it's good to keep lists

it is.
i wish i could have all these real pages
and crumple them up and flatten them
out again and glue them to my wall or
to the insides of my pink jacket and i'd
always have them and think "yes." oh.

)balloon hope
)danielle
)trying
)headliners
)valentines
)working for tips
)hope again

playhouse ( list )

_heineken
_shortbread
_closeouts
_harmonica
_space pace
_tile
_120
_ticketsss
_t.s. eliot
_think ( oleanna )

shower

i sit in the shower.
i have always done this.
to sit and wait.
to watch the drain.
to feel the rain.
naked,
sans shame.
legs outstretched.
wet; perplexed.
serious faced.
two feet, replaced.
i breathe softly.
i sit in the shower.
i sit and wait.
i kiss no man.
naked,
sans shame.

arthur rimbaud

because we sat up. dreaming and reading. and when i heard it i thought the sun had burst through, and poetry had just been invented and abolished at the same time. i don't know what it will do to you.

"And from that time on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,
Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,
A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums
And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,
Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music
Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts
And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,
And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,
And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.
Lighting up long violet coagulations,
Like the performers in very-antique dramas
Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows
The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,
The circulation of undreamed-of saps,
And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!"

-excerpt from "the drunken boat" by arthur rimbaud.

wouldn't it be nice

freres.

san francisco buses et avec la balon aussi.

martin luther king, jr. day parade. downtown los angeles.

bullets

. phone messages
. quirks
. suRprise
. dash, and
. gems
. "jagadamba"
. flash bam!

--waiting for lefty
--caucasian chalk circle
--frogs
--this other one

la boulange journal

oh how we love the tenderloin, so few of us and far between. smoking help me think. brilliant and so many ideas from the smoke that's lifting that never gets written down and i've been saying to myself i love him and saying to other people too. funny how other people will know i love him before he does. i need my lauren. i need my shawn. i need my busse.

middle-aged men behind me talk of the glories of great coffee, none of which i've drank since paris and no lattes since april. poor man's drip coffee cream and sugar. sustains me and my pocket. coffee and cigarettes a close second to wine and. & i just remembered to write to a friend who is far away. shaking too much caffeine not enough food maybe i'll drift to chinatown market for oranges. sweet and sticky and smelly. rose pistola. caffe roma. il triangolo. we're in little italy.

twice daily

whenever i dip croissant into coffee.
i think of paris and nice.
cold paris and cold nice.
dipping croissant into coffee.
twice daily.
i think of the tarte aux pommes.
in white saint germain on day two.
saint germain is white and blue.
all of paris is white and blue.
the prettiest morning cafe.
family in the corner by the window with the red
curtains and gold letters feeding les oeufs to their enfant.
and i’m crumpling the paper from the patisserie.
and i’m asking for cafe creme ou cafe au lait ou whatever.
and i really don’t fit in.
i think of cold coastal nice on le cote d’azur.
and quiet, empty restaurant.
and the woman in the corner, hiding behind partition.
drinking alone, and i think i saw a tear.
or a handkerchief. and i knew she was sad.
and i didn’t know why.
and i wanted to tell her.
i’m sad too.
george harrison is my only friend now.
i’m just in town for a day now.
and i go to bruxelles tomorrow.
my bed is orange. my heart is blue.
i’m far away. i’m sitting right on the horizon i’d
always wanted to go to.
i thought i’d write.
but there are no words.
so instead i’ll sit. alone.
in paris and in nice.
in cold paris and cold nice.
and dip croissant into coffee.
twice daily.

publisher needed, because

tobin and i are writing a book.
and i'm telling you,
you are going to need this.

a room of her own

a room of her own.

her own.  room.

of whispers and secrets

and music. given to her.

she keeps them.  her own.

every tingle feeling from lover.

each tightly wound sentence

uttered near ear.  each sisterphrase.

or mutual essence felt when reading

another's work. 

when (he) said you make me happy.

when she glanced her whole

glance. and i knew.

when kerouac burst through.

when his song i his muse. 

and my room i kept them.

always my room. my own.

on the day of forty-four sunsets

i once saw a sunset driving down the 5 that made 

me cry silently in the back seat, they never knew.  

transfixed, i couldn't stop staring at the wonder.  

and a god said to me,                      "you have no idea." 

i see the animals run past me

( jan uar y eleve n )

midnight. i want breakfast.

and they all start school tomorrow.

and i turned twe nty three-three days ago.

there is a lime tree.  and couches outside.

chipped nailpolish and scribbling.

i remember when i was a lady ragdoll.

planes and orion. the garage recording studio.

rachael is a name.  and so is johanna. 

columbus was fame.  and i'm waiting for the light to go off.

i remember two summers ago depressed.  insane.  cabin fever crazy.

i wrote things i didn't know.  looking at my books.

was looking at unknown author.  you write when you are longing.

( eig hte een )

mixed tapes with the warm sound.

for my friends.  and the epic who.

quilts and bugler and dirty typewriter.

parades and girls for monday.

and growing out your hair is painful.

brown paper packages are wonderful.

and all the colored girls said.

do do do do do duh da do do do.

swedish sisters.  robes.  head.

lost songs.  flowers.  rediscovery.  renew.

back scratch.  one kiss.  lennon.  mods.  sugar.

stripes.  doll house.  sex.  globe.  nametag.  audrey.

because it's ringing in my ears, so clearly you should hear it

Do not go gentle into that good night

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

it's friday

.. johnny cash

.. headache

.. vinyl spins

.. tomato

.. i can't i'm ill

.. chapstick

.. the stack

.. rilke

.. & dylan thomas

.. ponder

.. literature and letters

i called them all my best friends

we sit on my bed. the two of us. i'm lying on the quilt and playing with my hair, having thoughts. he's sitting, back against the wall, playing the guitar. fiddles with a melody; repeat, repeat, repeat. i'll scribble on my hand, or on some paper or on his knee. it's generally quiet. he finishes a song. i start a new poem. and this is how we go. and creating excites me, in still moments on my bed. just because we're living. and in fits of hallelujah creation he's writing a lot and will record soon. and sometimes, he kisses my tear that comes from his words and i seriously can't wait for you to hear it. 

and though its not the one that made me cry, you should listen to a demo of "friday"

it's good to keep lists

• cherry blossoms
• wedding
• yellow stripes
• whoa
• the eagles, sunset
• leftover paper snowflake
• professor(s)
• realization (& happy!)
• flannel, flannel
• gnome and jewels
• hi this is cory
• birthday cards
• porchtwinklelights
• boy

-the giving tree

-the silver slippers

-chicka chicka boom boom

-le petit prince

-madame sourire

-the pokey little puppy

and an emilypoem for the rest of tomorrow for you:

if i can stop one heart from breaking,

i shall not live in vain;

if i can ease one life the aching,

or cool one pain,

or help one fainting robin

unto his nest again,

i shall not live in vain.

-emily dickinson

40 years ago yesterday..

so we sailed!

on to the sun!

til we found!

the sea of green!

and we lived!

beneath the waves!

in our yellow!

SUBMARINE!

reminds me of you, erin.

pouncing; and! hilarity

qui est les personnes?

la suisse.

see? Hilarity!

je'n sais pas.

oui, les dents. comme les dessins..

squatting & HIGH TEA really?

and! hilarity

vraiment

"electrifying" she said.

nearing the end. spitfire.

grass

the grass is always greener on the other side

and this is the rhyme that locks me in time

and i spend each day desiring things

but once i obtain them

they're lost like my keys

they've slipped out my fingers

its an old summer fling

"i gotta get outta this town" i say and complain

but i'll say it again next year to the day

because no matter what happens i always get restless

no matter what love or adventures i'm hapless

no matter how great or fantastic the city

no matter what music and voices so pretty

i gotta keep moving, i'm a newborn gypsy

can't hold down a real job 

in anywhere clean

in anyplace fine

in anywhere esteemed

"you're rubbish and weird 

and spastic and mean"

i went to france and i met pierre

he smokes like a chimney 

he's hospitable and kind

he likes to make fun when my french isn't fine

he threw a party, there was an american punk

pierre is much funnier when its late and he's drunk

and he threatens to throw us out on the street

he's only kidding though, he's french but he's sweet

i'm an experience junkie i can't get enough

i want to taste everything 

from yummy and sweet

to bitter and tough

but right now i'm attempting to be thankful for this place

soak in every detail every breeze each open space

and fully envelope each moment that is ordinary

because soon, when i'm gone, this dull moment now,

will seem distant, delicious, extraordinary

on the back porch on a warm summer night

casually driving through the angel city's lights

hearing spanish from the neighbors the tvs on in back

fall is almost here i'm glad my friends are back

i'm always feeling intense at this young important age

as if we've got to figure everything out like some wise old sage

but these words they keep me going, they're dripping from the page

they're dripping from the sky from rainbows burnt with rage

they're flowing out just like the song the paper cup is in my hand

and in my hands i hold my tears the sky seems to understand

and the rain is falling down its not depressing at the start

its sparkling on the pavement and taps the windows of my heart

and hearts in shapes of pupils sees what's invisible to the eye

"l'essentiel es invisible pour les yeux" is the little prince's cry

i really truly believe that though i don't know what it means

i'll learn someday when i'm all grown up and touched a soul of the unseen

well i never feel quite satisfied its a flaw i really hate

its rare my soul is really fed no drug no jeans no date

i wake up each day there's not much i can do

and though i feel defeated and blue

the grass keeps growing

the trees keep stretching

the wind keeps blowing

your looks get more fetching

the sky gets pinker

the days get shorter

the clouds are drifter

someone tips me a quarter

and i keep going

one foot in front of the other.

-august 2007

"do you feel illuminated?" he said.

at first, nothing.  then a wave came over my head all gloopy feeling my whole body i leaned back on him and looked at her.  she grinned and leaned forward cupping both hands to my ear and she whispered “remember this for your book.”  i cried so many no tears always coming always coming.  “i’ll have to come back” he said.  i know they’re staring at me.  i was starting to feel better but then started this writing the words had to keep coming but the less that i breathe and try to feel better i’m writing these words also to feel better the words are gripping me consuming me i’m letting go its worse ever feeling his heartbeat his heartbeat on me,  “i like to focus on my heartbeat.”  i like to focus on my breathing. its creeping heaving and in beat with beating.  beating my pen.  my pen is beating me at this game i can’t write fast enough, careful enough.  there will surely be words lost and that scares me and yet i can’t stop, i always keep going.  

(i have been somewhere else.  and cannot bring everything back with me.  like monica says, being a writer is a lonely place to be and it was.  it was.)

********************************

the duality.  the two opposing sides.  one evil, enchanting me on forward through the beautiful shapes on the wall.  i saw a bird with wings back.  i saw a low strapped helmet.  red.  i saw your face. and i was coming into it.  so gorgeous.  mesmerizing.  and as i got closer i got closer to hell.  the demons jumped through the wall and grabbed at me, at my eyes, green things with fingernails and begging me to go ahead lose myself.  then i’d get wave of absolute normalcy, the light.  a promise that reality still exists but demons whispering the lies that psychedelia is worthier.  constantly fighting. giving in, slipping by degrees (which is a phrase I stole from stephen dunn), then fighting again.  

my throat hurts from puking.  i was so aware in the beginning.  an uninvited loss of control.  i couldn’t move my body.  my head weighed four hundred pounds.  tingly sensations feeling awful.  and then my knees disappeared.  is anybody in there?  i could feel them looking at me, laughing at me but i couldn’t do a thing.  intensely frightened, and no escape.  i wanted to scream, to cry, to express every thought, sensation, word-play but i was so intensely aware of how crazy it would sound and the laughs that would follow.

then it became incredibly important to remember what lauren had said so i yelled for someone to get my journal.  i had to write it down and then i couldn’t stop.  shaking.  the campfire was burning my leg.  my head got foggier.  my stomach queasier.  i couldn’t stop writing.  even now.  i can’t stop, the more i write, the more words stay trapped in my head.  i was miserable.  

“do you feel illuminated?” he said.  

“no” i said.  “its dark.”  

tattoo

they've always intrigued me.

and you can hardly disagree with some literary tattoos. 

jack kerouac

walt whitman

leonard cohen

e.e. cummings

the beatles

kurt vonnegut 

more here

oh, ghost

i met gary on the train to emeryville.  he must have been on speed but he said he was stoned, drunk, talking 300 miles a minute.  couldn’t finish a sentence telling me i’m gorgeous that's why his eyes are dilating having a smoke on the platform.  i’d wanted to read my book all the way to san francisco but i decided as annoying as he was, he must be kerouac’s ghost or reincarnated, oh dharma or something, looked like him, talked like him and i couldn’t get rid of him i’m too nice.  dirty jokes, how he’s traveled, been blessed, a young dancer and thespian given up for more money in sales, he keeps leaning forward getting in my personal space, or pleading with me or something.  won’t stop talking about san francisco, he’s gonna walk right into chinatown and eat all the dim sum he can, then to tenderloin for pakistani curry dinner.  all the sex he had last night on viagra some pills, he’s so glad he had sex last night he tells me.  he’s going sacramento - san francisco - san diego and i need another cigarette myself.  as he left he said “may your house be too small to hold all the people in it.”  amen i said and “i love life!” he shouts as he stepped on the platform in richmond.  goodbye gary.  

valentines from poland

i think you should do this.

mapven

i'm done, she said, working for other people.

and there was left, a little shape beneath the moon.

running with scissors they did one time, just to prove it, i remember.

i went back to that place, briefly.

as a wanderer its easy to become comfortable.

i suppose, well now.  we were lucky to share that bed.

thank you.

she brought me sunflowers, like the poem.

they hang drearily now. 

because i can't take care of things that will die anyway.

how did we ever find each other?  i said.

a miracle.  he said.

and that was that.

and they walked down the street, laughing. 

contributor

i've also started writing here.

i've been burgled

carrie walked downstairs, 7am, from our warm loft-like second story, to the ice cold living room where she found the front window open and my video camera bags laying outside. "happy birthday, we've been robbed" she says, i wake up groggy and voices coming from the hallway by the bathroom. i became twenty-three years old yesterday and woke up thankful my mac and purse were in my bedroom that night, my other roommates had their bags and computers stolen right from our house, out our front window. thankful no one was hurt but feeling very icky that this all happened while we slept, feeling safe in our own beds, as strangers came in and took what they might. mckenna had just uploaded photos from her summer costa rica trip and the camera that was stolen contained footage from cameroon taken a few summers ago that i've never uploaded or edited yet. completely irreplacable footage. my first day in yaounde where we watched a mother giving birth, our first drives down the streets of the city, so many important images and experiences. gone. needless to say, we at the olive, are a little disheartened. there's nothing like feeling violated and unsafe in the one place you are supposed to feel the most secure. frustrated at monetary loss but also mourning the passing of memories a stranger now holds and couldn't care less. i only hope whoever took the stuff in some desperate situation and needs the money more than we do. i suddenly feel an urgency to pull out photos from that summer and remember the faces, the dirt, the smell of cameroon, hoping not to lose it forever.

these photos didn't used to look old

they used to live in germany with him.

the three of us used to be very cute. 

and i used to have awesome bangs. 

the resolution post

no. 

there is nothing about resolutions here, actually.

i am back in monroviatowncalifornia.

from scattering myself around. 

pleasanton. rocklin. san francisco. danville. berkeley. 

i spent christmas with my parents and brother and his fiancee.

i spent new years with some of my best friends. and my love.

new years eve.

still 2008.

it was the city.

and allie's roommate invited us to her room at the hilton.

where we drank cocktails, wore red lipstick. and i told her the news.

we were girls in the bathroom. we stopped in every liquor store

on the way.  little fifth bottles in coat pockets.

walked up more hills than bridges.  

the bus. that was funny. 

ziggy's arm around jess. he'd been eyeing the other one all night.

and he taught us "i may be easy but i ain't cheap" and we laughed.

it took us downtown. 

we ran. 

sprinted.

to union and market. midnite. and barely caught the fireworks.

we all kissed.  and were showered in champagne.

and sang auld lang syne. and i was reminded.

why this is one of my favorite favorite things.

old acquaintances not forgot. and glorious beginnings. 

we took the train back to alex's house.

and cosy, slept next to each other.

sunday

~central casting wed.
~neighbors
~I-9
~envelopes
~register..
~cold hands
~residencies
~jobs and / or school
~ & the importance of education