Thesis collection nearing completion.

It is called "I, I, I" and consists of 3 essays

I. Drawing Down the Moon, Because

II. Suicide and Seven Places of the Mind

III. Queen Morphology

return.

you:

remind me that I'm never going to be 22.

my skin:

is going to wonder what I'm doing now.

procrastination

how incredible are these b&w of the Beales' Grey Gardens?
http://theselvedgeyard.wordpress.com/2009/04/20/grey-gardens-the-beautiful-decay/

Lunch Poems. March 19-27

March 19

My fingers taste like cigarettes, cigar-shaped though
and my cola is part vodka.
It is still my birthday 21 years and 3 days later.

When they told me "beware the ides,"
they left out the warning of whiskey.

We read "I think I'm going crazy"

And what to do with this terrible hangover and the weekends,
OHara?


March 20's Found phrases

she's hair bowed and low-bellied in pyramid mode
oh, she's something in Sanskrit

where am i?
je ne sais quoi

upon return to the states, he exhausts a carton of Gitanes
both have become decidedly unFrench

BOOM! he booms,
or rather he types
these loud letters to Upper-Penninsula babies

just to feel connected.


March 21's marsh

Though we lasted the winter
There is no sure footing

There is grass in my neighborhood again
There are rats again

On the patch of land that escaped cementing
We celebrate our clever survival

All of us narrowly avoided that turn to stone

When one comrade takes to a scurry,
My dog lunges after her breakfast.

I lost a shoe in the muck.


March 23's phone call

He'll PROVE his nunchucks
raps the receiver, but won't believe my crystal ball

"Then tell ME what I'm doing now"

You are purging what's left and yellow
you are standing too close to a window
you are asking the WRONG questions

Ask why not how and I'll fill your ears
with the stuff of inheritance,
mystical theories

He'll say,
could you call another day?


March 24's dog day

It is hard to know whose is whose
as we've begun to resemble one another.

On gray days, I begin to think that
we, black haired and stark white, are all we have in the world.

Oh but that,
that is the last pair!
you Varmint! you Devil!
Inside her all my soles, but no soul!


March 27's aftershocks

when we are too exhausted to fight, we walk and wait for the sun
here it comes.

the earth shook last night, there is proof in the broken ground.
or did it split from cold?
either way, it rushed to fill its voids with the left gravel.
who's to say we couldn't fill our own as quickly?

"a self being forged in, as language..."

latinized, i am lucky.
reputed, repeated and inextricably soulless, so
petrified, I opt for atrophy, seeing as
I am proof.

*

there is
no air in here-
where
a disembodied voice can sing like a canary
(no strings)

plucked headlines
there is err-
or
glitches in the gospel

sprung from canon
the deity shrugs
in candor

The Force of Imagination: Montaigne erasure pt. 1

of the force of Imagination.

I am one of those who are most sensible of the power of Imagination: every one is jostled by it, but some are overthrown by it. It has a very piercing impression upon me and I make it my business to avoid, wanting force to resist it. I could live by

the sole help of healthful and jolly company: the very sight of another's pain materially pains me, and I often usurp the sensations of another person. A perpetual cough in another tickles my lungs and throat. I more unwillingly visit the sick in whom by love and duty I am interested, than those I care not for, to whom I less look. I take possession of the disease I am concerned. at, and take it to myself. I do not at all wonder that fancy should give fevers and sometimes kill such as to allow it

too much scope, and are too willing to entertain it. Simon Thomas was a great physician of his time: I remember, that happening one day at Toulouse to meet him at a rich old fellow's house, who was troubled with weak lungs, and discoursing with his patient about the method of his cure, he told him, that one thing which would be very conducive to it, was to give me such occasion to be pleased with his company, I might come often to see him, by which means, and by fixing his eye upon the freshness of my complexion, and his

imagination upon the sprightliness and vigor that glowed in my youth, and possessing all his senses with the flourishing age wherein I then was, his habit to body might, peradventure, be amended; but be forgot to say that mine, at the same time, might be made worse.

Gallus VibIus so long cudgeled his brains to find out the essence and motions of madness, that, in the end, he himself went out of his wits, and to such a degree, that he could never after recover his judgment; and might brag that he was become a fool by too much wisdom. Some there are who through fear anticipate the hangman; and there was the man, whose eyes being unbound to have his pardon read to him, was

found stark dead upon the scaffold, by the stroke of Imagination. We start, tremble, turn pale, and blush, as we are variously moved by imagination; and, being a-bed, feel our bodies agitated with its power to that degree, as even sometimes to expiring. And boiling youth, when fast asleep, grows so warm with fancy, as in a dream to satisfy amorous desires: "Ut, quasi transactis saepe omnibu rebu profundant Fluminis ingentes fluctus, vestemque cruentent."

favorite.

this poem in its full (and...correct) version is lost somewhere in papers. from memory:


spread
as if to say let anything worth taking be took

on the other hand,
i need my fingers, i'll cross them. even if crooked from sprain, i'll cross them.

snap and send coins winged. outline cloud creatures, squint and squish between.
air arrows, drag triggers. fan out in shadows to fly.
measure the miles in the inches of knuckles.
wet and feel wind. wind cassette guts.
flip a bird or flick bent paper. tie a ribbon around and remember to remember.

point
as if, as if to say it is you, but it hasn't always been.