i wish we were always new, in bloom
our laced toes stumble upon the ripest fruit
of juice so new,
limbs fertile as the full of moon.

i want to create, i want to use my brain, i want thoughts to appear in tiny cartoons from my ears and dance across the page. i keep thinking the paper will make words appear. i am still fucking blocked. i will write about not being able to create. i will write about not writing. i will start every sentence with "i". i was always my favorite, anyway. i want fruit on the bottom yogurt. i don't care if there's liquid on the top. i think that's what makes it good. i think you just have to mix it. i am reading some sad poetry and maybe that is what has been stifling my creativity or rather my ability to find these fucking words. i think the trouble is not only literary. i used to be able to write for hours, complete bullshit. i thought at least it was making my mind work. i don't really know if i have any bullshit, either. i should probably buy some new anti-virus software just to get this reminder from popping up all the time. i think that's it.

we were never 'just friends'

slept on your back

hiding daylight from our clasp
the mind thinks it's so correct. Shed shared disillusion with locked thighs,

grazed backs.

(...to be continued)

so long since i have created something to be proud of. what has possessed me

i want to continue posting chosen magnetic slews of words at least it has some substance

i am terribly uncommitted i want to release something i need more than what i have i see fingers grazing my skin but only their shadow

but the way you are structured
it is quite obvious,
no type of film can capture your smile
(or the way you saw me out of your eyes)

cage to cave, "now this is my skin i feel"

Know the words are inside this cage.
I lost the sense to see them,
the way they curve and capture letters in one body,
onto the page
explode out of the prison,
into complete openness. It's gone.

The poetic game of hide-and-seek,
reach down throats and force them.

Words have just turned into snores,
snores, words, snores,
words are snores voices are snores
they drone,
gazing in quotation boxes over my barely living heads.

I envelope the dusk and sit still, longing for Better Days,
writing all over the page
when your hair didn't curl that way.
When poems were said with warmth,
not caged displays of tolerance.

you have thoughts about your veins twining in thick energy, glazed by haunted skin and marbled past. have you become the trunk in which is held between my shoulder blades keeping me in place? no, i don't think you have.

it is now the "new year" let it be happy! everyone will be talking about BEGINNINGS time warps and change until this year is over so we can reminisce about how terrible it was (again, haven't you said that every passing?) really it is just 365 days perhaps that is seen as a substantial amount of time but to me it is all just the same.

today i learned that it is just an arms length away.