(sur)reality

it's time to

question

whether or not this

is a successful way

to cope. not sure if

channeling my

life through text

is necessarily the best way

to deal with the

ailments

that come with real life. how

many times do i want to

say something &

instead withhold

it & run the words through

a nonsensical

sieve. i can't keep forcing

this; sometimes

venting is better vented

than deconstructed.

some things deserve to be

said frankly. others can

be wrung through

the dryer. where's the line?

do i throw my hands up

(& with them

the towel)?

do i partition speech &

keep some in the

boiler room

from which they become

malleable & ineffective,

dull & careful.

i am nothing & plan on being

nothing for a long time.

but i want to spend

my days with

someone

some (body)

who sifts for me

(as i sift for them).

i want trembling &

quivering.

i want uncertainty & blue

eyes.

watch me as i walk

away &

the words i

chose to reserve

are tucked between my thigh

& the thin layer of denim

that rests against it.

i want nothing more than

to be frank with you ma'am.

i pray that you open

your valve &

accept this

language. it is pure &

it is

intoxicating. i know you

& i know

that i've been turning

your doorknob. call this

what you want,

but understand that

i know you

are on the horizontal top

(or bottom) of

this door. you are

peeking again &

i will advise you

to go

numb &

let the handle

fly.

"the boy who blocked his own shot" by brand new. or live with kevin devine

classic poem. one of my favorites. "the love song of j. alfred prufrock" by t.s. eliot.