Poor, Poor Doogie--> Where is Your Bone?

A few decent, law abiding words have been buried deep in this digital sepia tomb.

Oh, sure. Maybe it was their time to go. They were terribly unphotogenic and late night, mushy-mouthed kissers. Yes. Definitely punishable offenses it's true.

But should it be Gorey? Like Amy, always tumbling down stairs? Bad form that.



I dunno.

I'm having a tough time, Lords and Ladies of the realm. I'm twiddle-thumb waiting for the Shy to inherit the Earth. The Poor don't seem to be in the running. Such hubris abounds! I find it on my own lips, penciled Cruella for a Friday night sta..stumble home.

Sad, sipping eyes
and tearing mouths
drip heart-wounds on nicely relaid,
reclaimed wooden floors.

Reader board retinas in neon scroll: I always expect more than what I settle for .
The mark- not Cain's - of urbane (thankyoukindly) loneliness.


Bah.

The wind blows its stolen horde past my window; their E minor whistles and fugue state enviable on this Saturday morning after. If a New Year begins in winter so can I. Which, by my calculations, leaves me the rest of Fall to tumble.

Besides, there's always season two of Little Britain...

It's A *NEW* Post, Pre-Post Announcement Post!!

The seal has been broken.


Please use this opportunity to stage any back-in-the-saddle quips to a willing and receptive audience.

Something longer, if not more interesting, is baking in the oven.

I Like You. And Other Semi-Drunken Mid-Morning Musings of a Girl Going West For The Summer.

I've never spent a summer in NYC even though I've lived in Brooklyn for over two years. That's two summers, going on three now, that I'll have missed. I'm told they're horrible. Miserable. Hot and sticky, hit your head on the wall, bite your lips wretched. The smell's enough, I'm told, to make grown men gag and gentle ladies swoon for softer times. Arms and legs covered in soot. Eyes yellowed by the smog. All the natural injustices of urban living slammed into three glorious months of angry drinking.

I've been drinking this morning. It's no longer morning but BRUNCH is a magical event that legitimizes cheap champs in the am. It makes the morning longer and the evening stretch into infinitude. Yes, I've come home for a break between goodbyes. I suppose people aren't supposed to admit such things these days.

Aside from Saturday morning sloshing, yes. I do yoga. I jog. I eat well and wise and healthy. My cupboard is full of as many orgasmic organics as I can afford. I thrive on nature. I recycle. I refuse plastic bags when offered. I take mass transit when I donate time to the local animal shelter. I needlepoint and Just Say No to Rickrolling.

But since I've been such a lackluster poster of late, and before a weekend of the tall and darkly handsome ex of no one I know, the National, Ladyhawk and Neva Dinova takes my soul, I'm going to have a go at some good ol' fashioned musing.

Wait? Did I mention turning 30 recently? I know I said the date but did I give the demon a number? No. Of course I didn't. More than turning 21, turning 30 has loomed on my horizon for as long as I can remember. It always seemed like such a magical number. The time when girls loose their girlishness and wrap themselves in womanhood. Not a sapphic allusion, although it could be, but rather the embodiment of an ideal.

Such awkwardness infected my youth that I've always longed for being older, wiser and kinder. A realer person of merit and meaning, you know. No more fake empires of my own making. When all the semi-perfect moments would congeal into my particular brand of sophistication, a wafting, lingering scent to tangle and confuse in the wake of my passing, not into the hereafter, but rather into the now.

A now that should consist of me getting ready for today's GOODBYES round two; but Procrastination, the tempter I succumb to most these days, wins. My den wins. The sweet little home I've made for myself wins.

I'm not looking forward to leaving it in 23 days.

The night winks. A grey sky threatening frizz, and ruined heels, and soaked stockings stares at me through this window here to silky bedsheets a tangle, half made-up and thoroughly unmade by this merry-go-round's mistakes, just in time to catch my busily buzzing phone prattling off tonight's festivities.

"Oh, and don't forget your all white outfit for the 25th!!! xoxo," she texts. The one where the Bloody Mary contest threatens to mass murder all those lovely, dovely pale and pristine pleats. I have Carrie fantasies of dumping a pitcher of bleeding marys on my gasping, upturned vintage Vuarnet-ed face.

No. I'm not looking forward to leaving in 23 days at all.

Save a little dirty, dingy summer for me. I'll be back. Promise.

Head Down. Keep Your Head Down. Remember: All Storms Pass.

I am my youth.

Listening to the cure top volume, a hard working fan on high to cut the atonal mash-up of anger and ego with white noise. No disco beat. No boogie.

Still, the door slamming its heavy sighs, stink eyes polluted and streaming with fears; they all find their way into my cozy den.

Of course, determination is 9/10ths of the law in Emo(tional) Court. Where there are no laws only louder i say so's.



Nope. Nope. That didn't happen. (I say so. I say so) It can be proved. Your Honor (if you had any), as you can see, it's all there. See? Irrefutable.


And I'd rather talk about Attila the Hun v. Ghengis Khan, or mirror neurons, or lavender honey, or that silly thing on 4chan or ANYTHING other than the crappity crap crap crap of the the last few weeks. No really. Anything. At. All.

Anchor dropped, I'm rocking it out. The winds, they don't bother me. My smile more fearsome the sound of clapping thunder than the wooden spoon rattled pot banging away in those dank cupboards.

The worst thing? Not the insults and the slams. No not even close. It's the awful impulse to do something REALLY bad (because that'll show 'em. Ohhhh it will. It certainly, certainly will.)

But no.
Those lessons are not an interesting relearn their seventy-second time round.

So I listen, and I grin my deafening grin. And I gnash my terrrrrrible vowels. And I ROOOOAR my terrible whore's roar with elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist in readiness; an old prom court wave to send that leaky bucket off to another unlucky shore.


Because beginnings are good.

And Just What Do you Have To Say For Yourself Young Lady?

This----> http://www.hillaryismomjeans.com


Just when you thought there was no longer an interesting way to debate domestic politics, along came hillaryismomjeans.


I consider it a happy birthday to me.

Carry on. I shall have more for all ya'll very soon. But not for YOU [yOu know who I mean]. YOU've had quite enough. Thank you very much. ppfffft.



besitos y besitos.

Your Mysteries Are Miseries Cleverly Hidden In Mud

I found it there where it had been left on its side, silently tilting.
Goldenly perfect it began to move. Wondering what it was and where it was from, my eyes made it mine. Shivering from within, the luminous slithering form grabbed at the earth with sheltered fists, making its way with careful sincerity to where I stood. Waiting.


Your hope.
Your hope makes me smash at this carbonized form.
Breathing to break free. Desperate for sorrow.

These legs that hold me? They were arms a minute ago.
And a minute from now they'll be the air you bring deep into your dark depths.
It can't be helped.

Fragrant with waves that taste of Spring [it said]: Hope.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------->



The days are cold.

The nights are smothered with scarves and the hush of expectations whispered into bottomless glasses. Old friendships run to ground, gasping their last breaths, bellies leaking sugared secrets into the malted surf.

"Talk straight," he said.

"I do. All week long. But on days when the sun meets me halfway, I like to hum."

"Fine, but as long as you're humming..."





[Remember]






Good things come in threes.

Coming Up Poses

I am a leader of men. My beauty and power make you love me. Love me or else.

Was written in black nail polish over her bed.

"What do they say to that?"

"Who?" she said.

"Umm. The people who sleep there with you."

"I dunno if they're staring at my walls, bitch."


True that. True that.

You Remind Me Of Someone You Thought You Knew. No Really. It's 2008 and Everything's Grrreeaat!!

Is it an epic slavering beast that drips these drops from high to low, the moisture needed to form from scattered ashen dunes the casual shadow of me left lounging in the aborted shade of some kneeling tree? Phew.

I don't know. Spit dries. Then what?

When the sky calls back its savor, will I gasp in arid wonder at my brief spell of togetherness-- when all the electric pulses paused in tandem their celestial pursuits to make me, for a tic, before shaking apart to hide in caves as crystals, or Fraggles or whatever your nose just Hoovered?

Yes. Sure. Why the fuck not? I like it like that. The little bits of you left on me, and to be fair, vise versa, make us partners in this shakedown. 50/50. My thieves honor is as good as yours, never fear.

Put down your guns, your garters, your gingerbread walls and know that whatever makes you breaks you-- it shakes you where you stand, shivering in the winds that can't care.

And your poems are pennies. Their copper stolen, collected on your busy hands and sturdy knees while you bumble amid tilting flowers already mined a million times by busier hands and sturdier knees.

Does that sound like Doom's gong on this fake-out of a Spring day?

I hope not.

Because this year feels good in my hands already; I feel like writing.