routine unseason

eye of the tiger

blasting in the lyft 

heading home to

bed bugs and 

Spookytober

he even turns up

the volume

have a great night

could be a nice, clean send-off

I ask my head rhetorically and

barely agree

I can’t remember it resonating

except 

for a clear, black winter night

I can’t remember the last time

I felt cute, last night,

in my scrubs?

life will begin again

with long hair

certainly 

electricity in some joints

like a doctor poster 

in places like knees, 

I feel so much a sack

waking up

fuck napping 

waking up

worse off

but

just laying

in nothing

I love

I can count the times

I’ve done that

lately I don’t

do that 

I walked today

I can count

steps too,

you know when the sun

is just above eye level

a harsh sheet

walking the blasted sidewalks

everyone seems discombobulated 

in a Halloween way, limbs hanging

around randomly car doors

swinging and slamming hoods

glinting  and my photographic memory

is a car parked on the SIDEWALK

are we in Europe or

was it a Bird and who cared?

it’s literally a blur

I wrote

Drink Chartreuse on My Birthday

and everything went downhill

from there

my favorite color

shirt and ribbon

shredded on

hot and high

the dates are haunting

i.e. on October 14th

Mima was still alive

do you know what I mean?

the following Friday she wasn’t

all the fine lines 

between life and death

what else?

I can’t lose ____

I can’t lose ____ !

but we lose it all

on the path

to a full shed

very interesting/

what’s the point

`·.¸¸.·´´¯`··._.· 

                 `·.¸¸.·´´¯`··._.·

the couple outside of Cookbook

dressed as little kids

maybe middle schoolers

tights and socks and

a small purse

she’s swaying nervously

but ironically

he has fluffy hair and

baggy track pants

with skate shoes

they’re embracing a lot

by the parking sign

the October wind 

RR

Everything, Evening

This Very Precarious Moment Makes Me Want 

To Give Everything A Title, To Keep Things As Clear 
As Something With A Name
Seasons, The Cold And It's Unease Are Seeping In
But This Isn't Just A Season, I Want To Find Tactics As Clear 
As Giving My Life To A Monastery
Scrambling For A Name For The Feeling

And An Action For The Name
All I Know How To Do Is Write Draw Sing Sew
So I Just Do It, Frenzied And Fine

Titling Is One Action To Take
Calling Myself An Artist Without Hesitation
A Curse Or A Blessing? A Power Or Weakness?
The Vibe And Visuals By Chance And By Choice For This Precarious Moment

Are They Important Or Arbitrary
E.G., Billowing Sateen, Syrup On The Passenger Seat

Evening Dress French Silk Metallic Thread Glass

Everything / Evening 
Everything As An Evening Gown
Painting A Gown In The Evening As My Everything
Does It Matter If That Makes Any Sense

How Irresponsible Is Or Isn't It
To Document This Human Frivolity And Beauty
To String My Friends' Names Into A Song
Beauty Because Beauty Because Beauty

I Keep Trying To Sum It Up

The Last 25 Years Have Been So Important

9/11 Iraq Obama Occupy Arab Spring Trump And UN Climate Report

It's Called "The Post-Truth Era" And Also "The Anthropocene"

I Know Several Newborn Babies And There Is This Ultimatum Of Twelve Years

In My Life Of Making Things 
I've Named Things With Nouns And Subbed Nouns For Notions
Nouns Feel More Active Than Trying To Make A Statement

Flower Puppet Silver Puppy Wave Whirl Etc.
Because They are Immutable Symbols, Immutable Vibes?

Because We Are Collectors?

Gleaners, Just Like How The Bee Documentary Described Bees

The Documentary Said The Flowers That Are Beautiful To Bees 
Are The Same Ones That Are Beautiful To Us
The Flowers Whose Scents We Find Pleasing
Are Also Their Favorites

all leaves/more midnight

nomad in my own house

what's storage

what's cute

what's about to crack in half?

she said she was living 

on borrowed time 

in her old house

on the faultline --

our house has its own fault lines

I’ve taken to grooming to doing 

something daily

if only the floor was clean and

didn’t make its own 

dirt

but I’m not scared anymore 

of the dirt or of the death

beyond it

and I can’t shake the sound 

of crashing glass

the shards in the coffee grinder

do I still use it? a leaf too

old, from a season

art as suggestion

art as email me if you want more

thick, veiny legs

nearly 26 and kind of

disappointed

if I'm being shallow

in my own house (body)

didn't think I'd get here so fast 

but it's not a thought ever

the truth of time 

is never a thought

there are shiny hairs

I scrutinize 

blond or 

silver?

Aspen said blond in a husky

voice and I don’t believe her

she was a bro and she gave

me a mom haircut 

I went with a Groupon and left

in tears 

I cut my armpits with 

dull blades

at weird angles

I bleed like a faucet a blood

blister becomes a permanent body part

who can help?

——

I like to be surrounded by the options

for documentaries, you know

accidental playlists

the internet 

it’s sticky af

——

even more midnight

——

I get hot thinking about

my new drawing

but dream that my art was worse

the posterboards had thick and dirty

foam edges

how am I gonna hide this in a frame?

and that squeaky thing

tiny danseur

is this 'biological clock'?
all the baby dreams
you can hand me that baby






waking up with babies on the brain
and also thinking about
an acquaintance that I wish I knew better

it feels poignant
missing this would-be friend








the poetry in me is skimpy atm
please listen to Debussy,
2 Arabesques: No. 1, Andantino con moto

* * * **** ** *







falling of notes like rain







the humidity weaves a web of mold
in and out and through everything
and it stalks out onto the walls
and the underside of my big desk
fat green leopard print










all of the would-be friends
that I know
and faraway friends

do they wonder about me?



I'm here if they need me
at my spotty desk












we all have passion fatigue
discussing the *current situation in politics*
it seems so blatant, so surreally obvious
the hell and the hand-basket of it all





can we take our government back?
can we make it work for us?
as it never truly has






the mounting dramas of each day
we have never been 
what we say we are
Great U.S.A. the best









there is a type of bug on my desk that I've never seen before
who seems to like Debussy

his movements are extremely fluid
and he tiptoes then pauses, bobbing his head slowly
like a tiny danseur





his antennae cast a shadow
two decorative serifs 
on the white watermarked paper he dances across

job or baby

PT1

dream I was Andrea's baby
getting woken up continuously
in a dark room
she was bent over me
like in a crib
rubbing my belly
and I was plagued
with the heaviest sleep
I can imagine
or
I was carrying her baby
for her, sleeping on duty
it was partially OK
but it was time for her to lay down
I had to get off the bed
in my sporty clothes,
slightly raised belly &
ankle socks

she was sage-y
reappearing again and
again like a witch
I'm hot and can't breathe and
can't imagine being awake-
job or baby?


PT2

I'm in a car on a scary dark road
with a gun pointed at my face
because it's an area for some
civic duty
I was exempt, tried to show my heavy fur
by pushing my chest forward through
the unbearable sleep
Val Verde or something

when I come here I say hella
and he just writes in with a knife
in toast