Missing the Large Beasts

I saw two girls coming back from riding today, and it made me miss horses so much

Circular

Happiness runs in a circular motion

Love is like a little bird upon the sea

Everybody is a part of anything, anyway

You can be happy if you let yourself be

Gotta Love Klimt

Nightmare

I woke up

out the window

the flannel blanket covering like a curtain

I only saw dim light.

I crashed back onto the pillow,

limp hair smelling of Chanel engulfed me.

I saw his eyes again.

My nails crossed my body and the elastic shirt was peeled from my ribs and tossed onto the floor.

I saw eyes again

Roll over, roll over.

Sleep

I woke up, my leg protruded from the sheets

it glistened in the light

the curves and little bumps of sickly veins running down down into the darkness

I saw his eyes again.

I needed water

I thumped to the floor, the air wisping my naked body

Wrapped in a sheet I stumbled

Roll over, roll over

Sleep

I saw his eyes again.

FInger Nails

creatures of pelican shaped instincts

talons grasping little firey sticks that wave and wave and wave

into my pitted stomach

filled with

SUGAR!

darting out until a circle ensues

and then

VOMIT!

how lovely

Emotions HA!

Restless

paddle through the worth

through the trees tops tips of fingers

of tips of fingers and skin peeled back

and flashes through the screeching light

flight!

Tennessee Williams

He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?

He thought of the innocent mornings on Bourbon Street,
of the sunny courtyard and the iron lion’s head on the door.

He thought of the quality light could not be expected
to have again after rain,

the pigeons and drunkards coming together from under
the same stone arches, to move again in the sun’s
faint mumble of benediction with faint surprise.

He thought of the tall iron horseman before the Cabildo,
tipping his hat so gallantly towards old wharves,
the mist of the river beginning to climb about him.

He thought of the rotten-sweet odor of Old Quarter had,
so much like a warning of what he would have to learn.

He thought of belief and the gradual loss of belief
and the piercing together of something like it again.

But, oh, how his blood had almost turned in color
when once, in response to a sudden call from a window,
he stopped on a curbstone and first thought,

Love, Love, Love.

He knew he would say it. But could he believe it again?

...

He thought of his friends.

He thought of his lost companions,
of all he had touched and all whose touch he had known.

He wept for remembrance.

But when he had finished weeping, he washed his face,

he smiled at his face in the mirror, preparing to say
to you, whom he was expecting.

Love. Love. Love

But could he believe it again?

~ from the poem "Mornings on Bourbon Street"

I like these days

September 8th Possibilities

I am the thing you want

I am that thing you need

I'm faster than a skateboard

I am your late-night weed

I am the drug you crave

I am the sour lime

I'm faster than your problems

I am more you than mine

Away for a While