tomorrow was just sufficated by the bar smoke
the potetial erections where just splashed with the
freezing cold water of tonight's reality
tomorrow's kisses were just repelled by my bad
decisions

tomorrow's a different shade of green today ,
cause of tonight's poison',
tonight's inflictions of my today's -weaknesses
tomorrow's romance was just smuthered by
today's desperation.
and my breasts are covered in goose-bumps , baby.

clouds of smoke hover over
them dully, insignificantly.
with baggy eyes and baggy
stomaches, exposed bellow
their shirts, they stand , as manicanswith
their stomaches sucked in to prove
something.

(From my circle in the plants, I watch
pity them. thinking
of what I lost, a world
of substance.)

One of the many figures,
mask-covered, floats from boy
to boy,
tempting their hormones.
touching thier chests and hands and
all, for assurance, confidence,
hope -- perhaps.

(I once touched but one
boy. his heart mostly and took
a ride Up a few floors
had adventures in his thoughts. )



butEvery touch, chemicals
Explosions! every level/floor
a chain of pearls is thrown across
a world created by
two halves-- under
construction.

(They play dress-up and act out
what little they understood of the
Love Stories on the box of elecronically
structured pictures.

pretending the emotions because
it is what the blonde-actors did
onions made them cry.

{alcohol for the girl with the small
shirt.} a small feeling, magnified.

(Extend my legs now , with, a
dotted-line figure lying next to me
where he would have been
if only... ) )

butThe colours are vibrant
the drama - exciting.
moving from boy . to boy.
no strings, friends even
for a day or so.

laughs desend and teeth exposed, exciting with
loud music. smoke and liquid but to spin
things out of control
it feels good to let go

and fall...

(back to my circle in the plants
perhaps
I have pressed the green strips down,
marked my niche here
in the quiet, where the crickets can be
heard. because
t h e y matter.)

butEvery touch as well
with a string of pearls a world
(here in our circle
yet
the dotted lines flash
waiting, posting an ad
nobody's flesh fits the shape

the matching elements have fled
tired of their duty-
wanting to smell new flowers
press new green strips
hear other crickets, because
they matter.

Well damn. I mean, at times, one's gender becomes irrelavant and forgotten. Then one pauses in wonder and looks down in surprise, but not astonishment, because one suddenly recalls having known all along. So one goes about the day with glasses on, not thinking of the delicacy of one's nose. And one buttons up a sweater vest when a cool air blows and is completely oblivious to the breasts which stretch it right under the first button and above the second. One likes loose pants, but cannot remember if this is acceptable. One does wonder at times, why on some days the whites of others' eyes are visible, and on others the their colors are distinguishable. Some days one sees perfect profiles of faces, while on others one sees symmetrical images, two following eyes and all (especially of those with short hair). Generally, one is not bothered by this. Mostly one is really just trying to pull together the beginning of the day and the end without giving up from the weight. One walks home with pounds of worries on one's back and hands in pockets, feeling as if in India or France, anywhere but here. But the real wonder is the initiative of such a repelling habit. It is not that one relates this habit to the different angles of which one sees their faces. It is just that, mostly one is in America, when wearing skirts and pretty things. Mostly, one see America with a chin that points skyward and is held in such a manner that keeps balance when wearing heels and having long legs. Otherwise, on days when one’s Asics are supportive, and one’s legs seem shorter because they are not bare, then your chin faces just slightly more earthward because there is no longer a need to focus on balance. Then, America is no longer seen, but perhaps London, or Paris. And when one’s house is approaching, many buildings suddenly appear beside it. The key that one pulls from one’s messenger bag is the only copy ever made, so there is an assurance that one’s shoes are the first and last to be placed beside the door each day unless otherwise intended. Just before the key is turned, however, a pause takes place. One’s eyes wonder skyward but slightly, (yet still not enough to see America) and the question is asked; why isthere no other copy? Perhaps it would be comforting to occasionally be surprised with company at unexpected moments. It may be pleasing to have tea or soup to conclude the day and convenient in many aspects, in the winter especially, to not turn the heat up so high and not bear the weight of heavy blankets; instead, to pull a body closer to oneself and fall asleep to two steady breaths.
One proceeds to turn the key anyhow, wiping away the question. It is a long way up the stairs, but one is reminded of Tea India, Earl Grey or instant espresso. One carries oneself up the stairs, along with the pounds of worries, which are kept wrapped in a bag, away from one’s body. A spot is found in the rubble to place these worries and there is freedom for a short while, just until the tea is finished (or coffee if it has been a long day and you did not wear heels), and perhaps even a small meal. The meal would be satisfying enough, but not delicious. In the event that the sun is sinking into the evening, pulling one with it, one sits a while in thought and lets the precise amount of light that is filling the kitchen permeate through one’s soul. Remaining there for a good while, swaying slightly like a buoy in water, letting the light move in and out of you, one feels something disturbing. While constantly adjusting oneself on the chair, one begins to notice the weakness of one’s body. A burdening tenseness in the lower back and bellow the stomach is recognized. Suddenly one realizes. The calendar on the wall is a few feet too far to read, so one walks over and is assured. Yes. Indeed, it is the 15th. One recalls this day a month ago, and a month before that, and a month before that. The pattern is obvious and suddenly one remembers but does not feel vulnerable or prideful of it. Ah yes. One is a woman.