, then slides it shut again. the nearly transparent walls (which are opaque from the outside) let in the brilliant sunlight, which reflects off the silver sculpture that litters the floor, and the silver backing of the single chair in one corner of the small room. it is a quiet place. a place for meditation.

a place for waiting.

so she waits. she sits on the edge of the chair and ponders the silver figure on the floor, and watches as the shadows cast by the silver working on the door and the walls dance slowly across the floor.


he does not knock, only stands for a second, framed in the tracing -- classic greek figure, toned, patient. she knows him, or feels somehow like she knows him. he is familiar in the same way that jesus would be familiar, if you saw him on the street.

she closes her eyes as he slides the door open and steps inside, sinks deeper into herself and her convictions. breathes, and breathes, and breathes.


two men stood at the top of the steps, surrounded by a retinue of nobodys, men holding books and swords and standards, acting as little more than a nice frame for the stately figures. they were tall, and the token greek/roman stateliness and form was echoed in their movements and their manners. the man on the left could not have been much more than a boy, not a man for long, youth was written so deeply in his countenance that she cannot imagine for a moment his growing old. his hair is a deep chestnut brown and curls gently around his face. his eyes are an unnatural silver and glint in the sun, and he holds a harp in the crook of his right arm. the man on the right has aged, but aged well. he does not smile... in fact, he may be the only sober individual on the podium. His pale grey hair is still full and lustrous.

he speaks to me again, this man who would be my jesus, of turning away, forsaking my faith, becoming one. 

we'll face the unforgivable with a smile on our faces, because it's not good going to death with a scream.  

condemnation with celebration

she turns to him, smiles and says "why be there, when I can be here?"



coalition of movement to fruition --
the end.
knots untied,
melted ice,
rivers pooling in a basin with nowhere left to flow,
the final cut.
glazed eyes
let the heart break.
mud dried in a desert;
blood dried on a bathroom floor.
the sun sets.
the last star burns out,
leaf falls,
cord breaks,
bones crumble to dust.
the last strains of Scheherazade fade into the wasteland
of a ruined life.
his face is a desert.
once-oasis of his eyes burns to dust,
wind of his lungs fades, passes through his lips in a final whisper.
joints creak
fingers clutch at nothing, grasp air.
fade to nothing,
fade to black
fade to white
fade to everything,
lost to whatever once was.
a page drifts on the wind,
a concerto.
a sonnet.
what are words
but an amalgamation of backward thought
scribbled on a page?
what is,
what is,
what is,
what are,
what was,
is nothing.
are nothing.
was everything,
once upon a time at the green beginning
of a world unhinged.


'kay, pile'o poetries from the last while. yep.


::love lost::

love lost -
tripping on spider webs
and late-scattered ashes
in a forest of frost-crusted dreams.

love lost -
flitting through once-loved haunts
and hallowed memories
in your land of lie-inverted pleas.


::ode to a broken heart::

"It's all right," you said,
reaching out to me as you spoke.
"it's a little dented, a little bruised,
and there isn't that much of it left.

But what's left is yours."

Your hands close over mine, gently but firmly. Commandingly.

"It's yours."

I don't want to speak as you turn to walk away. It's not that I don't have anything to say....
it's just that I'm afraid.
Desperately afraid of what I'm holding, afraid of the bruised and dented thing, beating softly in my hands.

I don't want it.

That's what I want to say.

What if I drop it? Grasp it too tightly and crush it?
I'd rather not.

But here it is, this bruised and dented thing, beating softly in my hands...

So I carry it home
careful not to trip
not to walk too quickly
not to touch anyone, anything
for fear of this bruised and dented thing.

I don't want to be your angel, your savior. You see....
I'm too weak to be your knight, too afraid to be your lover,
too cruel to be your friend.
But here I am, standing in this cluttered room, this bruised and dented thing beating softly in my hands

It's like I can't let it go.

Here I am, pushing this damn grocery cart one-handed through the narrow aisles,
gently cradling this bruised and dented thing the best that I can.
Here I am, shelving books -- I keep dropping them, because it's hard to shelve a book while
gently cradling this bruised, dented, and broken thing the best that I can.
Here I am, falling further and further behind...

... too afraid to run, too afraid to look away, too afraid to dance...

Here I am, sitting alone in this cluttered room, humming to myself a song that has all too much to do
with this gently fluttering, broken, bleeding, dented, bruised, beating thing....

The fear has burned me out.

I'm an empty shell
A mannequin.

And even though this empty part of me wants to keep it, I'll hand it back to you,
because in the process I've realized that somehow, without knowing it, I'd traded mine for yours.

It's funny.

I didn't want it, but somehow I paid to keep it.
And in return...
... well...
I guess we end up not so different after all.




deep into a sunset the grungy color of
old oil,
city-high lights rippling the surface,
trailing effervescent clouds of insect matter.
ah, at last.


the outskirts of a tiny
hick town somewhere in eastern montana.

the mosquitoes are ordinary.

but then, it's a solitary hick town
somewhere in eastern montana.


something about those dim orbs promises comfort
a place to rest your head for a night
or two
after a weary day behind the bug-splattered windshield
of a crumbling four-by-four.

only a bit to go, weary traveler.
here's a tiny hick town



in solitary eastern montana.



we are a string of broken thoughts
the skipping of some beat up vinyl record in a room with a shag carpet,
the loophole in your logic.
we are a lost generation,
searching for answers to life's questions in a handful of broken glass,
marveling at the blood-drop tears of knowledge trickling through our fingers and cascading into the snow.
a machine gun shatters the silence of a graveyard.
(if we know we cannot say it.)
we are the cacophony and the silence
of a world that is rusting at the seams,
the question and the answer.
we are nothing,
because everything is overrated,
and complicated,
and we are weak.
we are the dead living, walking, breathing,
full of a hunger insatiable for life everlasting
and perhaps just one day where we can all be happy,
and our wounds be healed.

awkward confrontations

"what are you writing about?" he asks, sliding smoothly into the booth next to her.

she closes the notebook.

"you're here every night. same booth." he picks up her pen and points it accusingly at her nose. "same pen."

she doesn't say anything because she's trying too damn hard to fade into the leather upholstery of the booth bench.

he sighs and drops her pen back on the table. "anyway, I should go. later."

she breathes and catches at him with her words before he's half way to his feet.

"it's about you."

she bites her lip before her tongue can betray her again and stares straight ahead into the cracked leather of the opposite bench.

he slides back into the booth


she nods. almost too vigorously.

"dare I ask... why?"

she steals a glance at his face, regrets it, and refocuses on the safety of the cracked leather bench.

"I write about art."



silence, don't let the silence take over.

"I'm pursuing an angle that isn't pursued enough."

"for what?"


"for why?"

"oh. my dissertation."

her hands fiddle with the edge of the notebook.

"anyone can write about a painting."

"some people do it better than others."

"anyone can write about a painting. anyone can write about a poem. I'm not a poet, nor really much of an artist.... but I know I'm looking at art when I see it."

the band is tuning up. time, as it does, has flown by far too fast.


for the first time there are no words pouring from her pen as he strides back toward the stage.

the spell's been broken.

little things

I'm just gonna go through this thing and post some poetry that might be slightly old, but we need a bit of updating. foshizz yo.


::little things::

waiting is the worst part
of your being gone.
but there are things,
little things,
that make it tolerable I guess.

little things -
like the memory of the sun shining in your hair
of your fingers drumming
[always drumming] some backward beat
on the table, on your thigh, on my thigh, on the steering wheel.

of your smile.

crazy little things.
distracting things.
little things that make it really not that tolerable, after all.
every smile you gave me echoed in the smile of a stranger
every damn song on the radio
[yeah, even the stupid ones]
every damn song means something
meant something.
little things that mean remembering is the worst part.
the worst part of your being gone.

remembering through the nights
remembering that once upon a time your side of the bed wasn't cold
once upon a time there wasn't quite enough hot water in the mornings
for both of us to take a shower before work
[so we'd have to share]
remembering the drum of your fingers.

remembering is the hardest part
now that the waiting is over.

remembering lost times
all of the little things
[sheets and countertops and showerheads]
all hold a part of you
part of a waiting that stretched into

a longing

that kept on stretching straight into lost.
so now I'm saving hot water in the mornings.
just out of habit.
imagining mock drum-beats on my kitchen table
materializing out the the grainy wood that holds one coffee cup less than it should.

There's a pair of shoes
your shoes
still sitting in the entry.

I guess you're the only one of us left with the luxury to forget.


Oh bugger, I've been neglecting this, again. 'Cause I do that.

Anyway. More stream of consciousness type stuff... spawned after spending three hours agonizing over T.S. Eliot poems and research paper topics. Warning for mild profanity... and maturish themes, I guess. My mind at three thirty in the morning!! Yeah. Exciting to the max.

Oh yeah, and ignore my capitalization skills. I just decided at some point that they weren't remotely worth it.


Ahh, panic.

Curled in your chest, you're walking down the street. Streets, as a rule, are straight. Not this street. Who heard of straight streets, anyway? Not in missoula. Straight streets are a dream, a vision, a phantasm from an imagination like that which birthed heaven... heaven has straight streets. But not missoula. Missoula is not heaven, no matter what anyone says. Look at its streets, and you'll know. God forbid you try to drive them. Especially without knowing where to go. If you try to drive the streets of missoula without at least a bit of foresight, or hindsight, or foreknowledge, or something, you'll quickly find yourself in hell. Missoula's streets were designed by a child eating spaghetti. By a man with a child eating spaghetti. Just the noodles..... those noodles fly over the edge of a high-chair, splat on the ground. By golly, I bet I could plan a city like that.... and you have missoula. digression is a bitch. anyway, you're walking down a street.

what the hell, no you're not. you're supposed to be writing a paper. that's what you're supposed to be doing. but your mind wanders. digression. digression is a bitch, doesn't listen. you can tell her to walk a straight line (her as in your thoughts... or wait. your thoughts should be a he, because that would fit the metaphore better). you tell HIM to walk a straight line but dammit, there's digression, the she, sauntering a bit over that way. and there he goes, because apparently digression wears a short skirt. what a bitch.

and you're still not writing your paper. it's about poetry. not about poetry, exactly. on poetry. how you can write a paper on anything has always been a bit beyond you. you don't write a paper on poetry... you write a paper on your table. that's logic. but it's a paper, so who the hell cares for logic, anyway? yeah, no one really. Poetry and the modernist woman. if the modernist woman had a name, it would be simpler. perhaps. the modernist woman -- sheila, catherine, diane, robin, nora, jenny, lavine -- should have a name. but she doesn't. thank God she's not lavine, because lavine is just a stupid name. if the modern woman is robin, the world's in for a ride. semi-literally. but you should probably lay off that allusion, because no one's read nightwood. there's really a good reason for that.

damn digression.

the modern woman. the modern woman is defined by what she is not. she is not the romantic woman. it's never any good to define someone by what they aren't, but it happens anyway. she's no good at golf. hell, if someone is actually good at golf it's probably because they have a complex. yeah. you said it. you who is I, because you is seriously difficult to write at three thirty in the morning. but who sleeps anyway? normal people. by normal I mean lame. and by lame I mean people with any sort of intelligence at all. and by people with any sort of intelligence at all, I mean anyone who isn't me. because I don't sleep. that's called progression, who is the sick sister of digression. they have the same last name, you see, although I'm fairly sure that one of them is a bastard while the other is a bitch. perhaps they're both bastards. since no one really pays attention to the fact that a girl can be a bastard child, too. who are their parents? no one knows, duh. they're bastards. the bastard and the bitch.

progression wears pants, because thoughts are supposed to go one way. digression is the one that tugs on her hand and drags her down the path to... hell. or someplace. to missoula, because hell, I miss that twisted place. like a fat kid misses cake on atkins. diets always sound like a drug. you're on it. like a drug. like the table your paper is supposed to be on. how the hell did I get back to your, anyway? I thought I dropped that. I did. that damn you just sneaks back in there.

holy hell, there she goes again.


digression is a woman.

but not a modern woman, because digression isn't.... stale.

If digression is a woman, what does that mean for me, as a woman?

but of course, personification never works out quite the way that you wanted it to. missoula's streets were never meant to be spaghetti. but of course that has absolutely nothing to do with personification, so I'll leave that trail and go back to where I was supposed to be. where that is, I can't ever remember, anylonger. I think I might have wandered too far.

panic. that's where this was going. papers cause panic. missoula's streets cause panic. missoula's streets practically ARE panic. that they are. I'm sure at least two or more of them SPELL panic, if you were to look down at missoula from the sky. I'm sure God finds that hillarious. not panic at the disco. or at frisco. at missoula. which doesn't rhyme, and totally screws the beauty that was supposed to be that sentence three ways from tuesday.

missoula is not a beautiful word. a beautiful town, with semi-beautful people. they're kind've dirty, but that's just because they're really, really in touch with nature in missoula. and the people who aren't really, really in touch with nature in missoula are really just pretending. they go home and lay in the dirt like the rest of us.

missoula isn't bad. or maybe it's that it's so bad it's good. you can folf in missoula. because apparently folf is a missoula word. you say folf anywhere else and people are like wtf are you talking about, you crazy montanan? yeah. you know it's late when you interject chatspeak into normal conversation. which this isn't, but there's not really that much difference, since this is mostly just a conversation with myself. a glimpse of me how most people probably never actually wanted to see me. my mind's formatted after the streets I grew up driving, I guess. spaghetti-streets. missoula streets. missoula grows on you.

or grows in you.

this kind of thing is what causes panic, really. swift topic change, but sometimes you can't type out all of the thoughts, because apparently thoughts move faster than light, or at least faster than my fingers, and some of those thoughts just aren't going to make it to the page. which is most likely for the good of us all. us all as in me. I'm not going to let that one progress, because my thoughts all stop with me. how handy.

digression is at the root of most panic. panic because you've spent three weeks reading books that weren't about your topic, listening to music that wasn't stravinsky, who it turns out you're not going to write about anyway so it doesn't really matter. how handy. watching movies that had nothing to do with anything, least of all the modernist woman. modernist woman or modern woman? why does it matter? because if the modernist woman is the modern woman, then I'm actually a post-modern woman, and that just sounds ridiculous. like most labels.

woman is a label. yes?

everything is labeled. psychology drives labelling. I'm not sure why, but it does. if you're a pessimist, you're more likely to be depressed and die sooner. that's what psychology does to you. it informs you that since you're this one type of person, you have an excess amount of problems, and therefore are more likely to lodge a bullet in your cranium at some point in your life. but really, why aren't optimists more depressed? there's so much more disappointment when you're eternally optimistic. because contrary to optimistic belief, you can't win a game of chess with a pawn and a king. 

General Retardedness

Why is  it that every time I feel genuinely like dying because I'm sick there are drunk people running around being loud? Seriously. What the hell do the night monitors do in this joint, anyway? 

Oh yeah. Nothing.

I should probably know that, since I don't really do anything when there are drunk people banging on things while I'm night monitoring, but seriously. These people are underage. And plenty stupid when they're not drunk. What the hell? Let's make ourselves even more retarded, because that sure sounds like a great idea. Yeah, great when you're falling down, smacking your fricking head on the wall drunk.

I'm so tired of drunk people.