a sop of cake

april.6.11

jessie — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 23:26:18 +0000

It’s like magic.
The way we fly at 3am, the way we lie,
lay in bed.
I haven’t prayed in bed for a while now.
You’re like magic.
People are like books
or readers.
I’m your favorite story.
Your favorite listener.
No one will ever read you like I do.
No one has ever known you like I know you.
Am knowing.
We’re growing.
We’re magic.

jan.4.11

jessie — Tue, 04 Jan 2011 09:11:21 +0000

Sent 12/15/10 1:00am

What drew you to the bed where I slept?
Wept…
My eyes grew red and hot,
Their corners brimmed full,
in ire, in sadness, in what I thought…
had killed this binding
But you came in and killed, instead, the bedside lamp

You kissed like you refused to lose
And still, you could kiss me…
Fabric fell past familiar hip bones

Do you want to…
It is dark, it is quiet
It is like perfect virgin messes, certain in a screw of bed wear, sheets, mattress
mattress

Beneath your makers’ bed chamber…
Keep silent.
But by God’s grace be far from still.
I will.

I catch your eyes’ glints by the light of the moon
the streetlamp the itdoesn’tmatter
(or the blacks of my eyes widen in the greatest affection), from ‘tween your blinds’ shadows
So I hold them like I hold you like I hold the sheets

Desperate in fashion

Keeping silence is our cruel oath
(yet, I hear you breathe I pray I am the only one who can set free that breath…)

Breathe for, look at, hold, love me this way forever
I didn’t want to..
And I don’t.
My throat is warm
With these words:
I love you.

july.14.10

jessie — Thu, 15 Jul 2010 22:20:34 +0000

I hurt because I’m hurting.

It’s fair fair how dare you slink around my quarters not knowing that I’m your unfeigned first shooting star how dare you share my bed with me … kiss me, drag me through

How dare you resurrect what tortures

I bet I could make you cry why

Would you say that when you’ve done it before it isn’t a joke my tears are not a joke

Choke

The wetter

I’ll find no better because you know what I thought that you were pretty awesome and I was worth so little then where’s the you that loved me you wont stick around for me will you…

Not this you.

Curious compulsion

you’re so cold let me wrap my hands around yours.

What peculiarity pulls one stranger to another.

Pulls one you to one me

Your cold is melting

be selfish… I would go through anything … for you, us

You would simply have to say the word

The word

The knife has already made his mark as if … a huge hole inside of me as if my heart was broken

how deeply this cut

you don’t understand what a hole is doing inside you why would I put that there that perhaps it might be your heart leaking, bruising, sleep isn’t healing, breaking

But mine has been bleeding and sleep tends to mend with only patches, stitches easily undone

I’m easily undone

I need a new heart

A nobody was never worth what you are to me.

You’ll always be important to me

I’ll not forget you when we’re not together either

if ever

History is written once in fading pen. Let’s write over ours with better ink together.

And carbon it in stone.

I want to cover over it with you.

You’re upset

I’m shaking..

When will I be too much

I’m attracted to the blade

No playing, children.

I’m not playing at all.

And I shouldn’t be a child anymore.

There there now get those haunting thoughts (keep playing round and round ‘til more of them a score of them galore of them are found) out of your head.

Try.

Try harder.

Sneaky blades are slicing, my tongue keeps cutting in the dark

Though most wounds intrude quite rude (elude) quite closely to the heart

Let me leave nothing festering again

Hidden blades conceal the blood but the nick the bite you prick the fight and the unfavorable warmth are all still and certain there

blood slimes, slithers, climbs and withers down my leg

‘til the dense mess around my core still spitting

(You spit in my face)

turns into careful dripping

a combed out, fragile puddle by the heels of my boots.

Black, the soles.

as i presume the blood to be

if i could see the consequence of the cut.

And gone, the souls.

As I want the blood to be

If I could fix this.

I swear it’s fair..

Or is it fair..

to hurt because I’m hurting..

april.19.10

jessie — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 00:27:44 +0000

It smells like rain and reveries

Like the mild middays of spring

Ravens sing

A coat of timber wolf tints the sky

Its weak clouds don’t hold their fill

They spill

Dampen the evergreens

I remember the smell:

Wet pines wrap a nice square around Grandmother’s acres

The border keeps the forest, thick and tall,

From swallowing the verdant yard, laced with dew

Mommy loves you

Grandfather’s hammock ropes ‘tween two tall trunks

My little toes tickling with Mothers’ as we sway

Left and fro

Tickle toe

Right and lull

A little nap

Perhaps

Don’t sleep for too long, mi hija

And I remember the lumber men and their loud, growling machines

He is dead

Our tree-tied bed

is a lost bundle of net and canvas in the attic

The trees are scanty with a dry clearing for display

You’re far away

And I am here

It will rain today, I fear

jan.2.10

jessie — Thu, 21 Jan 2010 20:42:38 +0000

There’s an antique Underwood Universal Portable, battered of course, in the window.
Naturally, it’s your class of restaurant. The lounge serves greasy tuna melts, their buttered and grilled sourdough burnt. Withering Swiss. Black pitted olives mingle with the shredded fish. Yes, you believe, that’s what you’ll order.
It’s a Saturday kind of Sunday.
And that makes you giggle in secret.
You click together the worn out heels of your boots, but you don’t ask to go home.
Playing footsie with yourself is a simple something you find satisfying while awaiting an order.
So is purse rummaging.
You unearth a pocket mirror to check that your bangs are in place.
And they (which are a funny, pleasant wavy mutt of chestnut and rust) are.
As are his eyes, placed on yours.
Is this bench for the taking? he poses, cautious, interpreting your body language.
The waitress sets down your saucer-seated cup of tea.
He’s unabashed by his glass of pink lemonade and you find this charming.
Please, help yourself.
Then he sits and says hello, my name is
It’s a happy kind of Sunday.
And you think you’ll capture it with ink and Underwood through the eyes of a girl named Jane.

dec.19.09

jessie — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 00:29:43 +0000

Spiders creep along the floor
Edging, sneaky, by the door
On the meal mat, by my drink
Wet limbs tangled in the sink
Wedged ‘tween straws in closet’s broom
In corner’s refuge, in my room
I kill

nov.6.09

jessie — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 17:04:02 +0000

My teacup is empty
The pavement is dampened.
Their veins are flattened
against it
is cold.
And it is more than the dank and nip of fall
It forebodes, dark in a sense impure
My cower precedes my will to be frightened
I am already trembling
Mad wind is an imp-carried song
Rain hits the pane like angry hail, heaven’s to cast
The glass is chilled against my palm
Vulgarity takes outside my window
left over from night’s meal
In dawn’s breaking,
with thunder grouses damning morning voices,
The birds don’t sing.

oct.5.09

jessie — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 07:01:30 +0000

I can, too, whistle.
I’ve done it a few times if my lips made the right “o”
and the wind was fair.

But can you sing a tune, silly girl?

And her tongue strained to make a little lamb cry.
The kind as white as snow.
And every note she failed first try.

And second.
And third.
The tenth time, as well.

He rang a nice long complex song through his teeth.
A whistle through the gritted.
Spot on and speckless.
It’s because you’re a leprechaun
And your feeble talent is the phony gold.

Mary smells jealousy.

aug.23.09

jessie — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 15:05:35 +0000

Mumbling murderer,
keep your milkstache from licking the butt of your nose.
Wipe it clean.
It’s as bad as red hands
(the stain of the guilty).
You speak with your mouth full, you wicked dupe.
Your malevolent plots bubble in the white in your cup.
I filled it.
And placed a fix of poison.
Dropped a skull-marked phial, glass and all,
into your liquid meal.
And I said
He who I serve drink
is villain
He whom I lay a kiss upon is the one
fit for death.

july.14.09

jessie — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:35:30 +0000

like little soft-haired felines with spidery long legs in a tangle
miao
the undersides of dresses show when precious monsters wrangle
how
do you suppose they’ll grow, you know, with mothers in disgraces
or
the little curious boys atop door steps, snot strong still on their faces
for
one sock endearing scrunches low, her other stretches tight
and
her oxfords scuffed, and french braid roughed, and dimples plain in sight
sand
is in the wicker bag because it slipped her mind to dump it out
when
she last went to meet hot shores and sunsets there’s the pout
then
like i said would show when fumed Father gave his scolding
loud
and buds of tears race down her face because he’s never holding
proud
still dolls lose heads, with tea time near, stuffed toys are tape-bound, hung
sit
she does across her unmade bed and twirls a lolli in the cup of her tongue
it
won’t do any good to keep her back here kitty kitty kitten cat
quite
abusing of her hex her charms a bitch, scrape tickle that
is meaner than her bite.