This has nothing to do with anything

Hi, Magic Flower,
I'm feeling abstract
to make up for words
I may seem to lack

like the bulb in my face
that's blinking like matches
and phrases in teeth, stuck
like bears' metal catches

(clashes like jaws yawning after
gnawing because bubble-yum
is sweet and sticks like soda's
bubbles run).

And another P.S:
you must understand, it means
nothing unless you--you and me--'re
holding hands.

Just a blurb

Today Alyssa answered a question about me in a way that brought me much laughter:

Q: "What is Kellie's greatest weakness?"
A: Sugar. She's like superman but instead of kryptonite its sugar that takes away power.

hehe
---

Rain and thunder ushered me to the car this morning as I hurried to work. Now, I'm unable to figure out how to get the soothing music playing on our loudspeakers; however, the fountain is doing a pretty good job of providing a soothing environment.


Today I anticipate: much creative writing, punctuated with phone calls requesting Brazilian waxes and facial cream.

This afternoon,

1. The Mills clock tower chimes every fiften minutes, telling everyone, "You're--" "late", or "--early".

2. Bugs are stuck in my room, drawn to the lavendar reed diffuser.

3. A new story unfolds under my fingers while I wait for September to get moving.

Yesterday I aged another year

and I think it's an omen:

on 09-09-09, I turned 22. Repeating numbers better be a trend this year or I will be very, very disappointed. I hope everything comes in pairs. Like .... I get two cookies. I get two slices of toast. I get two A's. I get two thumbs up. Two... paychecks? (ideal).

Unfortunately I wish I was 33 because trios are more interesting than doubles.

Two wheels on a bike. Two harddrives in my failed computer.

Sigh.

Two .... I dont know. I'm out of ideas.



In other news ... hm. I'm writing a great story you all better read when it starts selling like mad in a few years.
In two years? meh.


I'm uninspired regarding this blog. My poetry has been weird lately.

Grad school in general is just bizarre. I'm sorry you had to read to the end of this post. I miss San Francisco.

Collage de lyrics = poem? :)

you're like a 6th avenue heartache

('it's drawn on me')

drawin you in like the end of a breath before you
*remember? that something before the nothing began?*

that Nothing from the No-one.

(I never understood before).

What_a_feelin.But Change is good. Take the road that leads back to Sullivan Street (home through the town past the shadows)


that fall down whenever

we: meet.
I'm nearly fallin' to my knees on the way home I'm forgetting
the way home. (drag the "e" so it sounds like an ho-oohm.) and for once I remember how I got here. }though I'm nearly crawlin on my knees, down on her knees drowning in your Sea{

(and then the motor runs while you're in my tub listening to the
thub-dub-thub-dub of my

[heart, duh] my hand when everything turned out right.]

I'll meet you tomorrow afternoon. I (I'm not your first fool but) I'm going to be--your last one.

I "work"

Well, hello, Dreamers

It's me: the Weaver.

---

Life Update:

Right now I'm sitting at the front desk of a lobby with a trickling fountain while soothing spa music filters through the mesh, Chinese-style screens. My brain is filled with the heavy scent of a lavender bouquet and, somewhere in the next room over, a woman is receiving a relaxing facial to the soundtrack of the forest.

Yep. New job perks: constant poetic atmosphere, coupled with green tea and potpourri. Is this job going to further my career? Nah. But you cant beat discount professional facials and spa products.

This morning, I drove to Fremont reluctantly, having skipped out on the end of this weekend's forest extravaganza: a group of us spent the night in Galen's cabin-in-the-woods--after dinner and a late-night-lake-hike where we chased echoes beneath the glow of the moon. But this atmosphere soothes in a similar way: low-stress, muted greenery, and the freedom to write poems and stories all day.

---
Happy Labor Day tomorrow. What is that holiday for?

From the Berated

From the Berated


Dear,

(you)

this is: Me.

word-writer, -seer, -reader,
-lover, -mutilator (?):

who doesn't really
/fit/

inside the brackets you
b_race around the

breathed-, scrawled-, painted-
taped-words you

(hope)

to strip squish onto your own
page--worthy of only

your own
Praise.

Pat yourSelf on the back,
jerk,

since

no one else
will.


----

No one wants to read poems that no one else can understand.

My poetry--my new poetry--is about the day, the moment, the hesitance of a breath. Freezing things so that you look again, and again, and again,

at the Normal: the concrete.

The things that mean something to everyone.

No one cares how may ways you can rape the word "they" through a series of ugly sonnets that only make sense when the world is high.

So what if being the poet laureate was a weak aspiration for sell-outs. I LIKE that academia has no place for my poetry. Words are for the everyday.

the World is my everyday and God is my Audience and if all I write are Jesus-poems and listen to the hum of the sea--that's

ME.

Bite it, tear it off, sink your ugly educated fangs into the Me that Listens to the Reader of the Day--

not the reader of the classroom who loses interest
when your tweaked nose isn't pressed
against their work yet still wanders home wondering,
How can I write so you love me?

I write--Knowing, dear, that you won't.
you're not the Point.

My aim: is Truth. And your wrinkles, your callouses
are proof of your
fear
of It.


(you will never be a Capital on my Breath.)