“I wish Lakeshia were here- to see this happening, to see this discussion that we’re having, to know that it exists, that we’re doing the work she wants us to do even if it’s in a way that she wouldn’t do it.”

-Isaac Wilder, 11/9/09

It's funny how quickly the identification of home changes.

there's no man
who can quite
break the heart of a woman
like that of a father
to a daughter.
his words break,
crashing tidal waves
upon the sand which is her skin,
rolling and biting
and no one can seet
he tumult that is occuring
within.
fathers always win
the fights,
the battles,
the wars,
even if they emerge bleeding.
they leave their daughters up against walls,
their shoulders slumped and their eyes shuttering off,
their mouths pulling farther and farther down
as if anvils are tied to the corners of their lips,
ready to fall into the ground,
faster than their tears.
there's no man
who can quite break heart of a woman
like that of a fatherto a daughter.
fathers can make their daughters' voices change,
make them go from light and airy,
to deep and heavy with unsaid things,
so many, many unsaid things.
these things create traffic in our minds,
causing jams in our thoughts, richocheting ourselves
into our mind's museums,
dreaming of who we could become
once we escape the roofs of our fathers.
but there is no one whom we love more,
no one who loves us more
than our fathers.
no one whom we are more sure
will love us
when our bodies transform with age,
no one whom we are more confident
will keep listening to us
even if they use their dying breath to do it.
no one more willing to wipe our snot
and our asses when shit comes out.
I suppose this the curse
of being the daughters of men.
Giving our hearts so willingly
to men whon we know
will either crush them
or cradle them.
And even if they crush them,
how can you hate
the man who made you begin?
Even if we hate them,
they still manage
to crawl into those darker corners,
the ones no one, not even yourself,
are aware of.
And how can you possibly
cut away a piece of your own heart?

thinking about my friend from Kansas

Dude. I miss Patrick Kuhn. I miss his philosophical rants and unguarded laughter. Not too many people I know like that in my life. Hopefully, college will come along and I'll get to meet someone like him again.

I had a dream where my mother was alive and she had beat the shit out of cancer and was getting married again and I was crying and falling over the floor and my siblings were there to catch me when I hit the bottom and they were stroking my hair and listening to me and actually showing that they cared.

And then I woke up. And realized it was a dream.

I like to listen to souls. I like to listen to them twitch and glide, itch and shift inside people’s bodies. Souls don’t say much. They’re not talkative creatures. They mostly like to laugh, to sing and moan, to dance and sway back and forth, back and forth. From where I’m standing, I can always hear them. When I was a child, one of my favorite things to do was to take someone’s thumb inside of one of my hands and stroke it. Stroke it over and over. At my stroking, all souls still. They stop moving, stop shivering and sloshing. They curl up inside the person and focus upon the brushing of my nails against their skin. Souls don’t like to be found out, see. They like to be kept secret. They assume that no one is patient enough to listen. And that is usually the truth: people are too busy chasing their own souls to pay attention to anyone else’s. Except me. I think my destiny when I was born was to listen to other people’s souls. Just curl up right outside their door and press my ear against the mahogany wood. I never intend to knock. Just simply lie outside the door and listen to everything they wish to say. Let them hear my heart beat right outside the threshold. I like to listen and then skip away, real content-like. Go and scribble inside of my journal all my happy sighing curious thoughts. Whoosh- there my thoughts went, flowing straight onto the paper! The only soul I could not hear was my own. It stayed silent. The only thing I could sense from it was a distant rumbling, like the familiar buzzing underneath your skin as your body absorbs vibrations from far away lands.

This sprained ankle is a bunch of rubbish.

I kept waking up overnight, the pain in my foot sending flaming memos to my nervous system saying "MAY DAY MAY DAY". I don't even know what "may day" means. That's what it sounds like anyway. I keep thinking about Francis. And the color of his eyes.

And....how I fell down his steps after giving a warm goodbye.


God. Can't I be sexy any more?