started something new:

photos of myself wearing headphones in coffee shops. should be an easy project to follow through with since I am always drinking coffee and listening to music. i'll decide what the point is later, right now i'd like to illustrate my opinion of this double shot white coffee latte:

very questionable.

Friend and Sister: capitalized relationship transfer

My grandfather would cross to the other side of a street to avoid a race, and when my grandmother included an African-American woman in her stories and half-written novels, they were always "aunt" somebody or other; fat, jolly women, usually excellent cooks and supremely complacent at being drawn into a narrow, two-dimensional role.

we played a show
a living room sing along
I like it and I liked this:
folk people and folk tunes and cover songs and shiny tattoos
and i like liking these things in the generic, universal way

on the other hand,
your sense of timing is impeccable and insulting.
stop talking when you should be doing everything else.

get the chemicals in

i miss all of this.

sometimes i even miss color combinations making my eyes wet in midnight parking lots and late night typewriter flights and leaving things behind accidentally on purpose.

and i am glad that letter didn't stick around long enough to get torn in pieces.

Isabel Archer and Dorothea Brooke are slowly providing my earnest endeavors to be "really good" with protection, forming a framework of reference I need often. Their characteristics make me want to define myself as a follower of their theories, to do something wonderful accompanied by Scott Joplin's ragtime music and rain sounds on a tin roof while I dance inside.

and i just want to go home before everyone goes other places.

once again pullman is turning me rotten and bitter, and i can feel my insides going sour at night while my eyes are closed and i can't sleep. i want to go home.

historic highway cargo ship paradise

Historical Nervous

hysterical, my mother in the backyard when she realized what i'd done
(what i'd done) dug up cat bones in soggy buried shoe boxes
penitence is what we try to say on Sunday mornings with tongues too thick
and not enough grape juice in that tiny clear cup to tell full the sky:

sometimes ocean side and sometimes barely out of reach
and when i stay long enough sometimes the sea buried bride
walks down in the dark off the cliff, coming slow
and without her shoes which were swept away in twenty six seconds when:

thirteen whirlpool children look up with dry eyes, bed rock side
and while she watched the water babies began to make soft slow bubbles
metallic and solid until they woke up on the surface and whispered, "we're cold"
they took her left shoe first and she gave them her right ankle and dreamed:

if she rubbed each one between her palms long enough
decayed corpses could come back to breathe and lay quiet at night
inside slower spinning molecules and southern city heat,
drowsy and fed by the heat from full stomachs and satisfied: