i am taking a trip and i don’t even care that i’m going somewhere warm. i love flying but i hate packing, i always feel like i am forgetting something because i always want to be put together to the point where heads turn and jaws drop and yeah i’m wearing heels and it’s five a.m. but it’s happy hour somewhere. i have lots of gold earrings and i drape a scarf over my head in the terminal for a dramatic effect. i can’t decide if i should nap or stay up, there is so much to do and so little to talk about.

just tell me about the cosmos. i’m here, i’ve always been here &
i want to know about the things in the sky, not more about the drink.
don’t have a drink at all. when i wake up i want to know who i am,
and by the way, who are you? 

some days i am scarved in proper nouns & brown school girl fabric,
it’s comfortable like shag carpet and taking my bra off after work. 
i can be fearless and knock myself around like a bull in a china shop,
riding over potholes and daring the road to take me down. 
i am the best liar in all my suits but still, i try i try.

do you know there are love notes in geometry? oh, and i’ve seen
a fox on a residential street in chicago. imagine that! 
i still love semicolons and i never get to use them. i still let
caution ride on my dominant shoulder,
and i don’t know how to drown it without drowning myself too.

i grow more in love with my eyes every day! there is this analog in my
head getting louder and louder, recording all the details. i try to write, 
even when i feel i can’t. i push through the nights i am reluctant to 
sleep alone (mostly) and that terrible ache in my foot, 
it’s in my head it has to be.
i have fallen so hard in love with the idea of you
i don’t even need the real thing.

a sort-of love

i.
i was already thinking of ways i could leave. 
sitting at the tracks, mind in circles, looking hot-but-crazy,
no one’s brave enough to talk.

you’ll be perfect when i’m all out of love,
you’ll suck me dry.

ii.
you’re here somewhere, drawn up in my head.
i can feel you, you’re the only one i want.

a collaborative effort of ones i loved most,
jawbone of saint louis, heart of the road,
confidence of lazy days in bed.

patient & passionate. i will try
until i can’t fight or sink anymore.

iii.
impostors, taken seat at the window, scattered
grandeur like glitter every place sacred.
quiet things defined.

we would find thrift stores, buy videotapes, watch
“mom’s 70th birthday" six times until we can’t stand it. 
old people make us sad even when they’re happy,

kissing in bed until five-forty a.m., the sun’s up.
i’d almost be twenty-one again, drunk & half in love.

every time i said someone was beautiful before,
a lie.


iv.
search on train platforms, in elevators,
near the water. you’ll understand histories,

that all the wrongs lead to the right.

no words, just an
overarching feeling that fighting & sinking
will have been worth it.


v.
the dark lipstick, black tights,
heavy eyes. the knowing.

the last moment for loneliness,
as if an excuse was needed, always polite.

where are you? i’m missing you too.

i’m mark jones

basketball has lost itself. i don’t get it.
everyone’s running around, knocking people
over, holy shit, that’s a foul.

he tries to stop the hemmoraging here,
a little bit. that piercing look right now,
when there’s a struggle, 59.9 here in the
quarter. well over 500, the battle on the block,
the more, the merrier.

through december i grit my teeth. i pull in
the big lines, call time out, i don’t know if
i want to take that.

we’ll be right back, we’re intrigued,
we never had a chance.

exit here

I spend all my time looking for that
fucking sea turtle,
the kind the locals say died off when the tourist boats polluted the reef,
the one that will deliver the message when
god has forsaken me.

I don’t have much use for satan but I found him,
bleary eyed under a bay rock,
waiting for the next reason to excuse himself,
sink his teeth in and parasite,
just as scared as the rest of us.

I french tip my nails, french kiss
the only love I’ve ever known.
Pardon my french, but fuck that sea turtle,
I want to save myself.

Winter hardens, freezes over, flakes off,
I am most inspired by interstates,
cosmic-like tunnels of snow or stars,
it doesn’t matter which.

The boxes are packed, I find mostly angler fish,
the light at the end of the tunnel and
sharp teeth in a sunken skull.

I drive forty-five, I can’t see the lanes,
but the rear view promises headlights,
wheels in the tracks of my bald tires,
suggesting that possibly, maybe,
their operators trust me to lead them home.

the devil dances

When you are scared you just have to buckle down, let it engulf you and then… Let it go. 
Beyonce said that.
The pursuit of happiness is the programmed goal, most people are too stupid to realize. Everybody is always trying to sell it to you in cellophane packages.
All the famous people, the millionaires, they’re not thieves. They were just smart enough to say:
I am better than this.

Most of the time when something nags on your brain, you should pay attention because it is trying to tell you something. 
This is why I don’t understand money problems, or why my coworker remains half of a volatile relationship. 
I’m not better than anyone, I’m just saying its better to have a hawk’s perspective, rather than a dove.

Hip hop occupies no disheartened grooms, no four years of silence, no verses of self-pity. 
It’s just, you can’t stand them, so you drop them. It’s just, they’re scared of the future, so you hop in a DeLorean. 

I am just learning to let thoughts consume me, without feeling the need to express myself. This is not one of those times.
Your attitude, not your action, determines the outcome. Don’t get greedy, take what you need.
It is okay for a song to ring in your head for the remainder of the day, it is not annoying, it just is.

I wear the flowers in my hair, the frog pin on my grey v-neck that shows my tattoos,
I roll dice for fun. 
In slate grey combat boots, black mascara, I step to the plate,
Bold as always, to say: Tupac lives.

here is your american history x. so you want to live the good life,
so you want to own the house on the hill and the stick figure family.
here is your minivan, your five cents on the dollar, your television set
that grows smaller and smaller until you are only an audience.
here is your free love, if that means pocketing every last penny and
conveniently forgetting the woes of whereabouts & you and me.
here is your fight club dream team, professional league hockey or
football or whatever gets you through the night. here is your silver cord,
your organized religion and pockets of government, what if it’s not enough?
what about anarchy? you don’t have to burn things down, or 
cry or write your congressman. what if you didn’t reject it all,
but thought at least to prod at the weak spots?
what if you were taught to ask questions?

submersion comes first
your arms as lead
water pools & calloused feet
the mirage of your face
for the first time in weeks
then there is hyperspace.
light moves, a wormhole
but less eternal and
no one cares
what comes next
you want to say
“i miss you" 
you don’t know how
you can’t miss someone
you never had
quiet when the heater clicks off
google all the answers
you turn your head at silence
wishing on JPEGs of shooting stars
frozen in time
at least yours to keep
at least this picture can’t leave
does not possess the capacity
to forget