three parter...

I am unable to now
to find you in grace
something you'd never allow
when I tempted you in lace.
suddenly less than perfect
you've made messes
I will never see you the same
all the lipstick and dresses
will never make you mine again.



running til i'm sulking
makes shining unattainable

I showcase nothing
this arch is unshakable

keep going friend
you are sure to uncover
what's beneath will bend
and you may find a lover.


I'm having a love affair. We have strolls in the evening, in the morning when I can be selfish with my love. We have coffee at peculiar hours and dance to strange music. We often take the long way home and venture into the bookstore. We are used to the rain. We secretly say hello to the regulars. The man who lives above the mechanic shop and collects art. I see him everyday, so we say hello. We do a quick shuffle on the medallion marking the historic significance of that place. We always look into that pub on the way home to see who's dining. We pick out which are first dates, who's about to break up and who's stupid with happiness of couples we do not even know sitting in little booths in the pub. We laugh at the stories you can make up about people you are merely glancing at through a window while passing by. We sometimes take the streetcar instead of walking which invites strange characters into our lives. Like the little Irish lady who I've seen before. She still dresses, pristinely, like a flapper. She has a gorgeous finger wave blond hairstyle on her 80 something year old little head. She recommends her hair stylist to me when I mention how much I admire the quality of the style and call the finger wave a lost hair art. I am not at all surprised when she describes the retirement home a few blocks from my apartment and that her hairdresser is a war veteran, a man, named Kelly. From morning to night, we share secrets and enjoy familiarity in the known and comfort. My lover is the city that I've inhabited and made my own everyday until we eventually break up, like all good loves do, and the memories will be in buildings, sidewalk cracks and street signs.

and if and when a true love is sent he's sure to have a cajun accent.

The cold air bursts in without an invitation and I curl up in this old red sweater for warmth, but mostly so I can remember what it was like when this sweater was new. when I bought it while shopping with my mom. It was on the clearance rack and I thought it was just ugly enough it may have passed for something a sensible girl would wear. It is red with flecks of white in the knit with oversized red plastic buttons and a collar. I remember wearing it to movies, on dates. I also remember wearing it while I read or studied and sipped coffee alone or with friends. Now it mostly doesn't leave my house. partly because I am not that sensible girl anymore, but mostly I am absolutely petrified to lose something that can instantly and so vividly take me back to that time in my life. I draw the sleeve cuffs over my hands and imagine a smell that is 124 behan street when all of my friends were no more than 6 blocks away and the world was practically banging my door down.

This presents itself without the obvious and overwhelming truth that to hold something so precious only for you is to stifle the very spirit that makes it so great. With gratuitous reluctance, it is now free. And should be.

A fraction of existence solves all inquiries too deep to dissolve. A portion of self loathing and self obsession and vanity is a whirlwind of balance and health for emotions and feelings in check. Backwards looking hurts muscles and too much leaping for the stars wears one out. A steady pace walk or even jog can do wonders for the clean bill of health that you seek. This is as pessimistic as it gets. Sorry to disappoint you my darling.

Being around her was like leaning into the crater of an extinct volcano. Thrilling but dangerous because it might erupt at any second. - bunny.

Insignificant banter of words that neither of us really mean. It is the play of command over the vernacular that penetrates me deepest. I can't look to the side after a sentence without your pursed lips calling me out as being too pensive. I cannot stop my thoughts. Sadly they are the only company I have during nights where they are more damaging than any wound inflicted by love or something similar. When I am alone, I find that the very tip of my tongue has suddenly found its spotlight. Where everything that I couldn't say over the beautiful candlelight early in our evening, can suddenly, no longer maintain in the wings. I sometimes long for quiet. If only it all didn't bother me so much. I cannot be too forward, I cannot be too coy. No matter what I do, it's never right. No one is ever right. I watch so many pairs of people carry on perfectly unhealthy though lasting relationships and I think, why can't I just do that? Why do I have to be so picky and distracted. A friend of mine told me frankly that he stopped chasing me because I was always distracted. Like no matter the situation, he always sensed he was only getting 20% of the real girl in front of him. Sadly he is right. I don't give my all to anyone. I rely on the notion that when I meet someone worthy of all 100% I will know and bare it all. Until then I will be stuck here alone with those very thoughts that cause me to be so pensive in every situation and being my nature I am unable to hide the fact that I am a million miles away with my thoughts. And so the cycle continues that suitors grow weary of such a feat.

I dreamt last night that I had a pet rabbit. The rabbit scared me and so I always left it in its cage. Then one day my mom came for a visit and did away with the cage and the rabbit roamed around freely. I was desparately seeking the cage but it was no where to be found. I was so preoccupied with the cage, in fact, that I didn't notice the rabbit had started to change. He was jumping in my bed with me and I kept shooing him away. When I was trying to read the newspaper he would try to sit with me and read too, but I'd give him a section and make him move. Eventually and what seemed like overnight, the rabbit was no longer a rabbit anymore actually it was a man. A marvelously handsome man at that who was well mannered, thoughtful, and absolutely in love with me. How had I not noticed this! As wonderful as this was, I was still searching for his cage.


white lettering. Chrome shiny and all over. The tires are white wall and the lines are curvy and round, never harsh. I got a new bike today. And it is seven speeds of goodness. I remembered how to stand up on the bike when at top speed and pretend that I am flying. My summer in Portland 2008 is going to be a good one. I feel just like the 8 year old me would feel about this new bike, but I don't have to come in when the street lights come on.

I met this guy who speaks like Bob Dylan sings. The highs and lows of his voice are liquid and smooth. His attitude is consistently positive and he is as thoughtful as he is polite and from Los Angeles. He's had girls break his heart, and lost jobs, but he perseveres with gumption and grace. He did not surprise me when he said that Dylan is his favorite.

Chanel perfume, cheap aerosol hairspray, countless strands of pearls, pearl earrings and other pearl baubles. Matte 10 reddest of red lipstick, dramatic, old hollywood starlet eye makeup and big, bouncing hair. Black dresses hiding delicate lace slips as an icing toping to the gorgeous patent leather black mary janes, the ones with the double straps. Hailing cabs while dressed in gloves and a tweed coat, sometimes even an elegant hat. Champagne and everyone smoking. I trade the bubbly and the tar for a dirty gin martini and twirl about the place. The music is hot but a new wave sound with a tune that I can predict, unlike the old time music of a time slipping away, but I know it'll be heard soon. Welcome to the speak easy. I'll sit in the side, round booth. I'll sip from the same lipstick mark on my martini glass, while my eyes dance lit by the pink lantern at the center of my table. I may sit at my table alone, but not for long, everyone here shares the same pull to the red hues of the curtains here, and the hot, fiery notes spilling out from the the brass lip and making you sweat. "Let's go!", they chant. "One more time..." we'll beg and they'll repeat as an order to the rest of the band. "a one, a two, a one, two, three, four...". We'll here Iko Iko and how you can find Love for Sale. We'll be carried away to Summertime and sing along with Lady Day while she soothes us with her sorrowful lyrics. We'll laugh at the trumpeter's cheeks ballooning out and sinking in with every heartfelt blow. I'll check my hair and lipstick in my compact, indiscreetly from my seat, leaning forward as much as can go unnoticed to use the soft lantern light from the table. I'll glance to see my eyes dance as they do in this space. The crowd at the speak easy is fast getting into a frenzy. The music is just getting excruciatingly wonderful.

It is Rose Festival time again. Four years ago this week, I flew into to Portland with two suitcases and a backpack and the love of my life waiting for me there. He showed up smiling and glowing to see me. We were positively euphoric in each other's presence, armed with the knowledge that I lived here now. Our long weekend visits had ended. Now it was just the two of us and all of the city to enjoy together. That first night we dropped my things off at his apartment on SW Broadway and Columbia and left hastily for the fireworks at the waterfront for the Festival. We walked the whole way, smiling and kissing for the length of the journey. When we reached our viewpoint, we stood stacked with his arms around me and kissing my shoulders. It felt like a homecoming and a brand new start all at the same time. Every year since, we had celebrated my coming to Portland. We never missed the festival or the fireworks. It was one of the happiest days of my life that day. This year as I walked through downtown, trying my hardest to ignore the fireworks, I lost all of my composure. The tears ran down my face as I caught a glimpse of the fireworks between buildings. It was too much for me. Everything over the last four years, and all of the pictures with him in them, sent me spiraling downward. I had to stop in a hidden corner and release all of it. I somehow felt every kiss, hug, touch, and embrace. I felt it come and linger and go. The sensation sent my body into violent motions timed by my chest rising and falling with each painful breath. If anyone passed me, I didn't see them. My world spun faster than I could tolerate my own human form. I braced myself against the walls and felt the brick digging into my hands while I grasped for stability. I couldn't yet think of stopping my own tears. I let it all come over me. I craved that closeness again so much that I also welcomed the hurt just to feel again. It all started to take word form in my mind, when before it had just been blurred pictures that my body knew and remembered along with my mind. The words started to form saying, "Is he having the same thought? probably not, he is with his new girl now. He told me he doesn't think of me. But then again, he also asked me what good it did for him to tell me that he misses me. i want him to feel me in dates, intersections, restaurants, shops, and festivals the way that I feel him. I want him to hurt so that I know that I had such a powerful impact on another human the way that he has done this to me. It is permanence and validation in emotional connection that I have been doubting the need for in my life. he has stripped this from me when he told me that he doesn't think of me. It's all of this hurt that I have knowingly avoided thinking about, but now I can't avoid it. It is too present and too strong. I am plagued by so much optimism and skepticism all at once. Step 1: stop crying in corners.

Something has happened to the romance of this city. The charm of an old building used to be enough to send me into such a ponderous spell that I would have to toss my thoughts around for hours to settle them down. Now I pull from nothing but stale adventures robbed of their luster.

part deux...

3.26.8

I heard your infectious laugh but laughed at something at my table even louder to drown you out. I had to do something. Convince my table that I was smiling for some other reason than your childish, body-shaking laugh. I saw you as soon as you walked in but tore myself from looking at you so you would not see. Your clothes stained my sight. You always were too hip for me. More hip than anyone else in the room. I always thought that maybe you, yourself had started the hipster movement and everyone only followed your lead. Well, you're old enough for this to be plausible. I saw your signature all over this dim bar. A new hot spot for you and all of your followers. I had come first with you. Then after you, I realized all of my friends frequent this place too. Here we all are. Southeast side, hipster haven. My friends outnumbered yours four to one and even one of yours is mine too now. I've often heard, in reference to friends that it is quality over quantity. But I imagined a war between our tables, in which I won and you surrendered because even your best could not stand up to four of mine. You tried to catch my eye between laughter and whisperings. I saw you follow my hand from my knee to his hand and on to his chest. You shuddered but then regressed. I fantasized that you were re-imagining our sad, parting scene. I think you concluded that it was your decision and to leave me be. It doesn't make it easier, I know. I still think I should have fought harder for you. I think you were testing me anyway. I was just too angry to think that way. You said you thought of being with someone else when you were with me. That was enough to turn off to you, even though I never really did. I always thought you were so intuitive. So in touch. Yet, you were falling back into something that had hurt you so tremendously in the past. Who was I to judge though. I've been you. I've longed for that second chance with him too. The one we talked about. My inner struggle in that bar that night surrounds the harsh truth that your presence makes me weak to your glance and I unable move at your touch. I still fake it all to keep in rhythm with your pulsating energy. This is why I have to pretend that I don't see you there two feet away. I feel you, I don't have to look at you. I pretend I don't feel you the second you walk in. I go to these places with the hidden hope that I may run into you. Each night I go out, I think of running in to you. I made the choice long ago to let go of the only other to make me feel this way. I swore never again, if I were lucky enough to feel such a thing again. Here you are breathtaking and stealing the spirit right out of my wednesday. My friends say to ignore you but when you touched my elbow, your pulsating energy filled every part of me and I looked directly into your eyes until I rescued them into your dimples. I saw you do the same. You wanted to know who he was. "Good luck with that," you said. I saltily respond, "he calls me his best girl and no other girl interferes." The guy then asks if he can get me a drink. I decline, I've had enough already.

3.14.8

I repulse myself with these thoughts of you. You stress my organs to overdo themselves so I have no energy for anyone or anything else. Do you do that to her? I bet not. But she probably does it to you. We are the same, you see. I hope she does this to you. This triangle that brings suffering. God knows, with you, it is probably hexagonal or worse by now.

I will always look for you. In people, places and songs. I will write of you as though I still see you everyday. I still find you everyday. His jaw line, his stature. Some things are trademarked. Your bow legs, your laugh, your eyes, those Popeye arms and that glorious mouth of yours. Your smell remains the ultimate test. Unfortunately all have failed this part.

This coffee tastes like jam. I can't explain how. The hipsters love it. Give me Community Coffee any day. I'd prefer it anyway. You are a joy to know, but glad to not be a part of my life.

I prefer the little man. The one a little down on his luck. I like to try to save him though I know his breath is wasted.

All of this is making me bland as a person if I can truly even be that. Breaking the realities that are best left alone in order to achieve some better self. All so damn melancholy. Who said the suffering had to be come before the good. Before your body knows joy.


You have a look alike. I didn't know if you knew. Svelte and quick like you. Sandy blonde and piercing blue seers. His mouth is less fantastic than your gate of word. Word and kiss and breath. I look for it in him as replacement but it is no where on his vessel. Bring your ship back into my harbor so I may save you from battle and share your bottle instead upon your homecoming.

4.1.3

I watched him walk. His sculptured calves and folded white socks lost in old Adidas. His reflection hazy in the ancient yellow washing machines. The sun beaming outside whilst the fan and two open screened doors offered the only relief from the heat. The washateria felt as it might melt from the warmth reflecting from the pavement. I watched my hands move the quarters in rhythm with his steps. A quick smile and we escaped the heat for a relaxing day at the river.

4.25.3

Phone rings. Heart races. Breath quickens. Fingers shake. He's coming. Lights out. Head on pillows. Smile appears. Eyes brighten! Cheeks redden. Lips wet. Knock on window. Heart drops. Head's cloudy. Foot steps to the door. He comes in my room. Lays with me. Signals for the candle to extinguish. Darkness fills. Hand on my knee. Smell of him fills the room. Smell fills me. Crouched together we undress each other. Familiar hands on my abandoned parts. Then familiar hands on all of me. He's on me. I move on top. Breath taken from us. How I had tried to forget. He moves me around the room. I think I love him while he holds me. Kissing. Screaming. Biting my lip. He releases a satiating cry. It's over. We lay on the floor. Breathing hard. Dry mouths. Holding hands. Heads nestled against each other's. Sleep. I listen to his breathing patterns change. Deeper. Louder. Heart rate astonishing. His smell still infecting the room. I can't love him. Too much right now. This can't happen anymore.

5.3.3

Grazing, dancing, trying to win, learning to cry. Imagine the time. Shiny and fast. Slow to come. Easy to lose. Not planned. Glory. It's good to be great, found, unattached. Here, there, gone, taken. I'll find it and keep it. Don't break it. It was disposable after all. Circus red, yellow clowns, people laugh, clap, fall. It's fake and worn. Try it. Go ahead! The wind's blowing, so what? It climbs black and then invisible. See through. Come back! She can't. Too late now. Balloon's escape. never will the world see it climb again. Blue coming. All is cleared.

9.10.7

He couldn't tell her that he knew her mother. He definitely couldn't tell her that he knew the delicate curve of her shoulders and back were exactly like her mothers. And this moment would end for him if he revealed that she fucked like her mother. She tried to balance her young frail frame on his lap. Up and down, she was clumsy but passionate. He smoothed her long blond hair against her breast and comforted her. But it was she who had been playing him all along.

9.11.7

carefully I've performed for you.
its part of the routine.
I show you parts and string them together with wit.
then when you're happy with the first act, it's on to act two.
Much more personal. Much more involved.
Now it is audience participation that moves the rest of the show.
I act, you react. and visa versa too.
Here we balance realism and mockery until we find our niche.
Come and dance with me little piper, for surely I will follow you backstage.
Backstage where the makeup melts and the costumes disappear
and its just you and me with no lines or steps.
the house lights come on bright and we can see all we need to now.

9.12.7

I don't know how but you did!
you came back in a different form but you were clever.
Careful to come back as something so familiar, yet new.
you knew i'd be intrigued and right o!
I feel you in his touch, and taste you in his kiss.
there is one thing though that you have missed.
his smell is nothing like you
plus his words give it away.
Also, he's asked me to stay.

9.12.7

I'm forever bound to the thought of finding that thing that is new and fresh and makes me feel my anatomy from the inside out. The kind of act that makes me notice some new sensation for the very first time. I secretly ask myself, what is that thing that you are doing? What are you pushing against? Just as I try to recall ever feeling it again, I'm suddenly so overcome with pleasure that I don't care that I can't explain the feeling, I just focus on this brief amusement and let you have your way.

9.12.7

Tracing your bends and folds with my fingers followed by my hair as I move my lips, then fingertips, then my following hair down god's trails put on your body just for me. I'm intranced by everything that drives me to go further. Farther down, deeper, into those places that get the least amount of daily contact. The places that if exposed make old friends ackward and new friends into boyfriends and girlfriends. You give me reassuring moans and I feel you grow beneath my chin.

9.13.7

So it happened that the thing I feared became the thing I desired and the thing I tried my damnest to avoid was the thing that I couldn't wait to hold in my very own hands. Where were you. Why didn't you share this with me.

9.14.7

Black and gray, and corporate. sleek, slender and educated. Smelling of leather and newspaper with a hint of expensive cologne. you know who he is, or you could guess at who he might be. He pretends to read, but is watching just like you. your jeans look faded and sadly ripped next to his pair of designers. You suddenly become aware of every wrinkle on your clothing and every stain. What does he think as he sits next to you, you wonder. Perhaps he's intrigued by someone who has trouble dressing themselves when he does it with such ease. Perhaps he's disgusted. Either way, his newspaper will always be more expensive than mine.

12.4.7

There are so many irishmen here i must surely have gone trans-atlantic. Drinking Guiness in chilled pint glasses printed with the same name. Guiness pints with not more or less than 1 1/2 inches of foam before the black golden beer. they haunt places with such names as S.Kellig, and the Druid. They go by Shamses, Mickey and Sean. Freckles and blue eyes that can burn through you. Jolly and singing, dancing and falling down. They catch the eye of every girl and call her lovey. They are behind the bar, on the bar, and out in the pub. Well dressed and hair amiss. I find one little irishman to keep warm with through the snow. His blues burn brightest of them all.

12.4.7

running up the old wooden steps, all different lengths, and reaching the screen door, we've arrived. More later. You'll feel at home. Wrapped in warmth and well fed.

12.4.7

when you find the time, sit down and write words to move me. i want to see scratch outs so that I can understand your thought process better. Understand you better. Maybe when you get some time you can write it all out, I have nothing but time to read now. I broke my television and invested the scrap parts money into records. Now I look to be moved in every form of literature. The side of my coffee cup, the ingredients of my shampoo. I crave words from your fingers and mind. I will picture your lips forming the words and how twisted your mouth looks while you shape the sentences as you write them. I'll picture your cup of coffee grown cold and sitting patiently next to your legal pad. I'll imagine winter surrounding you outside of your downtown window. I know you long to be on the farm with the children at your feet while you show them how to feed the chickens. You'll get distracted thinking of this very scene and pick up again somewhere in page three. I don't know where to find you anymore in this real world we walk in everyday. In the world where I know you, the sun never sets and the snow never makes you slip and fall. Only falls delicately on your shoulders and in my hair never melting. We play in the snow never to feel the weather cooling our skin until it shows red. the sky is not gray during our snow storms but crystal blue. the sun making the snow glisten like storefronts. in the same snow day, we change into our bathing suits and tackle the hot river. We can swim a sort of dance together that only we know. It is never cold, never lonely in this world of ours. Why would we care about knowing each other in the real world when we can delight each other here.

12.5.7

Somewhere in Connecticut I find the sun again. I remember what grass without snow looks like though the trees are still dead. your blue eyes bring me back to boston every time.

7.15.7

Surpassing my lips in preference of my cheek and raising my hand to your lips over my knees instead. Shaking your head with a smile gorgeous and broad and white and spanning bridges. Each white gleaming tooth rising concrete cross ties and a sunset stretches on the other side. So inviting and unique to last only one day. yet I run to the other side knowing it will fade and knowing I cannot return.

7.24.7

Saving and craving laughing and playing i ask to hear and not to know. if it ever falls apart you will have far more bullets than i and so i remain your silent prisoner waiting for the savior that will save me and bring me solace to my happy prison of arms for holding and lips for so much more than kissing...for stories and sincerities and compliments and resulting blushing. As a prisoner the sun is never missed and I need not even any food.

7.30.7

It awakens me at night, this wanting thing. things of beauty are hardly ever missed. whether their beauty is shouted from the towers or just a thought tossed with a stone, the energy surrounding beauty is exclusive and pure in thought; ruined only in action and never compromised for the sake of demise alone.

2.25.8

Set into motion

I saw you once at work

Fashioning some odd potion

Your lovely face with a dangerous smirk.

I sat beneath the tree

You there with your giddy laugh

We were together free

And there gone in a flash.

Transported to a field a-bloom

We gathered flowers and seeds

Placed into a bottle in your room

Your mother called them weeds.

Onto your bed we fell

Like children tired from play.

Quietly whispering not to tell

And all was part of the best day.

11.29.7

I will never be able to escape the beauty of his music that resonates in my mind for it broke my mortality.

11.30.7

Strong and Complex

Unattainable yet approachable.

Surprisingly I found you were weak and simple.

This is my guide to achieving you as retained and unapproachable.

12.5.7

Make time for sheltering hidden winds of spirits that blow and turn turbines of worth.

1.22.8

Saw You Today

I saw you in a stranger's eyes today.

So I made him my lover, so I could find you again.

I felt you again.

I even played our song while I kissed him like I used to kiss you.

It ended for me when his smell was not your intoxicating trademark, but that of a stranger.

Suddenly his hands were foreign.

His voice a burden.

He wanted more but I felt too dirty to continue, and surprisingly satisfied with myself for that.

2.26.8

Go ahead and say something terrible.

Terrible words spilling from your lovely lips.

Lips of petals and still present thorns.

Thorns that yield my own wounds and blood.

Blood boils at the sight of you not.

Not for me alone but your following.

Following you north and south, back and forth.

Forthcoming rewards to those who wait.

Wait for you to be there and show.

Show up with a single flower picked.

Picked in a near field as an afterthought.

Thought to be intentionally romantic.

Romantic you are but try not.

Not your style and makes you the lead.

Lead you’d rather follow in a chase of love.

Love has made you bewildered and jaded.

Jaded to flowers and compliments.

Compliments her kneecaps on stems of ivory.

Ivory arms and face, and breasts I can only imagine.

Imagine your hands touching her with callused fingers.

Fingers with more knowledge than your mind of some things.

Things can be felt in the dark when not seen by your eyes.

Eyes of light and dark patterns that spell your confines.

Confines you to the life you had, have and will have.

Have a nap with me so I can be next to your dreams.

Dreams I can never be in.

Everything so far...

So, I thought I'd add a Blogger blog to the canon of blogs. I am posting everything so far in three postings and then will add on from there.

The Button Maker

by hot mess, Feb 21, 2008
The beautiful button maker and her unusual beau.

She was beautiful but scared
There were birds swooping down to perch on her brow.
She swatted at them with her left hand;
Which just so happened to be larger than the right.
The townspeople watched and the eldest of them all helped most.
“she's peculiar but a damn fine button maker”.
The townspeople replied rather passionately,
“no thanks, we'll focus on her peculiarity with clear minds”
Soon the button maker and the old man were keeping each other company.
They dwelled beneath the tree in the town's square making buttons.
The children playing on the playground there would see them from time to time.
At this important time, the parents passed down the story of the odd pair.
Then the children learned to thank them for their beautiful buttons.
A person with even hands could never have crafted such magnificent pieces.





Can I Come Pick You Up?

by hot mess, Feb 20, 2008
A traveling mess of a story.

"Can I come pick you up?"
we can just talk. I know your situation.
why do you just naturally put your hand down my shirt?
"You are irresistible in your shirt, so delicate and pretty."
We'll just go to this new farm.
"It is all so very alluring out here with you."
See, there is a little cabin and so much land for playing.
Thank goodness your car has a front, middle seat.
"I'm glad the moon is bright. You're a sight I've missed."
Why does this feel so right, anytime, after everything?
"Shhh. Can you hear the coyotes?"
There is little I can do to stop it now.
The decision makers are unanimous now.
"There's fire in those precious seer gems tonight!"
Should we share the credit?
Stop smiling like this should be love.
"I can't believe we fought this for so long!"
Where was my fight?
You knew it could have been the subject of what you fancy.
"God, you look absolutely stunning in moonlight."
I am afraid of passing cars hitting us.
Let's get out and lie in the midnight grass.
"So many nights we spent like this, didn't we cher?"
Yes, and still waiting for the purpose when you already know the ending.
"I guess we are still doing this then. Did you think we would?"
I guess the bitter wine is so sweet that we do keep running back for more.
"It's just like your first song went, it's easier to pretend."
If I could tell you how I truly felt, you might run away. So I don't.
"It's your move, Smalls. You're killing me with you and without you."
Without is worse for me.
"I do see you running back for more. I guess it all draws you in"
Just like me.
"How about some coffee, peanut head?"
Coffee could be the substitute warmth I need now.
"I think for the rest of my life, I will take coffee just like you"
Three sugars and two heavy pours of cream.
"It's funny Cher, I can't have coffee any other way since that first morning"
That first night together really changed me too, my little Popeye.
"You know, the fluorescents don't scathe you either"
They make your teeth glisten when you show them so eagerly to me.
"God, it's good to see you. To feel you. And look at you. Really look at you."
Please be careful with touching me. Your body knows enough already tonite.
You are imprisoning me with the way you lean your magnificent head towards me.
"I'm lost in this you know. I wish we could just figure it out."
And then tell the rest of anyone who cares to go away from us.
We can be on your farm together.
"Is that M.B.?"
We should go, so as to not give any false hope to anyone.
Including us.
"Get in! Get in! It's starting to rain!"
That was almost everything I wanted.
I should go home and get some rest.
"I'll come in with you, so we can find harmony in this mess."
Here we are again.
Your smell is my favorite part of this chaos.
"There is nothing I want more than to wake up and pretend that this turmoil never happened."
Let's see what we can do.
Get some rest. You've really outdone yourself this evening.


How Dare You Not Change

by hot mess, Feb 19, 2008
Change love's lost.

How dare you not change.
How dare you wear that same jacket and carry the same bag.
How dare you live your life exactly the same except without me in it.
How dare you not move and get a different job.
How dare you keep the same friends and go to the same places.
How dare you not dye your hair and change your wardrobe so I don't recognize you as easily.
How dare you still be as handsome as ever and as charismatic as anyone ever was.
How dare you not lose your charm and your attractiveness.
How dare you sit with a girl that is not me or even your girlfriend.
How dare you scowl at me for touching your friend.
How dare you say, “it's so great with you.”
How dare I care to a point of writing this shit down.



Crazy

by hot mess, Feb 13, 2008
You call it a song, I call it a poem.

I saw you on the riverbank, setting up for a gig. Your silhouette was unmistakable and lean. I found your eyes even blinded by water of sunset. I called to see if you'd come up to the bricks to see me. You made me meet you half way on the stairs. In your signature charming way, you mentioned that you would like to catch up but that you had to get ready for the gig. A single motion for me to come along and I physically walked back in time.

Thankfully your address had changed, though the street was the same. Good ol' Second Street. This time you were further from the church and the graveyard, in many ways, we were both further away. We talked to catch up. We'd both moved on, on the surface. But here on Second Street in your apartment, we found ourselves preserved. Her sandals were on your floor, but I kicked them under the couch without your knowledge.

You played a song for me. It was new you said. A new release anyway, but written a long time ago, when we belonged to one another. As it played, we never interrupted our gaze. I said it was perfect. Summed us up completely. I mentioned how your songs about us always had a common theme, not letting each other know. We both knew it was too late to tell each other now, though we had spent the last year the same, wanting to. Here is the song.

aren't i the lucky one.
even if she's just having fun.
maybe this is all a lie,
i don't care.
i'll take it.

aren't i the lucky one.
just to catch her eye or
see her sleeping there, oh she moves me.

crazy. she says i drive her crazy.
if she only knew the way i felt about her,
she'd think i was the crazy one.

crazy. she drives me so crazy.
if she only knew the things she did to me,
she'd know i was the crazy one.

oh the sweetest thing.
see her dancing there.
barefeet in the grass, lovely angel.
oh the sweetest thing, the sweetest thing.
she's had too much to drink again.
colored smiled, i'll drink to that.
oh i love it.

crazy, she says i drive her crazy.
if she only knew the way i felt about her,
she'd think i was the crazy one.

crazy, she drives me so crazy.
if she only knew the things she did to me,
she'd know i was the crazy one.

this is becoming something more than me.
this is becoming something so unreal.
just a little while is all i need.
just another smile is all i need.

crazy. she says i drive her crazy.
if she only knew the way i felt about her,
she'd think i was the crazy one.
crazy. she drives me so crazy.
if she only knew the things she did to me.
she'd know i was the crazy one.



Hear the song here



Fit Me in

by hot mess, Feb 12, 2008
Try to make time for me in your busy schedule.

I could be the trinket on your shelf that you value too much to dismantle and amuse you daily.
I could be that rubber band around your wrist and be with you always.
I could fit inside the pocket of that jacket you love so much and keep your hands warm eternally.
I could rest in your sock drawer to ensure you always have matching pairs.
I could nestle myself within the chip in your favorite wine glass so that I could meet your lips even briefly with every sip.
There are places in your life where you could fit me in. If you let me, I could bend.


So Much Touching

by hot mess, Jan 31, 2008
One of the greatest nights.

So much touching. Fear of never feeling it again matches this intensity. Starving for it in fact. Rumpled sheets and a growing glow from the outside sky. As the light grows, there are more and more shadows for us to explore. Best stop writing and get busy!


Sing Sing

by hot mess, Jan 4, 2008
There was a time for me, when the smell of cloves, expensive Men's cologne and Irish Spring soap prompted me to want to be near something so badly that it's all I wanted to do.

There was a time for me, when the smell of cloves, expensive Men's cologne and Irish Spring soap prompted me to to want to be near something so badly that it's all I wanted to do. In the middle of the night, I'd be beckoned out of bed and drive myself out to the house of the one that personified those smells. He was a talent. Not just talented, but a talent in his whole being, his body was only sinew and talent. The smell intoxicated me as I entered, only to find my other senses kissed into the awakened state that I was looking for. He smelled of all of these things, all at once. Little did I know, that long after the songs had ended and his piano fell silent, that those same scents that brought me so much joy, would later bring equal sadness.

He sang and I played witness to the invigorating motion of his lips and the penetrating sounds made with them. He sang out, freely and without self-consciousness and I felt envious of such a feat. I listened patiently and passionately while I pictured his lips of music meeting mine with the same intent in which he sang. He made music with all four parts of him and that's how he made love, he uses his hands, his heart, his lips and his mind. All notable creations and creators. When the moon is out and no one else is, we made our move to the church. We passed the graveyard and the old creaking houses dimly lit beneath the old trees. We watched the sidewalk as we feared tripping on the aging brick. Sometimes we just walked in the middle of the street to avoid such occurrences. The air was damp and cool with the ever-present clove smoke filled air. When we enter the church, it chillingly does not feel as empty as it should, though no person is about. The church is dark. There are few streaks of light on the worn wooden floor. Some of the light came in through the stained glass in the south wall from the streetlight on the other side. The rest of the light flowed from out of the prayer chapel while the Virgin Mary looked on. I tried to avoid her knowing stare amidst my passionate spell.

The smell of the church was an even mixture of incense and old wood, which created an atmosphere of something too beautiful and perfect to be real. My catholic upbringing made me feel guilty about what we were doing, but I could not bring myself to care. I was too occupied with my emotions and the awareness of all of my senses and my body to notice anything else. His hand then slid out of mine and there he was. Right in the middle of the pool of prayer candle light, he sat at the piano. His slender fingers stroked the keys as though they were partnered war heroes, and in a way, I guess they were. The church was horrifically quiet, but just as I began to notice, the sound from the piano filled the room. He was in his favorite place. He knew as well as I did that when he played he could do anything he wanted. So he played, with a clear desire in both of our minds. I sat in the last pew, legs crossed and my own fingers caressing my lips or twirling my hair. My eyes never leaving him. He would look at me momentarily and then the music would take him away again so I'd wait until the end of each song for the next interaction. I felt so awake listening to him play there. Unusually aware of my youth and appreciative that I was enjoying it. That's how he made me feel. After a few hours of this intimate show, we start, arm in arm, back to his house.

The morning is already breaking through the once black sky and I am surprisingly full of energy. Once inside the desire that we felt in the church is now taking human form in each other. We fall into his bed and it becomes unearthly mind-altering. Our clothes make for a haphazard mess on the floor and the sun breaking through the curtains makes me want to hold on even more. I turn my eyes to his, only to find that he is already looking at mine. He makes some comment about how they look like wood grain and how I drive him crazy. I'm crazy about him, and he knows it. With one long, hard kiss, it's over and he collapses on top of me. His dampened skin melds with my own and he kisses my shoulders and neck. He begins to sing to me, and tells me about what he wants to do in life, and I giggle because I can see it all happening for him. I turn onto my stomach and he hums and caresses my back until I fall asleep for a few hours before it's time to face the day. I wake him up with a few kisses and entice him to join me for a shower before I have to go. He sleepily, yet comically follows me and the shower is sweet and full of laughter. We go to Shipley's for a coffee and then I can start my day. I know that it is only a matter of hours before I get to do it all over again, and I'm filled with excitement.