Constantly Untangling Cranes

And growing. but only in circles and dark wrinkled membrane. Many rooms through out a day are empty and perfectly placed, waiting for visitors and shoeless sitting in.
If I could just tousle and let my hair. If I could just care deeply and act with such intention. I seem to grab at suffering with clothes hangers. So many coats are added to the rack. So many bags and pillows in the back seat of my car. No room for the baby.

In the gap of transportation people dash cross streets.

I am untangling cranes and changing hand towels and wiping crumbs off the bed.
Your belly is the sweetest softest rest in. Under these sheets time is only. Fleeting Thought. What would you do? I sit in mountains. I walk alone.

Everyone is an empty row boat.

Vows. A commitment to Truth. The psychosis of relationship. Impermanance.

Turn to me. And pluck out eyes with eyes. I am just another who will die I know. But I want you to always be mine and with me in my bed, I want us to always be happy together. You wake up with dreams of a past lover and I go upstairs to make us breakfast forever. Peppermint and ginger are too sharp in the back of my throat when put into the same glass at the same time. You write songs you leave on your piano I read when you’re not around. I can’t read the books I want to when I want you on my neck. I can’t read the books I need to read when you are on my neck. The internet isn’t working. All the furniture in the place where I keep my stuff is gone. I sleep on a hard floor if you don’t call me in fifteen minutes. I make rules to make sure I’m not ruled by something like my want to be with you. Time is only sacred when I light candles and turn on music. A bath and salts. When I pretend to enjoy being lonely. I think about all the manipulative things I could say to you. The internet isn’t working. Who am I next to her? Asian women are a threat from now on – an entire race able to take you away. I am just books and bad credit. I am just twenty-three, and sweet. I am just white and soft and young right now. After I give birth to your children, I hope you know. That every woman grows old. Our children will have blue eyes and dirty blond hair. Have you seen my mother? You didn’t’ like me in the house where I grew up. You don’t like me when I’m sick or sad. You don’t like me every other month. Our cards read schizophrenic. You love me yesterday. OK. Well. Goodnight. I love you. You call me by my first name like it is a name you’ve given me out of your fondness. When you write songs about love, you say “you” but who are you referring to? Cause tonight it was “you” meaning her. like she is the “you” you have always referred to. The one you will always refer to. I’m not crazy. I don’t think I can do this anymore. My space is not mine without you. What would my room look like if it was yours too? Let’s move in and get all unconventionally domestic. Let’s always come home to each other and be more excited about it everyday. Call me, damn it, or I swear to God. I will sit here and distract myself all night long. I will not sleep well. And I will tell you otherwise in the morning.

in between my teeth

In my sleep I speak out loud “He’s been daughtering his hands - they’re too soft for hot water.”
In the morning I read out loud a headline from the newspaper “Fangs and Feathers in Rare Fossil”
In the streets I call to people their names but they cannot hear me, their ears numbed by the sounds of civil and concrete.
In the night, I am quieted by ghosts in screens who tell me
not to speak or to think, not to think or to speak, not to speak,
but to buy and marry.
I floss and brush and rinse for it.
It’s on the top of my tongue,
(right where meat meets molars)
I’ve been looking even in between my teeth tonight.
For solace.
Mother writes me letters – she says, “ It’s in your bones.”
So I stretch and shake and peel back layers of pages of skins, of wishes for memories of sins.
What did I commit?
All I find are apples and ribs.
I seek the oceans for it (phosphorescent) and dredge up only old Spanish galleons, constitutions, stirrups and saddles. I find cowboys and ovens. I find suit coats and diamonds.
I’ve been told -
This country wears her hair long and braided. She wears an apron and spits on skillets, banging a triangle she calls for us all to come home.
In this earth there is nothing to find but the bones of soldiers and once erected stones.
I want my body back but it sits in cages and waits tables in diners.
So I reach down to put my hands between my legs and find shopping malls, I find legs crossed patiently, I find a fragile disposition.
I find wet and wanting skin.
I find dry and beaten skin.
In between teeth and the concave of space of living and the air that doesn’t feel like anything. In between the words that describe me and your understanding of them. In between the minutes that slip so quickly through the space between my fingers. In between my skin and your skin. In between the walls of my body, and the bubbles and holes of ozone, in between each breath. In between now… and now… and then.
This is where I live.

TO: the rise of Eastern Sun

Dear day,
I'm sorry I haven't touched you today, I've been busy with envy, and dark rooms, and afghans, and cats, and I care not for these roommates, but they hang around more than you, sun, they are at least loyal. What can a person do who has no legs or money to walk the street or eat, and with the snow so thick and freezing my knees, I have every excuse I need to avoid you.
I have a warm body next to mine just as disenchanted and as sad as mine, and we want more and we know there is more, but we're so tired and growing older and I'm sorry but... what is out there is winter, and empty trees, too much to see and nothing to see. Give me something like a fire inside me, give me something like an explosion - give me psychological revolution. I need people rising up inside me with torches and bombs and screaming and making love - pulling the levers and ropes of my bones to move this poor mass of mine. Give me thunder storms and flowers and naked dancing feet - give me time and earthquakes, and I'll give my skin and my eyes and my wonder. I'll give my toes to your muddy grounds and there we will meet again.

until then,
- Me

New Years' resolution for nothing

I could disappear here
I could evaporate into this wall and sink eternally into watching you wrapping your wires
and carrying away your keys -
avoiding forever strange advances
and waiting forever for another glance from under your black knit cap.
and nothing.

But on the first day of another year, I wake up here.
I am not wallpaper but flowered sheets and down.
I am whispering in your ear, I am these creaking floors.
Old pipes.
and ...
why pray for strength and dignity if I am not an I to hold such qualities?
what would light need to acquire to be light?

but I am hungry, still. and poor, (a state of which I shouted in a loud bar was a pre-requisite for enlightenment).

So should I sit here all morning while you snore and roll over
- making space in my stomach for nothing and illumination
or should I just make eggs?