write write write write write

ING
(not sure the german language even has such a thing as a gerund…?)

just wanted to
pick and poke
and not hold
after I said
wildly inappropriate
things to get
you wildly tumescent.

Raising the
eyebrows at me
as you
worked diligently
made me wild.
I didn’t mean to surprise you
with the news;
it just happened.
Furthering any
morning after
intensity has stalled—
and good thing because
I might have
undone me
and
resultantly undone you.
Discretion is the
key to
prevention.

I’ve cleaned up
that mess before
so I know to not
make one again.
If you can keep
emotions insofar
enough to like
touching my jutting
collarbone and
not whine when I
have to
up and leave you
then I’ll know
we can be alone together,
touching or not,
but at least
together.

I could write
a book
of simply
punctuation marks
all about
your pink ears,
(slightly fuzzed
when the light’s put
behind them)
the soft-skin
kind of ears
you can
see straight
through
when the light’s put
behind them.

And it hurts
one small me inside
to think
of your
yearning
alongside
for the other,
always the other.
As you’ve
supposed
perhaps we
are always alongside, chasing
in order to
make light
of how
terrible is
the
keeping.

And though
you hide your face
I can
see straight through
your cloven paw
to see the
slight slits
where eyeballs
are, should be, were
shining.
How breathtaking
and how so
poignant your
sibilant whispers are
across my thin—almost
white—translucent
ears (just
round and regular
not pointed ears
like yours).

At the end,
we’re pulling up chairs,
the sounds scraping, echoing
across the wooden room and
we’re all full up of
drinks we’re
downing even after drowning
in too much to night before.
Here there is
no need to
scrape or
speak softly
because
nobody knows
you or me.
(Not by sight.)
When at
the end of the end
you depart
from me
with your days full ahead
of important
Things To Do,
meaningful, contextual paintings
to paint
(that will pull
the words
right from
our center
and chase them into
being)
I am
at last
not sad.

I wonder what you look like
in the winter
because I only know
the summer you.
And there you are
with
a worn belt
those dark sunglasses,
layer upon layer
keeping you warm.

that it wasn’t any good.

3 paragraphs. I have christened H with another palindrome. I have written first person, eegad. I made a pun. I wrote. Again, turning one’s worst moments into money.

came in from a gift book i got someone. oh lord. i’m just destroyed over it. and reminded of when drew, my love at the time, hated hated hated keep the aspidistra flying because of gordon comstock. gordon comstock! so it’s official. i love books centering on genuinely unlikable characters. and i write genuinely unlikable, fairly despicable characters who can only interact passive-aggresively. woot. stay tuned for more discouragement. one week until screenplay treatment is due.
^cringe.

We’re going to
a swamp
but we won’t
wade in,
just skirt it
until we
find a bluff
overlooking
where we
set up camp
away away
to hold
physical congress
emotional court
with battalions
at the ready
as proof that
we are not just
animal bodies
but something
Other altogether,
(or at least
wired
to think, believe
hope as such).

Under oath
I confess
I can’t
draw scones
from the
tap or
bake
something
so
primitive
as bread.
I can’t feed
myself or
anyone else.
I’ll tell you
every little
horrible thing
about me
so you’ll
never ask.

retyped tonight for a super secret writing project. awaiting comments from writerly friends, to see: dare I proceed?

also, meeting with filmmaker friend for brunch sunday to hash out some screenplay ideas.

wow!

Dropped
fluttered
floated
from me—
page one
of the book
(nothing that
had not
already been
carved
and
beaten,
but I panicked anyway).
Watched it alight
on the rippling surface
and soak
immediately.
Pushed sunglasses up—
panicked—
and stopped writing.
Looked for a place
(frantic, now)
to dry the
one page,
the piece,
the fir bolg,
when my fingers
opened
and
floated
the page to the water
again.
Now it drips,
hung like a
facecloth
over the spout.
Every 2.36 minutes,
the water collects
at the corners
and drips below
to my toes
tangled in the
chain of the
drain plug,
toes trying to
yank the
drainplug out
of place
because they
want me to
get sucked down.
I remember to
reach back and take
my slippery pages
(all my slippery pages)
with me to
Oblivion,
Shang-tu,
San Francisco.