I like day and night equally, for the same reason:

I like light.

Make sense of THAT one.

“Have you seen them? The words cut open . . . there’s something living in these lines.”

A steamy mug of dark coffee—or five—
nursed between soft palms as the night becomes
the morning. Lines begin to come alive.
They dance a reel or two and twiddle thumbs
for their audience is dull and drowsing.
Together in a mass of curves and limbs
thrusting out at all angles, harboring
resentment in the hours dark and dim,
they protest in anger: “We are not one,
but many—individuals!” they cry.
“Don’t let us blur, with your weary vision,
into a moody mess of black and white.”
Stare at the sheet in hand, eyes full of tears,
blink til it fades to black and disappears.


'Cause this is really what I need to be doing with my time.

The businessman at Sunday brunch.

I’ll have the eggs over easy, bacon
on the side. But I’d like sausage instead
if you could—Can’t you do that? Yes, you can?
Thanks. On what? Whole wheat or white or rye bread?
Whole wheat. Can I get that toasted? I said,
Can I get it toasted? And on the side,
not under the eggs? And jelly, not red
currant, but grape? And yes, the eggs are fried
but runny. I don’t want them if they’re dry.
To drink? A Bloody Mary, please. Give me
celery on the side. I can’t decide
if I want coffee also. Well, we’ll see.
Maybe later, when you bring me my drink.
No, now, please. That would be better, I think.

I feel exactly like me.

I like it.

It's completely perfect outside.

I hate wasting time sleeping.

I don't want to miss anything.

Another poem.

Awful, but I felt like writing and poetry + 6:55 a.m. don't always mix. It's on the lj too. Something different for me--trying to work with actual structure and form, whoa! I'm not happy with the last line in particular but it'll do for now.

Also, I never really noticed just how hard it is to figure out the syllable breakdown of some words. My meter is screwy and a lot of the rhymes are soft, but hey. You try writing a Spenserian sonnet at this hour. Iambic pentameter is not as easy as you might think.


Staring at the blinking neon numbers,
dim chartreuse entrances—wide eyed lying
flat on my back as guilt washes over
my body like the flow of sea crying,
creeping stealthily toward dunes, sighing.
You never mentioned her—that’s not my fault.
You smiled, shrugged. Thought you were teasing
until I felt your hand on my thigh, taut
fingers squeezing gently, then brushing soft,
tickling my ribs. I laughed helplessly.
Your arm came ‘round me, but I did not stop
your empty gestures. You grinned drunkenly
at my indulgent smile. I know next day,
you’ll forget. I won’t. I should not have stayed.