Thursday, November 22, 2012

wearing the same pair of underwear for 48 hours

aloneness is something
to be held close to the chest
and cradled: the only prayer

i've ever known. my housemates
have all flown back to their families.
i must be the last november goose 

left in iowa and i like
things to be just so:
ceilings and joints sounding of settling in unison, 
peeing with the door open, salsa and tortilla
 chips for thanksgiving dinner

junta

writing a poem now because later I will be drunk and hopefully the last thing on my mind will be poems and how they need to be written.

I read a book that told me to start writing short sentences in order to become a better writer but I don't have any short sentences yet.
I am stringing together a long complex idea and I do
n't know where it begins and where it ends yet, there are some shaky
transitions. There are some grandiose, triple-letter score words in there
that I really have no business using. There Is The Pretentious Usage of Capitalization
and lots of excess modifiers, conjunctions, and other words that I don't know how to label.

tonight I am going to drink wine and probably say things that are half-calculated half-geniune
I will hope to sound smart, well-read, politically moderate, and highly independent given my socially embedded gender/sex/sexuality. I will hope not to spill any wine on my white shirt.
I Will Be Thankful for The Things and Feelings That I Have and Try Not to Cry So Much.
watching every wes anderson movie I remember
when owen tried to kill himself

when he did it I wonder if
his brother's acting came to mind

did he think of how romantic it seemed on screen

or how there is nothing beautiful about
carefully composing it
when there are no cameras

turkey day musings

it is interesting to
be a different person to everyone I meet
my mother's daughter is not
my father's daughter and
the girl so serious in class is
also the one who shrieks like a
child in her bedroom
and the feminist is also
the woman who helps cook thanksgiving dinner
clucking like a hen
sometimes the steamy image in the post-shower mirror
sometimes the disembodied thoughts of no one
--

every time I brush my teeth my gums bleed
maybe I am trying too hard
i am in my house of dawn
molten light streaming across
the arches of my feet
a thick, curved hip

i have seen myself as
the queen of wands
trapped in the hard amber
savoring the weight of a staff

at my right,
the stag is large
heavy in his own crowned way
shaking off the dew of every morning after

what i touch
turns to sour wood
liquid sap running slow
filling up every insect that dares to

slip inside