and what of it except
the stinging animal regrets
cool and white and drenched in malaise

like mayonnaise with little diamonds in them
but you can’t be a vegan
with mayonnaise.

somewhere out alone walks
in this snow
under this halo-ed moon
the girl whose nose burns
and burns

the grass crawls up
tries to get out from underneath this
aching death

and look at me here!
no manners at all!
no closer to welcoming the snow angel
who has already ransacked my blood-filled cupboard

with hands that sting with your bitter hope
and with eyes that tear thinking of your panacea,
your soft and quavering lips,
your abdomen yet tender and warm.

god – fate – muse –
how cruel minerva disdains
and how foolishly eros admonishes
and how poor pysche,
more beautiful than aphrodite,
must be tried to prove what is already hers.

it only matters by the end of it
how willing you were.
this alone is love.
and no other atonement can be made.

save me, save us
graceful, dark haired angel of the snow.

i am beginning to lose hope.



it’s so _hot_ right underneath my skin
and my breathing, while it doesn’t hurt,
doesn’t make it any better

why are the foolish ever blessed?
i am stuck, mired, in chains of modesty
drowning in a lukewarm sugar pudding

eight little yeses, eight little noes,
stuck looking for a return
and it makes me hate myself (and why?)

how depressing,
the clown, pagliacci,
as he types words he can’t intone

i want to move far away just because it is there.

and this fucking poetry that i try to write is so fucking trite.
goddamnit i have no use.

lead paint

tactical. less so than normal
ever so subtle, the noise which has built for eternity, now silent
like a bowling ball falling
down a greased, hot and ready corridor.

is it the milk i drank as a child?
does it mar the soul
and cause this feverish delusion
that makes me breathe further and deeper this cold air?

the angels laugh on their clouds
and are welcome to.
i remained pleasantly engaged
with this book about a pregnant teenager in a coma (sparky!)

and today there is no muse
what plodding words

An open letter to my mother in (rather ugly) french

Chere maman,

bonjour. j’espere q’ aujourd’hui tu demuerre chaud a ce nuit froid.

bien les gens on m’a dit que je dois te deteste. je ne comprends pas pourquoi. ci vous et mon pere n’aime pas les uns les autres, ca n’inquiete pas moi. je n’ai pas besoin de connaisance de la. ne pas inquiete de la, s’il te plait.

que je peux te connaitre, et aussi ma souer, ce la me rend heureux. j’espere que tu as jamais pleure a cause de moi, mais je pense que tu as pleure quelquefois, au moins.  ma souer as dit que tu les deux as les querrelles a cause de moi. je me sens coupable, un peu, car mon absence a fait elle me cherchez, si seulement a facebook.

mais je suis tellement heureux qu’elle as me cherche. ce jour-la je suis devenu un frere, et je suis devenu ensuite un gierhart aux yeux des quelqu’un. 

j’ai eu les meilleur noel dans l’ohio cette anne. j’espere qu’a noel ensuite, la neige va tomber tout aussi belle.

ne jamais plus pleure a cause de moi, mere. je suis tellement heureux.

merci, aussi, pour l’elevage de ma souer. elle est une humaine marveiileuse.

je ne peux pas pense a francaise. je dois fin mon ecriture.

a bientot, maman. soyez toujours sage, comme dans ma tete.