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    poetry


    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    I'm sorry to be so neglectful to lately. I have been here for three years. I am trying my best to leave comments but I don't even know what to tell myself, let alone other people. I have been busy with my life outside of the internet, and CAT club my bi-weekly writing circle. We are doing well I hope. I promise to try harder now.

    ...Created 2007-08-08 23:04:24

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    everything known. IN MUSIC. ahhh

    i love the beach boys.
    we've been perpetuating our bike gang and trying to make rent.
    he's gone. it's going to be a long time coming back.
    it's okay.

    ...Created 2007-08-08 11:00:19

    dotsJournal: I'm a winner.dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    This week I won two tickets to see Low on April 13th and also a writing contest with an independent publisher

    http://fallofautumn.com/community/showthread.php?t=783

    the good energys commin' back to me

    ...Created 2007-03-28 20:50:20

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    (There is a homeless man
    in the side-step
    where we usually smoke our cigarettes
    at eight dollars a pack.
    After a few drinks our mouths would relax,
    and then we could talk.
    After a few drinks our legs would release
    and then we would walk.)

    She is on the sand kneeling and praying for canada- where she can drink her wine and remain unnoticed.

    ...Created 2007-03-14 01:32:54

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    I hope that my brother does great things
    Because
    I don’t care about me
    My sister she is helpless
    If she leaves home she will be raped

    My father was great,
    Only because he was a man
    He has all the possibility and promise in the world
    Although he has wasted everything he was

    My son will be a thinker
    He will achieve near dreams
    And allow others to accomplish the impossible

    My daughter will be timid
    Raised to be the muse of man
    mysterious
    Intelligent
    She will be proud of all of this
    She will do nothing
    Yet benefit forever

    My husband will be a writer
    He will become my dreams
    With his actions
    He will be what I wanted
    And who I want
    Until we die
    Un wanting

    Old, satisfied, fattening
    In our tiny house
    Of fifty years
    With the garden
    I made bloom
    Green thumb and all
    I made it live
    Like the child in my stomach
    I did not even try
    And she grew-

    An angel.

    ...Created 2007-01-21 23:34:57

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    No, I wouldn't leave you for a sadder song.
    No, I wouldn't leave you for a shoulder to lean on.

    ...Created 2007-01-05 03:19:43

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    My new years resolution is to gain some self-control and loose 20 lbs. I fully intend to get oriented to the gym that is in my building.

    ...Created 2006-12-30 20:54:11

    dotsJournal: Expectdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    Here you go reluctenthero, as promised.



    Expect:



    I used to have this reoccurring dream... visions of beige carpet flecked with blood. Row upon row of carefully planted elm trees, lining deserted streets covered with piles of burning leaves...I would wake up sweating, reaching for you....

    I would trace myself in and out of your body. Fitting myself into the space between your arms. Counting your ribs or your freckles or your toes, seeing if your numbers matched my own.

    There was always this part of me trying to be as good as you for just one second

    I used to make up these conversations we never had in my head. I would scribble them down on tear stained scraps of paper... filing them away.

    . The sound of your voice, the color of your hair, a word you said, a picture you drew, your scent in a thrift store sweater... id collected an army of these reminders. These details. I'd made lists of them, collected them, and crossed them off... almost like I was trying to reassemble you here on a different coast.

    ...The cuts are so deep now that they run across both of our worlds. They span the time and space between us. The distance and the neglect.

    I wonder that if each time you cut, did you expect to find me living beneath your flesh where I felt so close?

    Maybe if you could have seen yourself the way I did... reflected in my eyes, you wouldn’t have been so violent all the time.

    Maybe if you’d seen me the way I saw me you wouldn’t have loved me as much.

    Maybe if we had walked a little longer down different road in each other’s shoes we could have avoid this terrible mess.

    Maybe we could have avoided you lying broken and bleeding on the bathroom floor...I wanted to hold you or kiss you, or at least die with you then.

    Today there’s nothing left of you to collect. Its all been scattered in different directions. Given to people your parents thought might appreciate it.

    I cut your obituary out though... the picture looked nothing like you.

    It was just a memory your parents held on to.

    All that is left are the intangible qualities

    And of course, the memories.

    ...A bloodstain on a pair of faded denim jeans.
    Penknives and dying Christmas trees.

    These are the things that remind me of you now.

    ...Created 2006-12-22 03:54:33

    dotsJournal: C U IN CUFFSdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    By David Berman;

    David Berman
    C-U-IN-CUFFS

    1.
    Getting along with people is something I’ve always tried to do.
    Transporting a tbsp. of shredded wheat to a tiny lakeside depot.
    Wearing a sweater that covers the entire spectrum of hospital jello.
    Watching snowclouds, framed by empire curtains, barrel over the cloverleaf.
    Like lambs tumbling out of a folk song without minds.
    Haphazardly running in to low stone walls.
    In imagined territories contiguous with remembered space.
    As a descendent of the last unshaven man to reach the White House.
    In situations where the bible counsels arrogance.
    A massage must be performed by a loved one or a total stranger.
    No one in between.
    People will flock to an idea that is 75-90% true.
    It is 36 times harder to imagine the 36th elephant than the first.
    Plus, I’m definitely the kind of man who knows when it’s over.

    2.
    Egad! Had I spent my childhood blowing on dandelions for nothing?
    We used to gather behind the stepdown transformer on Heating Plant Road.
    Where the sidewalks fizzled out onto the prairie.
    Born on a night so cold, grandfather brought the trash in.
    Bespectacled before a jury of twelve equivalent whirlpools.
    An image of the letter K in a very tightly cinched trenchcoat.
    From green leather non-stations on the wilderness road to manslaughter farms.
    Totalizing, the luminous beard of an equalizer.
    Beholding a non-representational pile of leaves.
    Local Psychics See Forced Marches
    Witnessing…. Rival shampoos on a window sill.
    Star Death Ends Career of Death
    Perceiving…In Defence of a Rip-Off Life.
    -These images of terrible safety.
    C U IN CUFS , western child.

    3.
    A. My mother was a party animal.
    Ever-undergoing a denial of service attack.
    She always dreamed she’d go down without a kind word to keep for herself.
    Playing Good God/ Bad God with a four-wheeled case of New York State Champagne.
    Owing to the rhythmic aspect of everything.
    She was the lone defender of her own reality, like Patti Page in “Old Cape Cod.”
    You could see that dollhouse lightning in her eyes.
    During American comedy’s long walk down the beach with a frozen bag of guns.
    Her Bedroom looked like it had been destroyed by an angel.
    Unleaded lakes below a circus peanut moon.
    Minesweeper, Snow Abduction, and Brainsmoke Chimney.
    These are the real puppies of adult children.

    B. The Prick from Asshole City and the Stepson Cartel.
    She’d met him at a car care center.
    Or a sun-brushed judicial complex.
    Suddenly he felt her goo-goo eyes upon him.
    A dead ringer for the rapist from All My Children.
    And they were north of unbelievable together.
    He was still in the process of arriving from the Midwest.
    Living on a nearby peninsula crawling with golf carts.
    Attended to by a cartel of seven stepsons.
    Scotching other people’s diplomatic backchannels for sport.
    Stopping to ruin an otherwise unthought of world simply by mentioning it.
    She had a feeling that everything was going to work out.
    I was holding a dream gallery of chopped off heads steady in my mind.
    Mom was giving the brisket a backrub.
    When he said that white people should only get in car accidents with other
    White people.
    He assured me that if I ever got with two women at a singles bar.
    The ugly one would always want me. ALWAYS.
    Until I was man enough to figure out how to get the other.
    Personally, he would never settle for less than a conciliatory handjob when he was my age.
    Mom, she was tearfully trying to reassemble a diced potato.
    His face gave off a king of dial tone.
    When he claimed to know exactly where on the piano, the pianos asshole could be found.

    4.
    A parking ticket in the gutter. Someone parked here.
    Someone who doesn’t give a damn.
    Could I be saved by something as simple as caring or not caring?
    I no longer fit the F.B.I. profile for a litterer. White male 18-35.
    It made me feel unwatched.
    Three stars twinkled in the town sky like an overly kind restaurant review.
    It was the kind of town that called other towns after midnight.
    I’d just moisturized my dashboard at the carwash.
    I was back. Living inside of AM rectangles again.
    Slowly approaching my internal power animal with a whole, embargoed lamb.
    Pushing holidays on children. What was I really doing?
    Pushing boar tusk moustaches and kayaks filled with sage on children.
    Just looking for a lifelong conversation with one person.
    In the vicinity of First Amendment Massage Parlor.
    Living North of Unbelievable.
    Seeing the commercial hard rock coming off this cross-eyed woman’s skull.
    Crosseyed from sucking so much cock over a lifetime. Miles of segmented
    miles.
    On a planet where God stores his accidents.
    I’m gonna get so fucked up CARRIAGES won’t be able to find me.
    Hey, Danceland.
    Hey, Drinkland.
    I am your ambassador in chains.

    5.
    Like at an inn named after the Shawnee word for rain.
    Where a mysterious park ranger communicates to you
    Through a warm bowl of alphabet soup.
    “Feeding a bear usually guarantees its demise.”
    Dive-bombed by the hawk of chagrin. But only for a moment.
    And she is slowly approaching myself.
    Tonight god has asked a third party to love me as a favor to him.
    Love me like an R. Kelley song I can actually relate to.
    And she is slowly approaching myself.
    Is it being the brooch of a rhinestone octopus, pinned to her sweater
    That so deftly solves the ancient problem of other people?
    Oh, the problem isn’t mine.
    But I take care of it.
    And when you finally find the person who’s not interested in the same things that you’re not interested in.
    Her perfection, is the bacon, light years away, that draws you on.
    There’s never enough sunset for all the birds.
    Now Antelopes kill back.
    It’s going to take four or five years to describe.




    ...Created 2006-12-18 14:47:56

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    mmmmmight have figured it out.
    haha

    ...Created 2006-12-17 19:01:42

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.


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    January 10 07
    131,497 Poems
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