Tuesday, September 7, 2010


Letters do not show up right. I am slightly dying to write. Looks aren’t
everything. So, words. No one is to blame. I didn’t mention the poems.
They should still be soft by the time they reach you.

I spent the weekend raining. Hangovers kept me company. No answers. I
would like to leave the country with quality, beautiful in theory.

This wonky beautiful machine might be love. I am desperate for it to
operate smoothly. Red Valentine, as you know, you’re my favorite. But
I wish I had more profound puddles to kick with.

I’m almost out…

Monday, August 30, 2010

letters are coming and going, a lot quicker than expected despite the royal mail... and a new poem is in the works as of tonight.

let's celebrate with an oldie, but a goodie:

Look at the absurdity and be happy with it.

Several months ago I was in Glasgow again. My two weeks: hilarious and pathetic and I guess well behaved. It was just a hand job and banter after ‘you’re pretty.’

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


Saturday afternoon, I’m spending it
alone with coffee – quite a
special gathering. Your last
letter blew me a kiss.
Glasgow, Texas, Italy.
Afternoons, I’m reminded of
the urge to smoke. Jet set,
moving out, going home, leaving.
Forgotten, can’t think of poems.
No stories, out of paper.
Hungover for a year.
Grad school, jobs, living …
Fuck this.
My room. A drink.


Monday, August 2, 2010

My virginity,

So I slept on, but he kept trying. He was an exception; bound to haunt me.
I had to focus, to go to bed and to get back to sleep.
This guy, he looked less sexy sitting next to me in bed.
Really terrible…and what went on between us physically-
I did snicker a bit. I laugh too much.
I got up for coffee (pot no. 2) and take responsibility for that.

So, yes again into the bedroom. Just really tired.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

At home again.
Rain, traditional –
like Texas. Like it should be.
Just a lot of nothing.
The rain seems light enough,
but I started
writing you a letter to protect me.
It’s been a few days.
Peppermint, grey compromise
and handwritten books. Before I leave,
slightly worse. It already is. I’d
rather know when I will see you again, if I will…


Friday, July 30, 2010

Naughty indeed. But, indeed, we're back. Words:


I’ve been sleeping. I’ve been waking up.
A quiet afternoon sans the traditional stinging,
a foreplay I don’t mind at all.
When I breathe in and out, it’s almost
like the past on speed dial, making me ache.
It’s not like I forgot by falling asleep.
This letter, the red wine, the nonsense.
It’ll be good in Tejas.


we're back.

we've been naughty about letters and about poems. we're going to get back to them. in honor of that- words:

To you,

Tonight I’m sober so that ruins living in the uk. The leaves turn brown and it rains for two weeks. There was bad language, sex and coffee- which it needed, because everyone else ordered Chinese food while I was gone.

As per usual, I had to tell you exactly nothing. Just something. Conversations like in the 50s…I guess I’ll end this now.

Good luck making Paris.