i'm writing a collection of short stories and poetry.

short stories are just wonderful.

'miriam' by truman capote may be my favourite, though.

gummywormheaven

untitled

screaming. wailing. crying.


stop.


pulse...pulse...
add to the poor man's belly
and strengthen.
pulse...pulse...
become immortal in the womb
of the earth.
pulse...pulse...
depart from the sea from which
breath is taken.
pulse...pulse...
grow into the roots that span
the skies.
pulse...pulse...
embark.
flatline.

justify birth.

sometimes i just wish so badly

with all of my being

that if i took those miracle pills

everything would be better

and i would be normal

and one person would inhabit my body.

but i know i would rot inside if i asked for them.

pieces

moving that mountain must have been hard.

she's so small.

i didn't think her body could handle that stress,

that type of terrain.

people always say it's a life-changing experience.

well

at least it was for one person.

wonder if he despised having the air forced into him

as much as i did.

Cinder never did want to smother.
i'm positive your face pulled, twisted, contorted, changed

into something foreign and rehearsed.

i knew that step didn't happen when you turned eighteen.

did one of those heavenly lights shine down on you

because you had done it--

you had made the magic number?

i remember singing that song,

counting backwards,

multiplying.

just like am i now.

and even though cuts hurt,
i never thought anything could be this perfectly close to perfect.

describing is so hard

epistaxiophobia

there's something fascinating about nosebleeds.

i met a genius on the train

today

about 6 years old,

he sat beside me

and as the train

ran down along the coast

we came to the ocean

and then he looked at me

and said,

it's not pretty.

charles bukowski

i always thought
she loved me.
not in a romatic, trivial way,
but in a natural,
blind,
almost normal way.

i remember lying in bed,
the blankets chilled by her omniscience,
her love bathing me and
foaming over me and
breaking around me
like her water slaves.

her love seemed secretive and forbidden,
a nighttime affair.
when the yolk broke and
the light and
the heat and
the life began
she would vanish.

her dissapation into dew nevevr frightened me--
her tendrils would find me again because
she loved me.


it hurt her to see me in the day,

a faint glimmer of herself
pale and
transparent and
far away.
i knew she was frail, but
she loved me.

sickness followed her as she followed me

compacting her tightly until

the dark finally consumed her.

i looked for her,
waited for her,
cried for her.
even her love marks did not comfort me;
fingers and toes seemed too human a replacement.

that night came the first hollowness.

when she returned she was cold and
foreign and
tangibly different.

and i was left sitting below her
gazing into a reflecting glass.