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Posts tagged: words that i wrote

Anonymous
asks:
another word for great leggs

Like torn stockings, up and down her legs were where sticks and stones had hurt her . As if to say, this line you do not cross, and this line you do not cross, and this line you do not cross. And this is the great divide, between godhead, and thin and supple fingers. Between your neck and the sentimental touch of Texas’ hands. You were growing into the stretch marks of the universe.  Boundless as if skinless, as if scuffs and scratches were all you were and wanted to be.

Anonymous
asks:
cute rear end

And you didn’t think how much you’d miss a cute rear end, when you gave your body to the body of another. Or the beating of a stubborn socked legged into the ground. The other blank and stiff and naked calf anchored as if to another world. Thinking you had tied all sins to all the seams gathered, unseemly and unexcused, the wanting mouth and the caved in chest. You ask as if nothing else, that ass, and something of a shoulder, the question of another “if.” “If” not this then what? Then nothing.

Anonymous
asks:
anotherword for skinny?

She carries her bones and then what else under that luminous skin? All words and bones and pulsing internal organs, screaming something meek into the far and distant. And she said in all one word and then another, are your wrists and ankles dependent on this clause? Is the cut of your hair the start of haiku poetry? Do your long legs tell me prose? Or all too easy like spitting from your mouth and molars the things you missed? Or something swallowed, the last word or last laugh?  All over now. All stretched over. All thinned out.

I probably sent a lot of excessive messages of appreciation tonight, but it felt good to express directly what normally is conveyed through likes, replies, and reblogs. I’ve known a lot of people through their blogs for years, and maybe haven’t spoken a word. It’s an interesting arrangement.  But there’s a lot of really amazing and exceptional artists, poets, thinkers, and just plain lovely people I’ve met over the years through this blog. And I kind of appreciate every single one in some way or another. So thank you all for that, and feel free to open a channel of dialog if you feel so inclined, and if not well that’s just fine too.

poo-tee-weet?

in this time line we are losing,
in another you are lost, in another
we are walking over roots in the sidewalk,
we are touching cold bottles to your thighs,
in another you have written me a letter,
or we are speaking through a void,

in another we are reading german in airports,
you hold sadness in your hands, in another
you hold my hand, I hold sadness in my hand.
i am singing to you, i am lying to you.

in another your skin is smooth, in another i
have a mouthful of scars, in another i have a
burning bowel you have an anger in you,
you’re a blonde, brunette, redhead. i am
on the bathroom floor you are on the phone.

in another we are trading poetry, Rilke and Windle,
Olds and Bukowski, Wigginton and Morgan. I am old
and you are young, you’ve out grown and I’m
still a goddamned child. You are south, in another
you are north again.

in another you are drawn to me,
in another we sleep and wake, and sleep
and wake, and sleep and wake. in another

there’s a house in the woods, there’s an ocean
not too far, there are clothes on the front porch,
water in the foot prints in the mud, opened books
on the table, There’s a time for me and you
and not another.

a holiday on venus

your legs are burned with the shadows
of overlapping grass when I fucked
you while afraid with a stomach full
of a doubting thoughtlessness

just last night, i said to you i
have ruined myself for you, but you
still came and laid claim to every
uncovered limb you cling to

over skin, bone, and stretched up scratched up
your breasts are pale under the collar
of your rib cage where you wear a crown
of compassion and a choker collar of thorns

you wake me when I can’t sleep, and
make my idle fingers your own, you ask me
“feel,” and I should have saved myself
for this so all at once you could teach me how

to “feel” your body, your soul, the way it deserves.



a vulgar condition

there isn’t a saying
for, take my body apart,
and remove the crass mechanism
for betrayal from the
very chambers of my heart,
that closed fist-shaped
organ-muscle they
say love pours from,
but it’s something else.

will you still gather me in your
skinny open arms like you would
the biting sea, the wild flowers and
bristles, and any other
animal found limping and
bloodied at your heels
as you walk the earth
in your naked body
and its singing, boundless form.

and i apologize
that you found me
in this condition to have
to grind me down like teeth,
to undo where i am
from where i’m from,
and take me into you
like a threaded needle
through your abdominal wall.

i did not know love like yours
existed, or how i would punish
you for it, how i would take
you in in comfort, show you
that the hand that holds is
the hand that smothers the
warm burning of your chest,
love you, but still attempt
to break you in the same
places where I would like
to take myself apart.

Anonymous
asks:
What's another word for the?

Can’t you keep the breath pressed out. Not yours, but the. The joie de vivre. The life worth living. The singular. The all-encompassing. The little death. The early morning. The lull. The break-up. The make-up. The answer. The follow-up question. The leap of faith. The fall of man. The instant. The only time. The only other time. The never. The ever. The rest. The love of your life. The breath you pressed in again.

Anonymous
asks:
Is there a part I and II that goes along with "THE ROAD TO HOUSTON (III)" ?

There’s actually four parts. So the one you mentioned should be IV and not III. The fist two are from part of a collection I wrote when I was just starting to write. The third is part of another collection that was sort of reflection on the first collection. And then IV was written separately.

The Road to Houston i

this road to Houston
is short

The Road to Houston  ii

Bukowski is out
of the floorboard
and we’re on our way back home
the soft light
and the cool air
makes this night
the night it has to be
Bukowski
is back in the floorboard
and in the dark
the light contrast
shines on my knee.
I stare
into the incoming traffic
lights move
towards me.
We talk about
Salinger and Dostoevsky
Bradbury and Orwell
things like that
with my dad
as we pull up to the house
I sit there
and ask him
about my future.
I hug him and head in
call a girl I know
that I missed today.

The Road to Houston iii

Not too long this time,
before i see the bridge.
that reminds me that
I’m close to different places.

The city rises
and the proud refineries stand
towered over the outdated
apartment complexes.

The road grows
ever shorter.

Thanks for asking!

two trees (hazel and honeysuckle)

and this is birth from tragedy, not
the birth of tragedy, not farce,
if you like it unexaggerated, then by
any means and by many means
pull myself together

like twine strained between your fingers,
and you mention how my soul quivers
how my numb limbs swinging
at your waistside no longer
make you feel drawn to me,

but still, it’s love but still,
and still an apology, and why
would that make it better, if it
won’t make me better, as

you are a Tree of Life,
and I know good, and I know evil,
but I am an upright shallow grave
with a winter seed where
my heart should be beaten,
fingers trawling through your
intricate branches, afraid
to be so close to this
compassion. when I have
turned away at every chance
of your embrace

and I don’t know what this
all means, and by all means
it means so much more than
I’ve considered. my vague
sense of unease misplaced
by your direction.

Anonymous
asks:
what is another word for word?

I’ll say it. Make sure you’re worth your words. If not, sit on silence and stand somehow like you would if you weren’t your father’s son. If you were instead like your mother’s shadow. If you were instead a saving’s grace. But your sins are senseless. In the willful numbing of foresight, and for skin, and for some reason doing all wrong again. And why? Because you’re word isn’t your word. No blame for another. Not a word.

Anonymous
asks:
another word for hurt.

My senses said, well all’s fair in love in war. And since we’ve said long before that if you don’t love me, leave me. If you don’t want me, don’t need me. If I don’t please you onceing-over ruts, licking at these divots, touching at your cuts. All the skin worn places where you used to use to hurt. Then what’s worse, where we were or where we’ve went from there.

Anonymous
asks:
another word for fear, for love, for faith.

I spoke out and thought it unsavage and insincere. But faith in failure is easily grasped. See how you’ve taught yourself to fear one who loves you through each transgression, your unique cruelty, and touches awe-filled the face of your unrealized multitudes. And so soulmate, self seer, the stubborn steward of our fates, bear down on me, press into me from flesh to flesh, time to time, and word to word

until we’re worn down through non-stop articulation. Take my body as canvas. And art as elusive, illusory, ill-advised. Find what you’ve stolen inside yourself, once as a pouring but now as pitch. Bury the tap. Drink it well. And take care.

remin

a whole another thought for
missing over before what hush you
muttered then again what is
not that this is, once again

hurt what your what was,
what was name calling, less of feeling
in again our first once once
kissed and folded early as
warm laundry fucked over

sure were, lost again
found yourself mouth
of fingers wrapped
like teeth, slept again
over night, morning
calls, sucked-fucker
colored by TV
flashing light carry
over air, thin wave
shoulder-runner
kept your thigh on
crawled in over

here again, were
what you wouldn’t wear, wore
over naked bathtubs, fell under
over her, snapped a neck
lace and fine knees,
waited kiss, want
our weekend on our
backs, when again

spoon-fed

we were gentle trying on our bodies,
and you had a taste like silver, like you
traded skin with the moon. and still
you were softer and more tender,
with your kisses on my open palm.
I could have fed you off of this,
I could have fed you to the lions,
and found you in their fur

could have set aside you
pulled the spoon from out behind
your teeth, where your muscles move
to to make their song under-and-overture.
and all kind, and all grace, and all nurtured
waves of warmth your body had memorized
take turns lulling me back into you, guiding
my out-streched hand to your every new familiar.