the seamstress

in mimicry of depth

where shallow is shame

and disguise mine, i shall

sweat as an adjective

have i ever mentioned? i heard, all the times you called. (and you and you and yes you) don't ask me why i did not pick up, i just didn't. i turned up the music and sang a little stronger instead

reading, reading for all i'm worth during a hard-earned break. others' words, pseudo-biographies. so many aspiring writers, so little time: all of us in pain and each as worthless to another as the next. tell me tell me tell me you love me even if you really do not, try to, try to, say you do, do.

save your words for the adorning of your self with beautiful clothes and beautiful friends all of them writhing bodies on the dance floor each of us as attractive as the next and thus invisible, amidst the sweat sweat as an adjective your eyes are drawn to the lone figure standing on the dance floor, still as a statue. head uplifted, eyes closed. a rapture of silence you are excluded from

envy, that profanity

green is the aura that surrounds my shrinking heart

why are you where i want to be
why am i here where i smile and make do
where i can only smile and make do
why, why, why

Middle Age: A Romance (Part 2)

"Owen, when did you build this? My God."

"Last winter. It came to me in a dream. Or, rather - you came to me in a dream. You suggested it." Owen smiled almost shyly. "You held out an orchid to me, and promised you'd return 'when the orchids bloom.' It was a dream that made me so happy, darling, though when I was awake I hadn't much to be happy about."

Middle Age: A Romance - Joyce Carol Oates

Of course, a sailboat on the Hudson River, there's always some measure of danger. What pleasure would there be in sailing, otherwise?

What pleasure in life, otherwise?

after all, what be a facade except that which falters from time to time, if only for laughter's sake;

altogether now: haha. ha, ha, ha

hello, you.

fuzzy recollections. maddening madness

were you mine? was i yours?

we never really did those shameful, shameful things together
they are not truths, i suppose.
they are not
they are not
they are not truths, i suppose -


and hands they fly to cover the ears
and eyes they squint shut till from them flow tears
and legs bundled closely to the heart
to remind the self all is fine, all is safe, all is junk.