When it rains

When it rains like this, I look harder at the light.
I open my eyes wide and know for certain
that things are alive.

Can you smell it -
The smell of every color arriving?
I remember you telling me

If you hadn’t known any better, you would
have thought I belonged there,
mixed in with the wet leaves.

When it rains like this, I want to taste
Everything. And my lips are red from
The sweetness of it all, because it takes more
Than the tongue to taste. It takes
Every part of the body.

I Hate Asking for Help and Approval

I do not believe myself. But I will call to you as I hang
on the gray wire line, suspended somewhere
between the old oak cabin and your gimcrack house.

I will wrap my fingers around your metal voice, an electric
pulse blinking strange and bright above the dusty
slices of trees and the bowing curve of the hillside.

Beneath my dangling feet is the hollow lake – in it
the silent, flat liquid of sweat, heat, and piss. I can see
the thousand faded hairs of past campers
knotted into a thin floating net,
turning silver with every toll of five-o-clock thunder.

Is it hateful, my asking?

If I slide down, the wire will cut through my palm, and
my fingers will burn, fray, and bleed.
But I am too weak to climb the long way up

The water’s thin oil film shimmers with the wings of insects.
It is a window for the forgotten things
settled deep beneath. I do not want to break it

Though I cannot stay as I am.

For Now

Your eyes are part window, part air, part light
So blue, that I know what they will
Look like when you’re old.
I saw them in flashes, cuts, close
And tight shots. Each time they came
To me, I felt as if I were
breathing in smoke.
Now I’m starting to feel dizzy
After the long hard blue of last year.
You’d think I act strangely, with
My foot flat on the door. But it is only
For a while that I keep myself in
Like this. Soon I will leave
Without the memory of you.

Restlessness, Transience

The letter you sent me has been read and translated.
It was delivered by four grey geese, it was tied in purple ribbon.
When it fell into my hands it was spotted with mist and flimsy
From last night’s rain. Your seal was cracked, the black of dirt
And dust, a thin line collected between two circle halves.

I am sending a respose to inform you and the other people with
You that your men have refused to restore my walls and rebuild
My foundation. It was found that the city has a long history
Of rebellion and sedition, that powerful kings ruling
Over all the land – the taxes and tributes were paid directly
To them. But what do you fear? We are not those kings.
We are weak. We are small.

By now you must know that we survive for a different purpose.
I no longer rule. I have been searching in the archives and graves
For notions. I found out the truth about downfall:
Not one man’s kingdom escapes.

You must know that we are tired of your men’s presence.
You must know that we are tired of this restless turning over.
We are no longer worth the occupation. We have nothing left to
Offer, not even the fulfillment of revenge.

You will leave, you will allow me to understand satisfaction.
When you see that I am too crumbled, all your men will flee,
Past the broken gate, leaving millions of worm-trails in the sand.
These marks will remain for the night, and in the morning,
I will hear the plain wind. When no trace of your time remains

Here, I will be left alone to build.

Fear

I had a dream about you last night
We were kissing and you smelled like smoke
We were in a greenhouse and we were sweating
Like the plants were sweating and I kept
On thinking, I need to go soon.
I leaned back and put all my weight
On my right hand at the edge of a glass table
But I lost my grip and in one slip
felt my palm split open.

You’re bleeding, you said
I know, I said
What happened
Nothing, I have to go.

I’m going to have a lot of things
Someday, you said
Things aren’t so important, I said.
Fuck that, they are.

In my dream
I remembered that it was only a
dream and I could do whatever the
hell I wanted so I left
I went outside and found myself
Walking on wet grass.
Then I saw the woman with no eyes
and long hair, the woman
Who killed me seven times
in the past thirteen years
And I had to run and keep on running
And I thought at least it was
Better than being in the greenhouse
Where you were too busy
With all the sharp plants to ever notice
that I fear so many things.

Dream Writing.3

Kevin Spacey is Gay

It is a well-known fact that I love Kevin Spacey. He is one of those men who looks so creepy, that he circles around and becomes unbelievably attractive and…HOT. Imagine my dismay when I went to ShoWest over Spring Break, and found out he was rumored to be gay – and this was right before I saw him with one arm around Kate Bosworth…and the other around Jim Sturgess. Anyways, on March 31st, I started off writing a fiction piece late at night, woke up and found something else. I forgot about it and found it in one of my folders so here goes:

The world has disintegrated into millions of pieces of colorful glass, flying in slow motion, 3D dolby digital style towards my face. Little boxes taunt me just out of my line of peripheral vision and my mother calls me and tells me to the read the bible and not to forget to pray. But I don’t pray. Because tonight I found out that Kevin Spacey is gay. I mean. I guess it mkes sense, he does kind o f exude that bald-sih head-ish, creepy inense I-raped-your-children-in-the-face stare with an I’m goin g to rip out your stomache guts with my fingers each made out of one hundred ton pure bicep, what e’s no gay that doesnn’t make sense. But he does doth at kind of funny walk and he no wait, was holding on to kate Bosworth on the stage and luahging. Wha the t heck? That odesn’t make sense. Okay, I cant do this anymore with me pulling a small caravan of connected barrels except pigger and each box was carrying something. I have a spiral ring of colofl gemstones. Grea. I see a small fly or hornet no

Now I’m on the football field and something has definitely just fallen fron
Now a hal-f-

“you know, carrie ann, I bled my way out of thin situation.life was handed from you to me, notth e other way other

ohfuckdavid mamet . does not want your pity. David Mamet, Helen Hunt, Ang Lee and Robert Redford smiled from five screens around the room. I hated how my eyes flew to the screen and ignored the miniature realities on the stage far far far ahead of me. \

My head hurts a lot from all of this nonsense. I don’t think I can or really want to deal with it. Who made celebrities celebrities anyways? Did someone just bop them on the head and decide because this person is kind of good or kind of not so good in Brendan fraser’s tyle and then they would get al the power and prestige?
This odnesn’t make sne and I don’t make sense andymore eiter. I’m just a poor girl why don’t you just show me how to do it nad be done with it afterward?
Oh mu goddd it was a tradea guy from nestle chocolate is now I was worried about what they would al all sat well I punched you in the face but


I don’t know if I even like American 3 d films.

Courtesy Notice

Today falls on 21 years
of myself
and I've just received notice
on a bubble gum wrapper:
you are now too old to be
Silly, Puerile
Wide-eyed and
Whimsical.


I read and nod wisely-
knowing full well I'll listen,
like I've always listened
like I've always roistered
around the carousel
run into skyscrapers and
always always always
acted my age.

Here's what I've weaned from the previous post, the dream.2 (don't you love that word - weaned?)

BMrs. Ramberry of the Ramberrys
From North Dakota will scream
For an epidural and
Nurse Figazzato (who will
Die two days later from the heat)
Will shake his head and say
Too late, too late. I hate being
A man nurse.

Ten hours later, they will miss
The opportunity for a clean cut
Because my tiny little fist
Will want to taste the air
Though my feet remain twisting
in murk and darkness.

I will think to myself - It is nice,
this a warm place. But
Nonsense.
There is something else out there.

Then, Mrs. Ramberry’s vaginaskin
Will tear open with each
Of my wrigglings, like a shirt
ripping at the sleaveseam as
the flesh of a giant plum
bursts through - thin, purple, wet.

But as for me, I will only hear
The whoosh of suction and passing.
I will open my mouth
At the writhing world

And come out laughing
And clean.

Dream Writing.2

Wrote this one last night - began as a poem/short piece about someone giving birth - inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about women not wanting to have children b/c of the pain involved. Well, it turned into this:


Mrs. Ramberry of the Ramberrys
Of North Dakota will scream

For an epidural and
Nurse Figazzato (who will

Die two days later from the heat)
Will shake his head and say

Too late, too late. I hate being
A man nurse.

Ten hours later, the doctor
Will stroll in and miss the

Opportunity for a clean cut
Because my tiny little fist

Will want to taste the air and
Know if leaving one murky
Why am I talking about one tree hill
The laugh a lot I wonder if wht she wass aing had anything todo swith goingot the lb.

I see you now okay now I know I’m not obsessed but kind owho is shwe taking abot hare we just a bunch of lclufth less. I there’s a bright red viper bug on these htnings will surely get I n the way of sushi by the public. It was cll. Tah they were stfffffffffffffffffffffff

Warm place for
Will be worthwhile.

Mrs. Ramberry’s vaginaskin
Will tear open, with each wriggling

like a shirt ripped at the sleaveseam
or the flesh of a plum bursting through

thin, purple

And even after the eleven stitches
Things down there will never

Be quite the same.

Sometimes

I was praying yesterday morning and I thought really hard give it to me give it to me don’t you love me don’t you love me but then I heard and then I thought well would be a bad influence abut is this something that’s speechless then or when guns come in his a different truth awell you know my mother you nw my other and I’ll never forgt arwreallly like how did I end up swith it yu’ere gonwell think aobut ik,,,,,,,

God's Journal Entry #26: My Return Policy

Today I was the God of
Arnold, Sweinstein and Finkleton.
They asked me for better names
And I told them I was sorry
For giving them lame parents,
But once a name is named
Then there’s no name-backs -

Well what happens if I have a receipt?
Asked Finkleton.
Who do you think I am?
I roared and smote him with
Lightening.
Arnold and Sweinstein kept
Their mouths shut for the
Rest of the day.

Blessings, blessings,
Blessings, I told them.

Jazz

You are called fiction.
Fiction. Noun. Story
Bullshit crap boohooey
banana oil
Whopper smoke.
Jazz.

You are the bum-bum notes,
syncopation
Ba-burn-burn-burn-burn
Jazz jazz burn,
jazz as in swing beat

jazz as in move me, blue me
pick-up, pick me up, pick me
up now
Chromaticized split
Realized wit
Hold my hand and
Recapitulate it

Lines

Off the route 22 highway, behind the veiled power plant construction that won out fifty nine picketers in a two day stretch, the green and brown mosaic of trees and homes are cemented together by the streets of Allentown. I’ve heard somewhere that Pennsylvania has the second worst public roads. Naturally, the question follows – who comes first?

We always want to know who comes first, who comes last. Then those who fall somewhere in between- well, they fall and that’s that. But the problem with in-betweeners is that I am one of them. And I have always lived with the belief that behind me, there’s just one other person – someone who can’t help but walk slower than the rest of us because she only has one leg.

I might as well switch places with her, take behind me that long stretch of nothing. She would be so much more grateful than I to feel the breath of someone else on her back instead of the broad broad wind.

I hate all the girls who love their “y”
Names like Tony and Johnny and Marky
And Joey…alright, well maybe not Marky
But Tony is really terrible. People pretend

Names are important and when they come
Up with their Rackstraw Robbins, they’re
so proud of themselves. So they
immediately come up with a
counterpart – something original
like Sally or Samantha.

The Bible is full of wonderful names
Like Habbakuk, Absalom, and Obediah -
Polysyllabic and foreign – but not
Intentionally foreign because Jesus
Came before all of us…right?

What happens if Jesus came tomorrow
And then we were on the other side
Of the testament line. I hate how now
I have to think of a really cool
Hipster way of introducing Jesus
because everyone’s thought
Of Jesus the motorcyclist or Jesus
The surfer or rock me sexy Jesus
With the hot swimmer bod. Hamlet 2
Sucks. Never watch it.

Why do I suck for talking about Jesus?

So I won’t talk about Jesus. I’ll talk about
Not Jesus. Like Swiss Miss. Swiss Miss
Is delicious because of its name.
Miss Swiss of Swissafornia who swissed
Her Miss and got a you know what
In the deal. And she didn’t know what to
Name it and neither did he so
They did the best thing any couple could
Do for mistakenly bringing another human
Being into the world of Woody Allen –
They saved her the anxiety
Of identity.
They left her nameless.

Gone Baby Gone

It left me long ago after
My skin fell off like citrus peels.
It dusted off the flesh juice
And took my hands explaining
just in case I meet
someone.

It went to Angune, Alaska,
using all my welfare checks
and brought in a truck from
Juneau to chase down the grizzly bears

It smoked with fishermen,
laughing hard, trading hats
until one by
One they fell asleep
Dreaming in dollar pop vodka,
Basketball, and fish scales.

It remembered melted things
our booby traps and color wars
Hating the cello, loving ballet
And having to give up both.

It tasted the cold blue babble
Of The Secret Garden and
longed for dark-haired firebrands
who could write well and sing
well and look well and hold well
- it was so in love.

I waited for it to return
To me, I waited for nine long
years. The only thing I have
Is a postcard with it smiling,
My hands giving two thumbs up

Do Questions Come in Pairs?

Are you here? Do you wear hats?
Should I check the box? Are you crying?
How loudly do you laugh? Do you have a beard?
What color is water, exactly? Will it rain tomorrow?
What did you get me? Who’s to say I won’t?
How is it like in Coffman Cove, Alaska? Do you know Leanna?
Am I Joey? Why can’t I sing?

Will I remember? Did I sigh?
Can you see it? Can I have some?
Are you here? Did you forget?
Who wants to quit? Why are you sleeping?
Are the presents grinning? Will you take it as a zero?
How do you feel about lox? Do you yawn at the opera?
Can I please have it now? Am I missing something?
Will you give it to me? Why not?

Knowing

I hate the feeling
of knowing more than Mister.
Mr. Missed her Miss.
This knowing that I
know more
is like knowing that
when it rains
outside, the ground
gets wet
although I will always
hope that in the distance
a canopy stretches over
her feet catching
all the blue babble
Just like she says.

Correct a Misunderstanding

I can hear them
Pick pick crinckle pick crinckle pick pick
I grab my floor lamp and pluck them from
the shadows, from the shifting,
plastic bags and I see the dips,
the sharp angles
of little jutting bones pressing out
all over their bodies.
They've come here from the
cold-worn outside and no one else
wants their pee-soaked feet.
So I give them little shoes
Four little shoes to wear
Little shoes made of aluminum
Aluminum and tea bag strings

And so they scatter
Running click click click
For mouse city
The five of them
whispering to eachother
The girl is not so bad after all
The girl is not so bad.

Dream Writing.1

So sometimes I type in my sleep. Let me clarify - sometimes I type in my sleep. I'm typing on my laptop and my mind goes into stage 1 or 2 of sleep but my fingers keep typing and I end up typing up my dreams.

Here's what I wrote yesterday:

If I were you, I’d leave
Shouting
Stop consuming me
But you stay and for staying
I must stay and also say
I love you
Bird
I’m talking to a bird.
I’m talking to a bird
I’m talking to a bird
I’m…crazy

La da deed a dad a da
La da deed a dad a dad a
Dadadadadada
Dadadeedadeeda…dad?
Dad,
How did you wander this way
Weren’t you supposed to be in Canada
Or did mom send you this way
I won’t forgive her for not telling me
Now I’ve got jelly on my face
And no time to wash it off
Before you leave you leaving
Too

There’s no real point to this song
About a bird and my dad

About a bird and my dad
Your words, I forget them
The determined value
The sum and final debt
What does this mean
This “weighing thoughtfully”
Weight, measure, dwell
In
Selah selah selah
Selah
Selah selah selah


To hang
Weigh
Determin value
Measured
In our mourning selah
Weighed balances found wanting
Measure carefully the meaning
“weight thoughtfully”



I won’t sing of promises
That I will break
Because this sinner
Will forget and take
In my thoughts I will
Murder the happiness
Of others and string
from door
To door to door
And call it relationship
Loving in transience
Networking
Handshakes
Smiles
Business cards
No

I get it
Its okay
Pop pop pop
Ha ha ha ha
Fine fine fine fine
CHRIST
Ma ma ma
Ra ra ra riiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeee
Woo woo wooooo
Sh sh shhhhhh

You ask too much of me
I can’t go on I can’t go on
He’s beautiful and he tells me
Save yourself save yourself
I’m fine I’m fine I’m fine

I only fall in love
With fictional people
Who have locket hearts
And tragic flaws
You have shaken me and torn me open.