the delusion

well look at these

photos. this was the

week where I felt

so fat that I wore the

same blue sweatshirt

every day and to

parties. i told him

“this is the sweatshirt

I wear when I feel

too ugly to wear anything

else.” it took a LONG

LONG time for him

to draw any significance

from moments like this.

conversely i look rather

pretty in these photos

and,

as to the "stealing" of friends, it was

not your fault but hers. one of those

glittering impervious people who acts like

all's equal, pats you while you cry, saves

perhaps so much as your very life and then

this is not the same as being friends

(to her). won't meet your eyes in a hallway. just

another reason not to trust people who

never look bad. or anyone. forgive me for

not being a fake fucking liar who could

act like this doesn't upset me.

A Letter Back To A Friend

I can’t feel happy for people. It’s true.

I am anxious and self-conscious. I am no actress and I have no grace. I have on occasion been treated poorly by people and took it too hard.

It follows: I am self pitying. You are brave and brutal. Like a day with a strong wind, you inflicted yourself into my life. We live together, but not, “Together.” I never know who is keeping whom at arm’s length. You never thank me.

I am sorry for following you in your escape. I am sorry (for myself) that you think you’ll be the one avoiding me; I’ll pretend not to know you if you want. But do you want me gone or don’t you? I stay here and you run away with skinnier people with shinier hair, who are not so drunk and not so pitiful as me. I leave, and you look hurt.

I hate that I can’t feel happy for people. But I can’t. I am mean and brittle. Like you, I’ve never had any money for things that I want. Like you, I’ve hewn a life out of rocks and I don’t always like what I’ve got. I am stingy. I cling to the things that are mine. I always believe that this number is small. I resent all the things that are not mine.

“At least I’ve got you,” I said to him. I curved into his stomach. He loves me. I could say I am just lucky, but you don’t see this in yourself either. Is this not the result of putting myself out there. Is this not the result of my willingness to look stupid. Your boys don’t love you, because you won’t admit that you might need them. Like me, they know when they’re not wanted. Which is the same as not knowing that they’re wanted. Your glasses may be heart shaped but this is not the equivalent of your heart.

version one

grumpy little boy goes to
bed without saying good
night properly and little girl
gets a stomachache and then
has a slow cigarette even
though the clear air tastes
better. something about the twist of
hips that she’s trying to bury
completely and crush with the
trowel. life-preserver lipstick
is an exaggeration she likes
to cling to. grumpy boy will
wake up and forget to brush
his hair and forget to send any
messages to the girl who will
decide he doesn’t love her. they’re really
just people.

monday morning, influenza

i'm a little tired of

viruses, the dirty things

that pass between

people. i'll swallow

my sneeze to help out but

you should have stayed

home. i think we're trying

hard enough already.

don't you know these doors

are too heavy for

girls who don't eat breakfast?

dormitory diary

...the thing I want most is

to crawl into his

sweatshirt so I am inside it and

pressed against his warm

chest. When I am at school it

seems like I can

never really get warm. It

can take hours for my feet to

get feeling back. My heater works, but

it’s next to the window that

doesn’t properly close. The

showers can never quite get

up to a hot enough

temperature, but one that is

frustratingly close...

my dry hands

what am I going to do? Well:

I’m not finished. So I guess I’m

going to do whatever the

opposite of being finished is.

Like hearing the water

under the grate and

just not knowing where

to go to find it.

But I can cut across the

grass now. Like everything else

I thought would never happen.

failing, I forget my day

you’d think this

was life on the

plains. that just one

flood would

sink us. that

one drought

would shrink us. we’d

eat and eat, to

starve and

starve. like buffalo.

in the real world i

will break the

floor. i will break

through the floor of

the earth. i will enter

orbit and more things

will revolve around

me than just my

thoughts. watch as

I forget my day.

treading water

when i write

now, i write for

people who

can't read. you think

everything will never

be alright but it will

be. these things that

are my fault, i will

fix them. we don't

have to feel this sick

forever.

"sunny weather will influence

whether you are smiling," he

said, "but not the color

of your eyes." if i'd known this

explanation for independence, i

wouldn't have failed before... but

now we need to talk about you.

syntax

over and over i started

to read this book and fell

asleep and dreamed i’d read

and analyzed. three times i did this.

woke up still on page three, head

ringing with the last analysis in which

the poems were 'dense like gray slate, with all

these molecules just jammed in, just peeling

off.' my actual analysis wasn’t so good, the

gray, though, was a clever guess.

-

also i dreamed that you were with

me still, that we went to your house,

where i insulted your mother. woke up

guilty about the photos. and yet

i wish i could see yours

again, and what you said stupidly about

it before, “you and I and

happiness.” me, you meant. i’m glad

you stayed long enough

to make me a little more sore.

-

i’ve worked this one out. it is so

close. even this is a stretch that

leaves me tense. i am dying for

lack of syntax. how can it be snowing

again? how can it?

slid

the wind’s died

down now. branches

wearing sleeves of

ice; i’ve got routine

maintenance to

do. look, a girl, tiptoeing

along an arc of

white. the bathtub and i

are too shallow for this. i’m

sorry i worried again.

falling into running and this must end

how come it’s never

you? turn off the lights and

just stop. i’m the one waiting

around for you. i’m

the one. measure this, a million

pearly drops for every night

you forgot me, for every night

I stayed in bed to not be touched

by other boys, for every breath

I breathed and didn’t talk

about the past, and didn’t

talk about the future. how come

you’re never losing me? i’m

the one. i’m losing both

of us. even the computer

is breaking, won’t spit out

this disk, hold down the

mouse and fix it, i can fix

this, i can fix… i can’t fix

the sewing machine, the last

outlet. i baked but got

burned. your feet hurt, so

what, that’s great, baby, just

stop. i won’t eat that. just

stop. i go down on my knees and

the skinned one stings and i

cry out. this? it was never

a choice. don’t bother

to wait around, why should

you join me in this, why should

both of us do it, why?

all i can remember now

the thing i wanted to explain

is this, wisdom cutting

through pink, drinking coffee when

there’s not much left and it

gets cold fast. last year’s thin snow

couldn’t hide me, couldn’t hide

the dark spots, the frost heaving.

it is so high now but this

does not bury us, we

traverse, we do no

crossovers. in three months we

will touch legs, our pupils

will close, our eyelashes dry, we

will tremble, wounded

at the relief of spring. too much,

a flood, the comfort. say it,

“you’re mine,” and i’ll say

“you can’t knit a quilt,” i’ll say “i waited

to wash my hair to keep

your hands in it,” i’ll say

“where” is this, “why” is this, and

circle, and search. you don’t like

poems. i don’t like pants.

new book

i am too distracted by

the wrong photo line

i’m so into this now

i want to just

keep pulling it down

pulling the eyes

pulling the lack

she was boarding a train

like a grammar school student

i would grow old to avoid my fate

believe in God to avoid my fate

sticks in the ground

don’t come back at all, come back

no, i can take it, i’ll take it awake

spill

my word was

“amazing” and i bit you

i hope it was me

your words were “wet”

and “wonderful”. the slick spread

through very deep water

surfacing with a burst of avian death

leaving stacks of whitened bones

that i cracked when i laughed

the mouthwash burned going down

after floating to shore on your muscle