they pulled my hair at charm school.
they
stole my guestbook during
rolecall.
this isn't a car bomb + APRIL 26 2003 = 115
this isn�t what you think it is. this isn�t the old notebooks, pages filled, pencil or ink, it didn�t matter, and sometimes, this is what you thought it would be, nights spent lazy & in a retreat, the idea of tin cans make you sullen, forlorn, but the kitchen is always clean, this isn�t, so don�t get the idea that it is, certain people make you feel smaller/ shrink as if put in the oven for fifteen whole minutes, you forget sometimes, all the details & then blame it on not living in the right section of intersectionS, this is all about the use of commas, about too many punctuation marks, there have been far too many sentences left dangling this year, there have been far too many stranded connections, this is an attempt to connect all the things that were not meant to go together, the lights are gone, in and out of old thoughts all day, why is that i remember the apartment with the yellow walls as if i still held a key to the handsome walnut door, insert question mark, as if i had just come through the front hall & dropped my bag & closed the bathroom door behind me, also : all the details blur, and i can not remember what so&so said that made everyone laugh at that summer party, all i know, is this was not it, you can walk home, you can turn on the gas stove, you can eat in your bedroom, you can share tv hours with the flatmates, you could polish silverware (like you did once: that first night in apt34: when only the most important things had been taken out of cardboard boxes) you think back, and know, K n o w, that it wasn�t GLORIOUS, that it wasn�t worth the starving, but gawd damn, it certainly feels as if someone has sawed a limb off, now and then you can make other calculations, the future is a store and you might one day own some stock in it, the future is a store, though, and there might be posted hours that mean you can never get in , it�s a long bridge and the pavement is slippery, i have spent too many nights with myself, every night, isn�t it odd, there you are, with yourself, unable to break plans with my own self, and damn, if it doesn�t just frustrate the hell out of me, marveling at the minds that seem set in a similar pattern, there is girl who i am slowly, s l o w ly beginning to befriend, we talk about books & shyness & our fondness for social activity despite the shyness, then, online, i found artwork, new and created by JC�s hands, haven�t set eyes on those hands since i was twenty, all a blur, it�s all a blur, it�s all a blur, cut, & paste& this isn�t the blue wrapper on the floor with the word trojanenz on it, this isn�t sleeping next to the beau�s long pale body at night (my favorite,perhaps, ever,) , this is the night with your own bed in it, this is the night with your own bed in your own room with your own books & shoes & letters & maps pinned to the wall, everything else, seems like a : myth, not knowing what to say when his friends ask __ where will you live/would you think about living in nyc__, and this isn�t the time to repeat the conversation you and the boyfriend have had in re: to such plans, in re: to fall04, because even though it is a p l a n , one never knows, this isn�t, this isn�t, and then, it gnaws at you: the idea of impermanence & this is sitting on the yellow couch with the kids who remember, though they pretend not to, their high s.a.t.. scores, long nights to place value on past events, it is worthless, it is not worthless, counting backwards until you are less nervous, thin line of nerves/ as if visible through my shirt & what i listen to may change this (put in autechre & it is easy to forget the emotions)+ ninety-three or so comma s,
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