my head pinched tonight

head pinched inched slightly towards
sliced clean,
knives through limes I smell on my fingers
mixed with the cigarettes and angel
sometime I feel like I am falling
torn leaves and autumn like
I always loved the icicle trees
they happen once or twice a year, you know
crystalized ice dreams sparkling in the moon
I wonder sometimes if I am enough
who is enough
when it's time to call it the end

I try too hard to see the metaphors
climbing up the back of my neck with each impending kiss
what is busy,
and what is work
and why is there never enough time

this love, undone,
knotted shoelace strings
soiled by the sun
by the busy feet
I'm ungraceful, see
I barely know how to show my love
my hope
though small kisses
deep
breath held in
just breathe,
you'll see

i got my winter, upstairs at uncle joe’s

there is something kind of comforting, breathable, about the smell of winter clothing, wrapped up in boxes for some other people.

today i broke free, but in ways I can't explain. Sometimes I am slow. Most of the time I am sharper than the ring of the valve.

What makes someone hold that magical space? Most of the time I deal with people whose magical spaces are filled with other words, whispers, names. Close to that crackle that is fucked up in me.

I need to keep journals, like that kid, whose book I have. scrap book bitten by africa, painted in blood.
things would be very interesting then if nothing else.
i joined match.com. partly because bme internet relations are a bit ridiculous.
don't let anyone fool you, girls. the men are fucking desperate to at least entertain us with meaningless jabber, then enclosing pictures of a swollen 47 year old belly. they will never know the me they will never be free they will never fucking be.
the end.
and then some.

p.s. me with no makeup the days i don't give a fuck. which is everyday, actually.

thin thinness my lips lend
swollen like they can't even get enough
yours pounding in ...