poem

Everyday 
I learn and grow
and I started from such a small seed
that
the wilts, bumps, and bruises
still impress me.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

all bread is holy

"Nick Cade could shoot his arm full of crack and then no change would have occured-" Or something along those lines- Snapped me out of my ants-y-ness- and in three seconds- I thought of my arm, ripped open, heart bursting and bloated, Nan Goldin, and my mother. Blinking back into the lecture, I thought of my career, and then the thin scabbing on my knuckles. Good morning Good morning Good morning Good morning Good morning Algorithmic Communities.  I don't want to write. I want to have sex.  And as you'd think this blog would simply be "brain dumping"- that my streams of consciousness are ever flowing and all exposed, I cannot bring myself to sum up the achey and sopping mess thats been occupying my brain into any productive poet speak. I have already told you, or someone has told you better, or perhaps you don't deserve to know, or I can't open that up to you yet. I've been obsessive about the ecstasy of my physical form. I mull over fantasies, I...
Read more

dilapidated dilapidated dilapidated

i've fallen out of habit and i am the paying the consequences of doing so. but things happen in these synchronic loops, seasonal sacred geometry, allusions to religious syncretism. i try to remember everything but i end up lying in bed too heavy. little things, like yelling at my dad, birds in the winter time, estranged eye contact and devotion to the stomach send me back on track.  i keep getting distracted. let me tell you about what i really want. i want a 2 story house with an attic and a basement. i want old wood floors and an ornate fireplace. i want a personal library and a home computer. i want an attic where i can make a guest room with a triangle ceiling and a circle glass window and i can sit on an old couch and smoke inside. i want big couches and turkish glass lamps and oriental rugs and throw pillows with tassels. i don't drink red wine but i want a big rack of it for my friends. i want a queen bed with a feather duvet and 2 cats. i want a kitchen i can bake brea...
Read more

cowgirl, sing yourself to sleep.

lately, strangely, i've been very aware of my hands. and at night i find them weaving through my own hair, caressing my own skin. petting myself, cooing myself. it makes me sad, sad in a triumphant way. the only way you could interrupt my safety would be to cut off my own fingers, and i would still find a way to rub my cheek against my shoulder, enjoy the touch of love, my own love. cowgirl, sing yourself to sleep.
Read more