and cry cry cry. i want to think of your body, so far away, the way it lay shivering beneath my lips, my hot hands, my wishes for a better future.
but what of the future? the new year is so close. she presses against me like an invalid needing to be carried, needing to be seated on some cold throne; needing milk or meat or salt. and i want to please her. i do. i want to be obedient and diligent. i want to be thoughtful and poetic. i want to be ABLE. the new year breathes against my neck and i wish it were the hot breath of a lover. that hunger. that dire need. that ache. maybe it is. while i listen to Lou Reed and drink the apple/vanilla/peppermint vodka my beautiful Annie gave me for Christmas, i think of the year about to be born. what sheets lay waiting to be tangled beneath my body? what fist might in catch my hair? what page might catch what horribly hot poem, what anxiety ridden wish, what letter to my mother written far far far too late? can i bend beneath your heat, sir? can i bend beneath your lips? because i have enough Truth within me, i am not seeking it from you. i want only the external, the expression, the slip of sweat and spit. you owe me nothing and i would love to bear witness to that fact. let my body and face be a record of all that you DO NOT OWE ME.
(it is always a slightly scary moment when one wonders if a lover has yet googled their name.)
but what is it i am after, exactly? what is it i long for? every day i hunger after something. i ache and ache and ache. i type the words, i let my ink spill, i twist my wool and fashion myself a new poem, a new blanket, a new prayer. and yet? and yet? and yet? i am without. i am hungry. i need a new scene. a Poetry i can curl below as if it were a man. i need a Poetry i can be afraid of. a Poetry with some weight.
i need a Poetry with a fist.
we count down the days. we pour the alcohol in to our cups. we wish for the best. do we think of our mothers? we think of ourselves. we bend to the wind of desire and wait to be kissed. we hang up our clothes and pretend to be good.
These texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from March 2007 - March 2015. It stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles I faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. Messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index I am proud of. It was here in this electric box that I learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person I needed to become. It was here that I first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.
Thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.