the streets are rivers.

this hot and sticky rain is like death

because it's invading me,

with unwelcome solstice

convincing me to laze and squander

precious october

with ferocious

lackadaisicality.



but apparently,

the smell of brown sugar and milk

(and, i think, the welcoming glow of

static twinkle lights)

makes new friends

with the once bitter.

and i like that.



so despite this bone-deep feeling of dampness

that just happens

when you've been rained on

for too long,

the night beckons prolonged productivity.

and friendship

and conversations

encourage growth

in the antiprocrastatuitary gland.

conviction.

what are we,
underneath our wet, selfish flesh,
beneath our beauty and blemish,
before our desire and our appetite?

after music, hunger, promiscuity,
deceit, conceit, talent and laziness--
we are nothing but the skeletons
that we take for granted.

while these words enamor me,
put into appealing contexts and
alluring rhythms, in the end,
what does it even matter?

they call me Ms. Fatalistic,
for i'm a one-woman show,
aware that whether it be
tomorrow
or sixty years from
tomorrow,
death will one day consume me.

it's fate that befuddles me.
it's religion that eludes me.
it's desire that confounds me.
it's fear that moves me.

i can feel it,
even as i splurge on slimjims
and listen to my lady heroes,
the death in my bones.

like the ache in my shoulder blade going on
three days,
like the heat that envelopes me
in my sleep--

deathrattle will shake and roll,
and my humanity, her viral target.
and i will feel my flesh evaporate from my
soft and tender tissue,
and my bones will shatter.
my bones will shatter.

and death will seize me,
and from there, i do not know
where my soul will go.
the lovers of my weary wondering heart say
to heaven.

but all i know is
one day
my dry and brittle bones
will shatter.

just another word.

i'm over it.

high school, you're fading;
the drama, so out of style.
summer is encroaching
with her brooding comforts
of heated air,
blanketing freedom, and
frivolous yearning.
over the horizon i see
the promises of a new life,
University.

multiple hands are touching me,
grasping at my heart, my chest, my shoulders,
and they're all very
alluring.
so test the waters
dip in your toes
and feel your soul begin to
whet.

i feel these fingers so close,
the loops and whorls of the prints
grazing my skin,
brushing aside my hair
and causing nervous laughter to escape from the place where it was held,
pressed between my tongue and my teeth,
and pass through my purs'ed lips.

yes, it feels eerie, but so does the falling
in and "out" and back in
that icky sticky thing called infatuation,
popularly mistaken for something
blithe and lymphatic
we claim to be
Love.

funny how these songs can tumble through my eardrums,
then land on you and become like our anthem.

it's throbbing beats and
repetitive words,
like 'hallelujah' and 'encore'
that are tickling my freshly pierced lobes
on their way
to my soul.

productivity*

that sweet feeling
from hot bedtime tea on your throat
correlates with that pissy feeling inside
your stomach that happens when
you fight with your best friend.
they're opposite, which is annoying,
and the comfort is annoying too,
but you continue to sip as the water gets colder,
room temp.

coldplay in your ears
is hardly cold,
but warm and inviting
as buddies become real besties,
and your phone lights up with
unexpected support
that you know deeply downly
you should have been expecting,
all along.

it is poetry, that realization,
that while you doubted and your knees ached,
he remembered what you told him ages ago,
about not listening to anything you say after midnight.
(because of course you already know,
nothing good happens after midnight.)

the understanding of forgiveness is
palpable, late at night.

sweet december roses.

words are pummeling at the brick walls of my spirit,
Creativity,
and they, like magical icicles,
are shattering themselves and the barriers,
impeding any chance i had to prevent them from stirring within me,
Inspiration.

now these words, crumbled,
melt like liquid thought into my mouth,
and whet my taste for more,
Intrigue.
it is like stories that birth from feet to hands,
and learn themselves a spine
(Publish me, they cry).

so to the market they travel,
brave words with tiny tin souls,
and on shimmering hope they go,
in your eyes, they hope and shine,
dipping in your soul,
and tasting you as you try them out too,
Adoration.

so belly these sounds,
the ones on the page that your mind makes magic by
Interpretation,
and oh, that bird,
like glass and ornaments she glistens and twirls,
as you label her beautiful or loved,
or disliked, sometimes.

dance under red, green, and quiet white,
chills down your neck from kisses on your nose,
and feel the cold air sweep around your skin.
(just remember those words,
and admire sweet December roses.)

bedazzled.

my lips are shaded in with pink words,
like "uninhibited" and, yet, "sensible."
my eyes scream words,
whispered words,
that say,
"come closer."

my nose is a quiet nose,
and does not say much.
but she nods politely and agrees with most of what you say.

my chin is solid, and tells her opinions.
she likes to put herself in line with my nose and compete with the good manners,
saying just what's on her mind,
what's on my mind, too.

my cheekbones are hidden beneath soft mounds of face,
and you can't always tell they're as stubborn and sexual as they really are.
but they're there,
which is kind of like the sharpness of my soul
(it's not always noticeable).

my eyebrows wrestle with eachother often,
always deep in thought am i, and they are the two who get to plow it all out in physical form.
my left one is always more opinionated, and usually wins the fights,
with lots of swear words and a smirk or two.

my forehead is like the father of my face,
overseeing everything that takes place,
and only ever makes objections every now and then,
with little irritating pimples, or sometimes wrinkly furrows of disapproval or concern.

my eyes still tell all the stories, though.
they're blue most of the time, and that's when i'm sweet.
the green-girl is most mysterious,
and she likes to come out and talk sometimes, too.

all in all, my ears and nostrils and so overly-cocky left eyebrow are all feeling restless.
each is craving her new mark.
they will be jeweled one day,
and then our stories will be
bedazzled.

sensation.

blonde girl is seeing things,
like a bright light called her future,
and colors neon and flickering
like times square and
tokyo.

she is hearing things,
like audiences cheering,
(hands clapping in secret rhythms of course her ears catch)
and blaring noises,
like the sirens of new things
or emergencies.

distinctly, she can feel the touch from all her lovers,
and undeservedly,
they all feel loving, even in memory.
privately,
she misses most of them, too.

through her not-yet-pierced nostrils she can smell
baking banana bread and hot green tea,
and it reminds her of her childrens childhood.
and it makes her smile.

through her ears she hears more noises,
like the 'click-clack' of inspiration,
and this too, makes her smile.

she sees with her eyes the room she lives in,
and notes the things like posters and paintings,
and poetry too.
she likes things with P's
(like, People).

[you put poetry inside me. no one else does that like you do.]