if it helps, i'd say i feel a little worse than i did when we met

I'm going through a process of intense self/spiritual-revelation right now. There are so many. I would like to evaporate off the face of the earth until they're over because the transition is excruciating. Crocuses pushing through a snow bank. Raised nipples before breast development. I am walking into doors and desks. I don't know where my body ends. My teeth are too big for my face.



I get a lot more paranoid than I think anyone thinks I'm capable of. The sun is technicolor-bright on the ivy. The school bus yellow crane is a finger-pistol pointed directly at me. It's still early and long low contrast shadows slant over the road. The buds on the maples outside my window are red and swollen. They are so itchy it hurts. I am writing a sonnet called Saturday at gunpoint. I would like to go back to bed.


Woke up, it's a Chelsea morning.

Last night I had a huge fucking poetic revelation.

This is a big deal.


Sunny came home with a mission.

I need to sleep for about eight thousand years. Only two things are preventing this. One of them is all this work.


the things I brought you

Carla just emailed me pictures of her new puppy. I almost died. Clearly, I win at life. How much do I love this woman.

So much, is the answer you are looking for.


Dustbin, pour toi.

The last twenty four hours have actually felt like about five thousand years.

I live in a permanent time warp. Seriously.

Among other things... Carla made chocolate chip cookies. MFV actually liked my workshop poem for the first time in workshop history. Apple is sending me a new iPod. I ate breakfast at Lady Marmalade at one p.m. on a school day. I am a saucy, red-bottomed minx indeed. I have accomplished no work since what feels like the beginning of time. Just like everyone else.


Please, ocean cloud, let there be no storm.

Last night I thought it would be a fabulous idea to try and cook myself real food. Two hours were spent buying groceries for/ making/ cleaning up after a tofu scramble with shitake mushrooms and basmati rice. I thought the whole endeavour was going to go off without a hitch until I abandoned my stove for MSN and burned said scramble to a crisp. The smoke detector gave me a a heart attack and it must have been highly amusing for the people in the apartments across the street to watch me beating a sunshine yellow dishtowel back and forth in the general direction of the ceiling until I shut the damn thing up. It took twenty minutes to scrape the carbon off the bottom of my frying pan. Such is my life as a domestic goddess.

I went to bed at nine thirty even though I should have (could have) been up until two doing the work I've fallen so far behind on. I am more exhausted now than I was twelve hours ago. My subconscious seems to think these cruel night-time jokes are funny.

In the dream, you wept when I kissed you. It feels so good, you said. Your immaculate teeth. Your mouth smelled like wet porcelain. It feels so good.


I have to write some poems.

A story is like a letter. Dear you, I'll say. Just you, without a name. Attaching a name attaches you to the world of fact, which is riskier, more hazardous: who knows what the chances are out there, of survival, yours? I will say you, you, like an old love song. You can mean more than one.


that old devil called love

One day in the very near future, I'll be overcome with a feeling of super-human productivity and will accomplish a week's worth of work in the hours between my REM time. That day is not today. Which is not to say that I'm not burning out in an attempt to make today that day.

Some days I wish January was a person so I could tell it to go eat someone else's life for once. Today is one of those days. It's becoming apparent that anyone can tell how depressed January makes me by how many boxes of bunny pasta I consume per week. The number, since the first, is appalling.


i come to you with strange fire

Almost all the snow has melted. This is lovely. My life is (almost) lovely.


The empties are piled.

Today it rained and I saw Isa Millman on campus. She grinned and said it was good to see me.

For dinner I have eaten half a box of stoned wheat thins and an entire bag of banana chips.

I wrote a poem.


- Supposing you do still love them?

- You don't leave.

Last night I made a point of not reading my Tarot cards because I was too afraid of what they might tell me. Now I know why.

These things are never wrong and it doesn't look good.

I can't believe I have to deal with this Women's Studies commentary right now. Sometimes I am so dumb.


If there's anything I've learned all these years on my own,

it's how to find my own way there, and how to find my own way home.


these fragile bodies of touch and taste

The prospect of doing school work tonight is profoundly depressing. I have nothing better to do, but it's just more effort than I can handle right now. That is even more depressing.

Apple the iPod is dying due to hardware malfunctions. She is being sent off for repairs/replacement within the next five business days. I wish technology wasn't so lame.

I also wish I could kick this nausea that's been eating my life since new year's. It's really starting to cramp my style.

DC next weekend. This makes me happy.

I have to start submitting things. This is what I will do instead of a Women's Studies 323 commentary on geneticization and sterilization.


This is just to tell you that I wear your dress sometimes.

Living alone is not really all it's cracked up to be. There is always the matter of separation anxiety, which I seem to have a more difficult time with than I thought.

One of these days I will figure out how to not cry all the time.


I drove outta there with no one behind me.

It's been snowing on and off all day. I was really hoping campus might get closed, but it didn't. The bus I rode to school on this morning:
- skidded straight into the sidewalk. Twice.
- took out a bus stop stand-alone sign pole
- got stuck in three snow banks.
And as much as I wanted to straight up die of an aneurysm, my life improved about ten million points in workshop when Carla brought in a big ice cream tub of home made oatmeal rasin cookies (of which I ate aproximately eight) and an even bigger box full of books she decided to award as prizes for last week's anonymous poetry contest, in which I somehow managed to place second.

The rest of the day was spent editing workshop poems, chilling with Elise Marcella, and eating pre-packaged sushi in the Fine Arts atrium.

I have poems to edit again. This fills me with joy.

Tomorrow I have a Scrabble date at Bean with SCR Warner. Tonight I have my entire life's worth of work to do, but it's blizzarding and I'm so warm and exhausted that I might just go to bed at eight pee em. Sleep before midnight for once would be nice. So nice.


In the last week, I have:

- been locked out of my apartment twice
- cried uncontrollably about nothing approximately eight thousand times
- written three poems
- loved my typewriter like a lover of loving love
- been offered a prestigious executive position on the university's literary journal
- bought real groceries
- had my cracked window repaired
- painted my fingernails
- experimented with vampy eye makeup
- seen a ghost
- eaten the entire planet, much to the chagrin of my digestive tract
- gone to class

In the last week, I have not:
- slept


Eros the Bittersweet

the morning light in your living

room will catch every gap
in the vase if you glue it back together.

-Triny Finlay

It's been raining all week. I can't write.
This isn't how it was supposed to go.
The end.


we will sway among the yellow grass

I haven't fallen off the face of the earth.

Things have been pretty full-moonish lately. I'm not talking until my psychosis starts waning.