it's a mystery

the way things go.
the people i've met,
the ways in which we part.

who will take me as i am?
who wants more from me?

it's a mystery,
this life i'm living.

bad girl.

it's a new low
even for me.
on again, off again
off now for good.

there's no hope for them now
and all i ask for is some understanding
that this is all in good fun.
i don't want to hurt anyone.
i just want to get through this.

trifecta

i seem to be drowning in a sea of three.

three for the days wasted
three for the nights that fell
three for misery and sadness caused
three for toil and exhaustion
three for kinship and blood
three for hours rested

i am anxious for steady progression
for four walls to envelope me
for comfort in something that lies beyond three.

codependency

it's keeping in touch.
it's knowing what's up.
it's making the love.

it's bringing it all together.
it's keeping me sane.
it's probably harmful,
but it's making me happy.


god damn it.

it's been years since we were born.

i've been watching the clock
go round for hours
i don't know which is more
painful--trying to fathom
the length of eternity or knowing
that you feel so completely alone.

i'm sorry.

reunions.

ah, bless. as they say.


if i weren't too tired to think, i would praise the simplistic joy i feel in bringing people together.

fucking right, dude. fucking right.

deception.

it's an awful role to play.

in contrast to my everyday,
i don't seem to make sense.

some people are bitches.

and i'm not one of them.

okay, i am a little.
but while the world keeps doing its thing--turning, turning and turning
i'm going to sit back.
absorb it all.
laugh at them, cry for them, wonder about them.

this life is a tragedy. here one moment, and gone the next.
it's only fair that we do what we want, say what we think.
raise our voices in opposition or in rally-cries.
it is important that we love when we love, but not to the extreme.

live just to be in it.

so it goes.

yesterday
we lost a voice. a thought-provoking, triumphant and hilarious voice.

there's nothing left to argue.
kurt vonnegut is dead.

what.

i can't help myself.
i am a total disaster.


what would i be if i were miles away from here now?

shortbread and pineapples.

of course.
it's always about food.

never about emotions.

this was suppposed to mean something, but i am suddenly at a loss.
i don't know what i am waiting for. or maybe i do, and i know that it's just entirely unattainable.

it usually is.

happier now.

i find myself waiting for the perfect moment.
waiting for one perfect moment after another.

i don't feel for myself anymore.
instead, it's other people's poetry that influences my most intimate thoughts.
and every song on the radio contributes something.
not every word, and not every note.
but every constant hum from harmonic lips speaks volumes to me.
the steady, unassuming, and virtually unnoticed notes that exist only in contentment,
and at the same time, total melodic bliss--high-pitched and free.
soaring and smoldering, simultaneously.
sexy and sad.

"she is smiling and said 'come on'."

an invitation to be vulnerable,
but an obligation to her hardened heart.

a love song.

"and like falling stars, back down to sleep we'll go

to our waiting arms and orbits round the globe.
coverlets and down will catch you when you fall. . ."

one year ago,
i reveled in its misery.
the bittersweet love song that echoed the mild aching in my chest and the tumbling torrent contained in the storm clouds just above my head.
i remember the sentiment perfectly.
i can taste the salt of that very moment.

tonight, its the same song, the same season. the same strained voice.
but now i sense something else.
this time there is longing, desire, and lonliness under his words.

"baby, that's not all."

I wonder. I wonder how this might be different
if i could get you to look at me with your perfect eyes,
to speak to me with your perfect voice.
for you to walk away from me.
for you to let me fall.

"baby, that's not all."

you like drinking games, do you?

every year, the president of the united states recites a well-rehearsed script informing us, his beloved citizens, of the state of our blessed union.

every year, as a coping mechanism, i play along. i've developed a little game called, "pick a word of patriotism." each person chooses a word the president is likely to use during the SOTU address (congress, democracy, weapons of mass destruction, etc.) for every time the president utters your word, you get to take a drink of the alcohol of your choice. it's fun, and it fucks you up. . .enough to tolerate the bushisms, anyway.

well. . .look what the new york times did.

they gave us a little interactive tool to analyze exactly how wasted you've gotten yourself during the last 7 speeches.

for example, i chose the word "freedom." according to the NYT, i guzzled from my wine glass seventeen times in 2006, but was only afforded with 3 shots of jagermeister in 2007.
my little brother happened to be in the united states during last years SOTU, and he picked the word "america." for all his trouble, george bush awarded him with 72 chances to sip whiskey. this year, had pat been in the country, he would have drank 42 more times.

so maybe it's "hope" you're into, or "iraq," or "oil" perhaps. but let me warn you, "global warming" is not an advised choice, as the president has only addressed the concept once in the last 7 speeches, and even then referred to it as a "global climate change."

it's too bad they don't have a graphic to show how many monkey faces he makes. maybe next year.

scars are a reminder.

of good things, i'm sure.
the pain was only temporary
and even when the wound was fresh, i barely noticed.
i see this gash across my wrist now, and it makes me smile.
not a sick, twisted, masochistic grin,
but a nostalgic, lingering, satisfied smirk.
maybe if i pick at it enough, it will never go away.
it will become a constant reminder
of one vague and glorious evening that i can't recall.

callused hands.

and what is poetry anyway?
who writes it, and how do they really feel?
twisted and tangled emotions around my heart--
my waist, my neck, my legs.
twisted and tangled the sheets on your bed.
why not everyday?
why not tonight?

help me remember the night.
help me to remember why.
convince me we had more than a few good reasons,
we had music, we had shadows, we had the place to ourselves.
convince me there will be other nights--
there will be other nights.

just let me make the most of it.
let me make the most of you.

midwest boys play stupid games.

my sister drunk dialed me tonight. all the way from ireland.
i love her. i love her. i love her.


thank you, katie. i'm sure this will all work itself out, but in the meantime, i loved trying to make some sense of it with you. you really are beautiful, and you really do know it.


so enough with the games, boys. just assume that it's going to work. i'm not going to tug you around on a string, i won't use "cute" pet names, i won't embarrass you in front of your friends, hell i don't even have to be around your friends. to be honest, it's not them i find very interesting; it's you. foreign men apparently have mastered the art of seduction, while coastal types at least attempt to be charming. it's time to step up, before i lose interest in the midwest completely.