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Monthly Archives: November 2012


I’m high as I’m hi Justine I
Anastaysia, via Siri

M and I used to talk in high school about poets; about whether, though she was the one who wrote, I was the one doomed to be.

I hunted heaven
for him.

No dice.

Too uppity,
it was. Not enough

music, or dark dirt. . .
Kevin Young, Pietà

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Flesh-blood colors.

I knew I should take a picture for the crescent moon today, but I was too embarrassed to stop on the bridge with so many people crossing it too. I pretended to just be holding my phone in some funny way and hit the camera button twice.

Swallow your spit, my professor tells me several times weekly these days. “Move your tailbone. Some kind of inhibition has held you. Don’t let it rule.”

I like my plastic-wrap blanket: the wrinkled, tight, clear layers that let me appear to be but not have to move to be.

I’ll grasp scissors; start stabbing, jabbing, slicing upward, and ripping it. Mold flesh and blood and meat on the bones I built.

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What if he plays Thrift Shop for three hours?

I observed Escher, I love Basquiat
I watched Keith Harring, you see I study art
The greats weren’t great because at birth they could paint
The greats were great cause they paint a lot
Ten Thousand Hours felt like ten thousand hands; ten thousand hands, they carry me.

I’m glad he didn’t. Would’ve been great either way, though, it’s true.

At Macklemore last night. This morning, remnants a water bottle and ghost music. good things.

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