i bought two pics from ezra. he took them while he was teaching his dance class.

i wanted a pic of him or his wife or his dog, but they sell out really fast. plus, i realized the pics i've purchased will actually look beautiful in a frame and on my wall and i'll always think of him when i look at them.

i'm still going to try for a shot of the dog. 

my throat closes.


i've listened to this song x100000000000000. it sounds like sex to me

i suggest you turn it on after the sun goes down and listen to it all alone. in the dark. use headphones.

here is a link to the skull i got last year

called Crania Revolutis

mine is about three or three and a half inches high. it's really beautiful.

post title fuck you

i didn't buy kratom yesterday and the store nearby selling it isn't open on sunday. so. if i do decide to follow through with buying, i'll have to wait till saturday because i don't get home early enough on weekdays to catch the place before they close. mostly they sell bongs and t-shirts and, i think, sex toys.

honestly, i don't think i could buy a sex toy from a person in person.

this is why the internet was formed.

well, that and to buy kratom if you don't want to wait for saturday. ha.

tomorrow i'm going to start doing strength training exercise (in addition to the walking) because my cast iron frying pan is almost too heavy for me to pick up with one hand. wtf, right? weak. and i can't be weak.

sometimes the hall bathroom toilet makes this gurgling sound i really don't like. it seems ominous.

just garbage

some band names i think i'd use if no one else has:

a) My Pelvic Pain

b) Sticky Ribs

okay, i guess that was technically "a couple" of band names. how many is some? i think maybe four? a few is three. for sure.

my friend susan (i call her sioux. she calls me kee) sent me a happiness globe for my birthday. it's very pretty blown glass and she spent too much money. last year she sent me a 3D printed skull by joshua harker. it's cool and she knows i like skulls and bones. also too expensive. for christmas she sent me a monster high doll. what do i send her? music downloads. i suck.

well, no. music is everything to me. it's true. more than words. HAHA A SONG. never mind.

anyway, sioux says i "deserve" happiness. she tells me so because she knows full well i suspect i do not.

does anyone "deserve" happiness?


and just like that...

i think i'll go buy some kratom. i was off it for a week. two weeks, i mean.

i just drank some chocolate milk. walmart opened one of their market stores, which i think is just grocery and really IS cheaper than publix, but i love publix and i hate walmart. so. cheaper vs hate? hate wins, i think.

maybe once i'll go just to see if it's as gross as everything else walmart.

we just found out on wednesday that connor has 3 degrees of scoliosis. i don't even really know how to say that. was that the right way? anyway, nothing to be done about it and no real big deal. do i believe doctors? i don't know. no.


by the way. sharknado is the worst movie i've ever seen. not even sort of funny-good. just plain shit. don't bother. horrible. terrible. and the blond guy from 90210 (i think it was him) is the hero. omg. what? he sucked. well....they all sucked.

except dylan.


i like it here. i feel alone.

there are a million things to do.


i think, in some ways, ezra is making me think about robin. hospice is a wonderful thing, unless you've not experienced it first hand, and then it seems to inspire fear.

but it's more like a shield against fear. like a blanket against cold. the shield and the blanket won't probably save you, but the fear and the cold have to get through them to get to you. it's something, anyway. more than nothing. and i know from working in hospitals and nursing homes that most of us have nothing between us and what comes for us.

what was that rotten movie? the one where, i think, asteroids or something were hitting the earth and were going to make giant tsunamis? i might even have the asteroid part wrong. all i'm wanting to mention is this scene in which a woman and, i think, her father, go to stand on the beach together to wait. they're looking out to see - to sea - but mostly they are together. comforting each other. not alone. that's what hospice reminds me of. nothing you can do about what's coming, really, but you have chosen the spot. you have chosen your companions. and when it comes, it comes.

i don't know. i do know it's amazing the way someone i don't know can make me love him.


kratom withdrawal for me seems to amount to one bad night. that doesn't really live up to the hype all over the internet. i keep seeing people go on and on about the <i>suffering</i> they experience and i think...uh. also? i think the terrible feelings they are feeling are the feelings they kind of sheet-over by taking the kratom.

i like it. the only reason i'm giving it up (this time. for now) is the cost, which seems a little kooky. also, i do sometimes worry about long term effects, even though i can't find any anywhere. something to worry about always.

i am thinking sort of about visiting the kava bar in st pete. i hate the taste of that shit (omg so fucking horrible!) but i love what it does. a few seconds of BLECH weighed against hours of goodness? i'm able to get through it - unless i throw up, which is a total possibility.

i'm going to start checking on ezra's blog every day because i really want one of his photographs OR one of his pill flasks OR anything ANYTHING he made. i've been reading him for a few years and i know his death is coming and something OF him to hang onto seems very very very important. the pics sell out so very fast. i have to move faster.

grey outside. maybe doctor wong talked me into another chicken. not sure.

lyrics the past and the pending the shins

As someone sets light to the first fire of autumn We settle down to cut ourselves apart. Cough and twitch from the news on your face And some foreign candle burning in your eyes
Held to the past too aware of the pending Chill as the dawn breaks and finds us up for sale. Enter the fog another low road descending Away from the cold lust, your house and summertime.
Blind to the last cursed affair pistols and countless eyes A trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft is running  Feed till the sun turns into wood dousing an ancient torch Loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love.
Your name on my cast and my notes on your stay Offer me little but doting on a crime. We've turned every stone and for all our inventions In matters of love loss, we've no recourse at all.
Blind to the last curse of the fair pistols and countless eyes A trail of white blood betrays the reckless route your craft is running Feed till the sun turns into wood dousing an ancient torch Loiter the whole day through and lose yourself in lines dissecting love.

my god i love this song.



here is an opportunity to laugh at me:

i sent liz phair a tweet just now. i told her that i was listening to the whip-smart/exile in guyville shuffle thing i always listen to for forever and i told her i love her.

my day is made because liz phair favorited my tweet. see? she's polite. if someone tells you they are listening to your music and they love you? you click favorite.

also? connor is awesome.


for me, exile in guyville and whipsmart are pretty much actually a double album. i listen to both of them all of the time and i'm not even actually sure anymore which song is on which one. it doesn't matter. liz phair made something perfect when she made those songs and it's just sad there are any people alive who don't know and don't listen.

that music is so me i forget it isn't mine.

i didn't take a shower today, but i look okay. in fact, i look more okay all the time. isn't that crazy? i think i'm forgetting to care about time passing because time is to be ignored except when it comes to work and appointments. and i am whatever i say i am. i'm what i feel. i feel optimistic and frightened at the exact same time, and it's better - so much better - than pessimistic and stuck.

jump from a plane. leap from a cliff. better and better and better.

i'm drinking orange juice and having some maeng da kratom. i'm planning on giving it up (for the most part) after this bag because i really do think it slows down my digestive system and that isn't right.

why do i think that? because opiates do that and it works like an opiate, although it's not one. plus, symptoms.

it's cold out there, and rough. said liz.

i love twitter, you know. so many people out there are so funny and i feel better about people because of those people. thank you, people. i want to love people. i don't want to throw myself in with the people-haters. in fact, i do not.

seriously, i wish i could tell you exactly why things are looking up. finally. my life. yay.

eventually? i will tell you.

up the date

this is public.

i should tell you, it's never a good idea to make friends or to be too friendly with the mentally ill. they are 100% focused on themselves and they will suck any life you make available - even accidentally -  right on out of your body. you can be kind and you can be compassionate, but expect nothing. absolutely nothing. that's what you will be given.

that said, i'm done with the "friendship" thing if the person in question is mentally ill. my life is as short as every other life on earth and it's hard enough to get through without the pain of dealing with selfish and manipulative folks - folks who would take what you may hand to them, stab you in the back and then rifle through your pockets before stepping over your bleeding body on the pavement.

yes. i am talking about you. i am. you. don't let yourself doubt it. it's you i'm talking about.

anyway, i'm pretty good. i can see the light. life will be very livable before too too long.

i should write here more often.

i should make time for art. i know i'm not an idiot. i know i need to flex it.

i can't write now because i have to go to the bathroom, but hi. hello to you, strangers who end up on this spot. i love you because you've stopped by.

i love love.


this week of april is mostly never too good, is it.


maybe i'll just up and move here?  i do like the way it looks better than the other one. the therapist says i should be writing.

says i should be.

it's cloudy outside. it's saturday and i'm off work.


some yellow and red and dark

in a dream last night tim tebow taught me how to weld a pipe. i stood behind him and leaned around his body to watch him apply solder. there were a lot of colors. his shirt was short sleeved white. the pipe was silver. we worked in a room lit only by sparks and the sun outside. there were a lot of shadows. just as i woke i was thinking i can do this. also i was thinking about his amazing biceps because one of them was literally in my face. he smelled like a comforting fireplace.

acid flux.


cat littler. a littler cat.

"this meeting was different from the earlier one"  is only a first draft, so no. 

a first draft of what?  i don't know.  nothing, probably.

"this meeting was different from the earlier one"

i got married because of sex in a cornfield on well worked dirt between august height rows maybe eight or ten feet from the side of a two lane country highway. i of all people forgot insects alive in cornfields, the real reasons i never took a summer detasseling job. i forgot spider mites and grasshoppers; beetles, corn root aphids and cinch bugs. forgot my lace best white shirt pressed sinking into soft soil and forgot my lungs pulling deeply probably malathion, carbaryl and diazinon. 


wait.  this is the fucking poetry blog?

yes.  yes, it is.  i see people looking and while i'm probably letting you down, i'm more of a jack gilbert (HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA) in terms of production numbers than, say, anyone prolific.


cast doubt on me

menstrual blood is concentrated acid.

mouse breakdown

i do tend to stick with certain people, even after they hurt me.  however, once they have hurt me, they are instinctively moved from one category of person to another and i no longer trust them.  it's not something i do on purpose.  probably it's self defense.

but i stick with them.  if you know me you know it.

currently i trust-trust no one.  probably that's sad.

wait.  i guess i actually do trust a couple of people the deep way, but probably it's because we have mutual non-expectations in our relationship.  safety.  total safety there.

one might say i should open myself to trust.  but why?  i already have a sort of "trust-lite" for probably 90% of people on earth, which is maybe more than most people have.  i do assume i can "trust" almost everyone. but to a point.  when i talk about trust-trust, i'm talking about my heart of hearts.  i don't believe you give that away to everyone.  in fact, nearly no one.

and once that kind of trust has been ruined, it's ruined.  but sure.  if a day comes where someone seems to want my heart of hearts, of course i'd be open again.  wary, but open.

probably it would end in a disaster, but i survive many times. 

i think it's where the alien hermit crab thing came from.  my shell is decorated and attractive, but very hard and mostly safe.  the alien part is just that i don't believe i really fit comfortably here with other people, but i am okay with faking most of the time. 

faking tends to be exhausting.

i don't keep anything, except, i guess, books (although i gave one of my books to tatiana when she left)  i mostly give everything away (including money) and delete everything electronic.  i keep no email.  it doesn't matter how important it was or is to me.  i don't see the point.

"words are wind" - they keep saying those words in mr. martin's books and they super resonate.

words are wind.  words are not proof of anything.  essentially, i don't believe anything anyone says to me.  but that's only because i have no proof.  and when i do have proof, i need it every day.

all of this comes from not trusting my heart of hearts to most people.  if i trusted you that much, i'd believe what you told me.  it's really simple.

and i'm extremely insecure, which has been fed by the way i've been treated.  i'm too sensitive, i guess.  is that something you can fix?  i don't think so.  besides, sensitivity is important to me.  it enables me to treat people the way they need to be treated.

o for one person to do the same for me.  eh, shippity.

an old friend told me this past week he was re-reading emails i'd written, i'm guessing, five or more years ago.  probably more like seven or eight years ago?  i'm not sure.  he noticed, while reading, that he'd spent a lot of time (i think he said it something like this) not replying to me.  and he was saying something like that was wrong of him and he was saying an apology.  and something about loving me very much.  i believe he said very much.  it was like he realized we were friends?  i think something like that.

i believe i made it clear he did not need to apologize to me and he said he was apologizing more for himself than for me.  which i understand because i do that all the time.

but the truth is he hurt me terribly, terribly, terribly by ignoring me the way he did.

i think i tried to deflect the apology because i don't like to let people know how much they've hurt me.

i'm afraid it will hurt them.  and it feels like weakness on my part.  also, i'm afraid it will not hurt them enough.

don't want to hurt.  want to hurt. 

this is murky enterprise.

argh.  i'm saying argh.

so difficult to accurately summarize a personality.  my strain of personality.   words can be cumbersome and this place is so tightly controlled.  too clean.  hushed.  we are wearing paper clothes.

anxious and running around like a mouse.  searching for the source of my human misery. 



four thirty sun warming
filthy glass and rusted screen.
voice drift under wedged up windows,
while dishes spread to clack a supper pattern.

dad at the head, mom to his left or right.
boys on one side; girls on the other.
left arms and right legs
tangle bump.
kick and pinch

later on inside, all television
mostly tuned along entire blocks
to the same program; laughs track and the father chair
at home. dad drinks falls to sleep,
and we keep still in a pool of screen light.

by me/kd 
trying to cut my own leg with the boxcutter blade didn't work.  i need something thinner and sharper.  a razor or scalpel from work.  but i don't go back till the 19th, so maybe i should just see a doc about the wood under my skin.

but probably not.

going to get coffee at bad ass in the morning, and sip it on the beach.

i hope i don't feel like this again tomorrow.  i hope the sun shines some.

by the way, kratom withdrawal is really horrid.  crank my anxiety up past my limits and feel that way for days and days.  restless legs impossible to sleep.  actually, make that restless inner body impossible to sleep.  so i don't stop taking it although i think i would like to not be taking it.  i've gone through the feelings x3 and while they are not terminal and certainly withstand-able, i just really don't want to feel that way again on purpose.  also, it would be best to go through it while completely alone and i'm never completely alone.


okay with this.

“You do not have to believe in yourself or your work. It is not your business to determine how good it is, how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. But it is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly to the urges that motivate you.

Keep the channel open… No artist is pleased…  There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction; a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, the expression is unique. If you block it, it will never exist through another medium and will be lost. The world will never have it.”

—Martha Graham


good-bye false friends.  i don't trust you anyway.

well, one or two of you i trust, but you don't care about me.

wow.  i'm making the sun come out.


you are a lazy coward and it's no longer possible i will ever respect you.

there.  i feel no better for having said it.


a boy without a shirt is in the smoker area. he is covered in tattoos and wearing shorts and shoes and socks. an older woman who works for the hospital is lighting his cigarette. i see words in fancy script across his shoulders but i'm not close enough to read them. i think the first two letters are s and c and there might be an h and i would know but he flips around just as i get a foot away and he says what the hell is that shit. so i freeze. what shit i say because i don't know what else to do. that chinese lady, he flicks ash. she sticks these things on me and takes my blood and all that shit and when i tell her i'm gonna go and get a cigarette she says she's gonna call the cops. what is that shit - callin' the cops. that's bullshit. he is pounding his chest like a gorilla so i say call the cops because you want to smoke that's just stupid. he is very agitated and has monitor leads stuck to his bare chest. there is a band-aid on the inner bend of his right elbow, and a cotton ball underneath. it is soaked with his blood. his blood has run and dried halfway down his arm. he looks scared and angry. he looks 18. i agree with him so he will smoke and calm down. i back into the hospital and i never take my eyes off his face.


93 dogs
77 cats
65 chuck
16 sweet
60 bd


mega loser announcement of nothing much

every time i read on a blog that someone is writing a poem a day, or something of that nature, i feel sort of crabby. i can't do that.

i guess i get crabby because it makes me feel sort of failure-like.

so here is my lame announcement, which is actually not at all important and means nearly nothing:

i have the title for my next poem.

woo. i know. it sounds as lame as anything really, really lame to claim such a thing.

but normally, i don't have a title till the poem appears to be complete. i don't even know what this means; the flip-flop of the way it goes for me. i don't think i've had too many ideas for a poem come before the poem, and when i have, i don't think they turn out very well. usually, poem comes first and turns into an idea, and i switch things around or try to fix it to suit my eyes. this isn't normal for me.

and i'd told myself i'd never write here unless it was a poem, but look, i lied.

instead of stating in public "i'm writing a poem a day," i can say, "i'm trying to move toward the place where i can write a poem at all!"



almost happy

the goldfish is dead this morning on the bottom
of her world. the autumn sky is white,
the trees are coming apart in the cold rain.
loneliness gets closer and closer.
he drinks hot tea and sings off-key:
this train ain't a going-home train, this train.
this is not a going-home train, this train.
this train ain't a going-home train 'cause
my home's on a gone-away train. that train.
- jack gilbert

jack gilbert is honestly my hero.


this ain't no damn poem, no

not written a poem in months.
maybe when i move into the house.
yes. then.

by me/kd

from a poet i am nuts over.

it's just a small taste of The City In Which I Loved You

Morning comes to this city vacant of you.
Pages and windows flare, and you are not there.
Someone sweeps his portion of sidewalk,
wakens the drunk, slumped like laundry,
and you are gone.

You are not in the wind
which someone notes in the margins of a book.
You are gone out of the small fires in abandoned lots
where human figures huddle,
each aspiring to its own ghost.

Between brick walls, in a space no wider than my face,
a leafless sapling stands in mud.
In its branches, a nest of raw mouths
gaping and cheeping, scrawny fires that must eat.
My hunger for you is no less than theirs.

- Li-Young Lee, who rocks


the title is flesh and the color nude

yes! pigs can fly
yoga yoga yadda yoda
you are entering empty space,
but you are my friend, cat stevens,
and your shopping cart is empty
now yusuf islam, o

welcome to burnt tortilla
welcome to central park
the wall phone, black and
the wall street rising
with this week's prostitution
in the kama sutra temple, oy

the gun street girls are
playing the cello at the
11th hour, and it's the best example yet
as mr. endicott, mr. globalist and miss camelot
test the surfer's village status
for that strange attractor, yo

they sweat in the hot sing-sing
and come alive with sex and depression
don't fall, tart boy, don't fall
into boxes of rose quartz or saint sabrina's parlor
because there's nothing to raising hell
like a queenpin miss pork pink pussy, o

-by  k.d. /me

this poem was inspired by my favorites list. or, i think that's what happened.


godspeed you black

on the couch.
the dog over my neck
we hear
antennas to heaven.

- by k.d. /me

nine or ten

sticky resin binds the lid to the 4 oz glad container,
having been plunged with a paper clip
out through the inside of the bat.

put through at espresso speed and time into
one mix of three schwag, twigs and seeds
bring fine genetic messengers.

- by k.d. /me



Look. I see ribbons of geese through
the window,
at their patterns.
They point southwest, but who knows where they'll set in.

There's a pale orange ring around the moon; not quite a perfect circle, and it's fuzzy with lit clouds. Unromantically, I recall the troposphere, but I also think how amazing to see one single color, considering the random orientation of ice crystals. Orange is a longish wavelength of light.

Earlier, the clouds resembled fish meat
scored with
Waves of birds
passed over speaking softly, while I listen and never understand.

- by k.d. /me

i don't know if this is finished, but it's probably not.


The lake is the sea.
So we move to the North Shore;
colder and deeper.

- k.d. /me

minnesota, hail to thee.


And he would say, look at me! (a penis haiku)

Penis had no eye.
But he'd move his mouth and say,
Look, I'm gonna blow!

- by k.d. /me

this started out as a much longer poem. when we were kids, my brother would pull it out for a laugh and make it talk. my sister and i were both horrified and impressed. everyone involved would kill me for bringing this up.



Yours, I come melting, broken to new.
Bind my wrists for sins,
take my body as offering.
Penetrate each layer, peeled to cleave clean.

Plumped, my soul tongues for a kiss.
Grant suckle, my grace, and taste honey's juice.
Assured with fingers,
feed the split. Hallowed stave, sheathing slick

and richly thickened, unfurl in judgement stiff.
Your refiner burns me with blessed fires
and licks life through blushing flesh.
For benediction, it pumps at friction's slip.

- by k.d. /me

it's really very funny, don't you think?
i've never had a black blog before.

i don't know yet if i'll be working things out here or simply publishing things i think might be done.

mostly i just have to get over myself.