tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59030212011-08-31T00:09:51.010-05:00anything the artist spitsfaehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.comBlogger1261100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-16477000239432491802007-10-13T21:54:00.000-05:002007-10-13T21:56:25.667-05:00

it's been five or six months again since i've written anything, and i think it's time (far past time...) to call this thing quits.if (when?) i start writing again, it probably won't be for public consumption--or if it, i think it's time to start somewhere new.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-33223965441652214052007-08-26T20:10:00.001-05:002007-08-26T20:14:53.682-05:00

another dumb poem i found from when i was feeling lonely last spring.indiekidso whatif i go out in my skinny blackrockstar jeans hopingto fall in love with a scruffyunshaven boy inconverse all-starsand kiss him atconcerts where girlsin high-heeled, bow-ed shoesdance like tiny coordinatedseizures withasymmetrical hairi never saidi was trying to beoriginaljust young

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-81237217563768128322007-04-01T15:31:00.000-05:002007-04-01T15:33:38.335-05:00

small bit from a larger story (term used loosely)Ri finds a small grocery store where he can see piles of apples through the window. When he opens the door, a small brass bell clangs weakly against the glass. Hot air clings to them, follows them into the store. It dissipates slowly, only reluctantlly fading from their limbs, giving way to goosebumps on their cooling skin. Two small fans clack

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-64287483300112592342007-03-26T21:11:00.000-05:002007-03-26T21:49:36.771-05:00

unfinished and unlikely-to-be-finished bit & pieces of poems. iii. is lacking an upside-down question mark and an accent because i can't figure out how to type them in blogger. oops.iv. is for trevor, who still demands a poem based on that dream.i.when i was sixteen, lovewas vines creeping over (sweetly) your sleeping form;your lips pressed closed, but full; the taste of

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-90313796800076730922007-03-26T21:04:00.000-05:002007-03-26T21:06:25.352-05:00

sueño after a whilefaces begin to blur together:you remind meof someonewho reminds me ofsomeonewho remindedme of someonei metin a dream

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-29871672714652282612007-03-26T20:58:00.000-05:002007-03-26T21:03:46.922-05:00

the first of many poems that have been waiting to be dug out of my notes and released into the mostly oblivious interwebs.there is a revision (at least one) in its future, but perhaps not in the immediate future...my moon-faced darling(you taste like rice-paperfeel like white powder)everything about you is palewanno matter how deep your passionyour cheeks remainunripeand beneath it allyour heart

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-38839113849345394372007-03-20T10:50:00.000-05:002007-03-20T10:51:38.981-05:00

are these cold, dead things then?:wet leaves. does ink holdno memory of blood?

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-57294449226781889452007-02-19T21:08:00.000-05:002007-02-19T21:12:15.493-05:00

bite marks and bullets;teeth grinding;fists clenched....stand your ground!stand your ground!my brain spirals into visions ofsmoke and lines of soldiers,as innocent as civil war reenactors.in front of me, you are waiting:hip jutted, feet planted.i pushed first;you shove back;nowhow far will i take retaliation?

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-20195012309071891142007-02-04T12:04:00.000-05:002007-02-04T12:07:14.402-05:00

couldn't come up with an ending i actually liked, so forgive the last two lines.becausei begin too many poemswith "because";becausemy ears are still ringingwith the sound of your absence;becausethe model on the billboard i saw todayhad your eyes;and becauseit is the first real snow of the season,i start to wonderwhere you are.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-8971877418903311872007-02-04T11:52:00.000-05:002007-02-04T11:53:55.822-05:00

sometimes i suspectthat i have been defined moreby the peoplewho have loved methan by the peoplei have loved.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-67016052406400623432007-01-08T10:33:00.000-05:002007-01-08T10:34:01.844-05:00

vagabonds & beggars in your eyes

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-85631326830645489552007-01-07T15:58:00.000-05:002007-01-07T16:01:55.895-05:00

you perch like a gargoyle,toes tucked securearound the edge of the chair.i watch you struck by morning light(almostviolentlybutalso gentle)and i stir, finally,among your gypsy quiltsand mountainous pillows.i am going toborrow your world,if you'llonlygive me permission.(i will do it sweetly,almostviolentlybutalso gentle.)

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-26971734453666537602006-12-19T13:34:00.000-05:002006-12-19T13:41:14.695-05:00

i tannedlast summerand thought of nothing but youi put on shorts and a bathing suitfor the first time in yearsbaring shoulderslegsarmsstomachthe tops of breastsfor youfor vanityand it took morethan the fading of my skinmore than summer into fallfor you to becomesfurther than my second thoughtbut increasinglyi dedicate every glance in the mirrorevery carefully placed strand of hairevery dip of

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-35476123226032486262006-12-11T18:25:00.000-05:002006-12-11T18:28:06.263-05:00

i tell her there are five reasonsbut i don't feel any of them(exceptmaybethe one who doesn't make my heart beat a little bit fasterand the one who always willso two out of fiveain't anything)and it's her face i see which meansit's not that kind oflovebut maybeit is another kind.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-36489778535189095642006-12-06T21:01:00.000-05:002006-12-06T21:06:43.760-05:00

(what it was supposed to be)"nothing remarkable"is the title of a poem that doesn't existbecausethe poet is lackingeven the most tenuousgraspingsemblanceof talent.(what it was trying to become)"nothing remarkable"is the title of a poem that doesn't existbecause todaythe poet is lackingany tenuous, grasping semblanceof talent.instead,she will watch the slow, aqueous swirlof water poured over her

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-83081117847551754802006-12-06T20:57:00.000-05:002006-12-06T20:58:05.105-05:00

it's never who you first think it iswalking down the road at midnight,framed momentarilybeneath the streetlight behind the gym.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-40300054689812878532006-12-04T15:19:00.000-05:002006-12-04T15:26:51.149-05:00

"nothing remarkable"is the title of a poem that doesn't existbecausethe poet is lackingany tenuous, grasping semblanceof talent.instead,she watches the slow, aqueous swirlof water poured over her tea bagand,line by line,lets it go.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-21677113367942845252006-12-04T00:11:00.000-05:002006-12-04T00:15:24.307-05:00

this poem is giving me more trouble than anything has the right to. i have the feel of it perfect in my head, and every time i look back and actually read it.... it's a list of considerably unimpressive words.litteri need to fallinto the space between the lines,penciled boundaries of trailing limbs--a paper worlddelicatedetailedsimplified...(i need to feel this far away.)self portrait:looking

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-67126038626006014742006-12-03T23:42:00.000-05:002006-12-04T00:16:09.557-05:00

i wish i could hear these words set to music:the writing on the wall--all your best intentions have come to naught;your greatest efforts left you breathless, bruised;your voice reduced to trembling.the worry thatsometimes fear is common sense.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-54101872255518950252006-12-02T22:13:00.000-05:002006-12-02T22:29:12.408-05:00

i need to fallinto the space between the lines--a paper worldwith each strand of hair definedsimplified...(i need to feel this far away.)self'portrait:looking down on myelflooking up at a silver skysketched outlinechin tipped back long neck slender bodyclunky shoes weighted to the ground...everything rushes pastlike crumpledsheets,litter on a gust of wind.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-66939070917329562902006-12-02T21:07:00.000-05:002006-12-03T23:42:02.856-05:00

"i want a flock of jesi," she says--and i see herraising messiah,feeding themthe proper roman grammer for plurals.(whyis the language of the churchthe tongue of the crucifix?)you always wereout to save the world.i always wasone to take your jokesat face value.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-29892611511876315252006-12-02T20:24:00.000-05:002006-12-02T20:27:38.852-05:00

i wish i could hear these words set to music:the writing on the wall:all your best intentions have come to naught;your greatest efforts left you breathless, bruised;you should've known.(my fear speaking on my behalf)

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-18709512375354924102006-11-26T22:13:00.000-05:002006-11-26T22:15:19.834-05:00

i watchthe arc of the monthsin reverseand watch usdepart from unknown conclusionsin exactlythe same way

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-65278223038804923392006-11-26T22:10:00.000-05:002006-11-26T22:12:52.352-05:00

because poetryis more personal&anonymousand i am a coward(and because i amwritingfeelinglike sixteen again)can you tell meis this the foolishnessthat i pride myself onor is it somethingfarfarmore dangerous?

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-12754727503864389712006-11-15T20:38:00.000-05:002006-11-15T20:40:37.476-05:00

the you in my head(who is really meborrowing your face)asks,with amused, sympathetic surprise,"aren't you over me yet?"and i(who is really surrenderborrowing my face)punch you lightly in the armand say,"dude,i won't be over you foryears."but her voice doesn't shakeand her heart stay definitivelyout of her throat.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1163471590951636262006-11-13T21:28:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.663-05:00

it's that deep-evening instance--the sky extends endlessand the walls of my life expand infiniteso that they can be reached with one span of my arms(fingertip-to-fingertip outspread)but never walked across.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1163433609394224962006-11-13T10:59:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.563-05:00

what youare iamit's difficult to saybut i think i understand

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1162184055590404002006-10-29T23:51:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.461-05:00

(no, i don't think i'm gaiman)somedaysi'm struck byhow little of lifeis concretehow muchconstructedless realthan smoke & mirrors(are you reading this?)ps - yes, i know, i fucked with the layout and left it half-finished for a week already. i'll get there. eventually.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1161140955925505642006-10-17T21:55:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.366-05:00

(you you you)i remember the spark in the air last nightas if that little separated then and Thenas if one ghost was equal to anothermy breath steamed in the dark airand the unspoken word never even made itto the back of my tongue

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1159818482886783662006-10-02T14:44:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.180-05:00

i knowit's never as simples asan us vs. themdichotomysohere i amstradling the line againtrying to disprovewhat i've learnedtime and again:relationshipspolarizeeveryone.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1159384085601242452006-09-27T14:01:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:02.085-05:00

he is alwayssomewhere not-quiteout of the acceptablebut always a bit moreun-expectedandthat is something (knowinglook)that i have alwaysadmired(i can onlyspeak his praises somany times beforeother motivesbecome apparant--a history of awkwardexchanges, fumbled affections, pre-adultrous(help me i was fifteen i thought i wasin love i amnineteen and i amthinking maybein love)experiementstoo young for

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1158275111948110692006-09-14T17:55:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.885-05:00

because i do not admire the way your cigarette dangles between your lipsthis is goodbye.because i don't find your voice clever andbecause we are becoming not children anymore;because in photographs we are strangersholding hands by accident,and i was never quite who i had imagined;because you disapproveof the fade of my jeansand the way i tuck my hair behind my earand because even before your

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1158274281158508392006-09-14T17:38:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.786-05:00

being an emo kid. someone please fix me.what happenswhen you start defining yourselfby the things you won't mention?(i was alwaysthe girl with the open mouth.)and what ever really changeswhen you look back on it?

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1157682803424438612006-09-07T21:30:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.647-05:00

half-finished stuff from sitting in lit class.. . . . .you miss the turn three times(and three,as we all know,is an important number--symbolic);the air crackles.my hairis stuck to the back of my neck with sweat.we laugh,and the pavement crunches.(it would be too clicheto claim that i felt the lightening in the airon my skin--what i really feltwere the clouds.). . . . .if all literature is sexandi

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1156211429319285402006-08-21T20:44:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.547-05:00

new character. (?!). . . . .I need new jeans, so Mike takes me to the mall on his bike. The tops of my shoulders and the brudge of my nose are sunburnt and the sky is cloudless and hot, but the breeze is cool. I hold onto Mike and am secretly grateful for the excuse to be close to someone.Mike's a good kid, and I wonder why more of his girlfriends don't hate me. We did date once, back at the

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1155753347796329402006-08-16T13:34:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.437-05:00

i. i feel at my best with a pen between my teethheadphones onsleeves tucked over my thumbssand still stuck to my legsii. throaty vocalsand rolling wavesfind me on the edge of an unfamiliar bedtasting salt

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1155753281679449302006-08-16T13:32:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.325-05:00

only a piece of something that should be much longer. . . . .because i do not admire the way your cigarette dangles between your lipsthis is goodbye.because i don't find your voice clever andbecause we are becoming not children anymore

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1151117881345872842006-06-23T21:51:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.212-05:00

i used up all my love songs;got rid of my blush.told everybodythat i dressed up for myself.kissed no one;danced alone;and thenyou fell in love with me.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1151108778782452632006-06-23T19:25:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.098-05:00

i used up all my love songsgot rid of my blush

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1146088861094487592006-04-26T17:00:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:01.002-05:00

she comes into my rooma flutter of hands and nods and smilesmouthed wordsimplied wordsa silent waterfall of wordsthat would have been there(should have been there)and when she leavesthe smell of peanut butter remains…

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1145930754529297822006-04-24T21:00:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.885-05:00

"Tell me a story," she says.She says, "Tell me a story."Her knees are pulled to her chest, chin tucked in, back pressed against my shoulder. Her dark hair curls over her dark eyes."I don't have any stories.""Everyone has stories." She tips her head back, neck arching over my shoulder. She's wearing a sweater, but her feet are bare."I don't have any stories." But there's already a scene forming in

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1145328071186865102006-04-17T21:37:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.764-05:00

a poem whose pieces span several years, still waiting to be finished. but i thought i'd post anyway, along with a few phrases/descriptions that i want to use in later poems/stories.rockstar incognitoi have good lips for poutingand bags under my eyesfrom too much dreamingnot enough sleepingi go out at night with sunglasses onbig bootsjangley earringsbangs to my chinwe laugh and knock into each

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1144123827076211902006-04-03T23:09:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.618-05:00

i want to claw my way out of my skin

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1143782753326436652006-03-31T00:23:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.493-05:00

in my daydreamsi am the kind of girl you lovepoetically.my skinny bodybeats in your arms like a butterfly,andi am the kind of girlyou can’t pin down,map out,hold to one definition,andyou willsmilewhen i am gonewith puzzled, upturned lipsand nostalgic eyes,knowing more about methan i do.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1142317017702356802006-03-14T01:16:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.354-05:00

post-fashionista, i lounge in sweatpants;the balmy air makes me feel sophisticated--open window, thick-rimmed sunglasses, braided hair.i feel older; than what i don't know. also stronger, somehow:sinewy and lean-muscled.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1140916996392106422006-02-25T20:11:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.212-05:00

there is a new beastwhere we used to lie:with strange tongue it licks my ankles,snuffs my hand with velvet nose,and begins to purr.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1134433248808549342005-12-12T19:19:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:31:00.005-05:00

as usual, line breaks and punctuation are far from set in stone.disclaimer: while the mood and setting of this are based on a real memory (of a real person), the "i told you didn't i?" is totally pulled out of my ass because it sounded right. whatever.. . . . .soi told youages ago didn’t i?wearing denim and that belligerent voice of mine,standing on the frozen earthand shading my eyes like a

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1133825750368437512005-12-05T18:34:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.907-05:00

it's hardly perfect, but i can't wait to work on it.i love the feeling of writing again.. . . . .memories are self-fulfilling propheciessometimes i think we choose our own futuresin little thingslike favorite songsand what shirt we worethe day something important happenedbut all this happensyears before we can even imaginewhat they’ll really meanand years lateryou’ll trace the scar on my thumb

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1133577515120293352005-12-02T21:38:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.805-05:00

i painted my lips redand wore a shirt made of lace

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1128141189543261832005-09-30T23:27:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.613-05:00

don't ask me what i'm doing with the punctuation here; i have no idea. it's entirely arbitrary at the moment....peachessoft red inner flesh pullsback like a star from the pit--tearing gently with bared teeth;exposing slowly the prize;the sweetness in the uncovering.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1127440256631626212005-09-22T20:47:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.524-05:00

not so much a poem yet as something i intended to turn into a poem at a later date... hence the abrupt and crappy ending.... . . . .listening to his voicehearing your namei wonder if we(the new we, that is not you)will ever come to recognizethe unique-peculiar cadence of each other's footstepscoming down the hall at night

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1126152710015296032005-09-07T23:11:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.435-05:00

there’s a growl in voice tonight,like gravel in my mouth,and think i kinda like it,although it seems to steal the emotionright out of my poems;there’s something in itinfinitely kinderthan a note of despair.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1126034335210086512005-09-06T14:15:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.318-05:00

religion is revelations reached while sitting, cross-legged, barefoot, beneath the rustling shadows of leaves, your mind expanding in a rapid-motion white plane before contracting, super-nova style, to a pinprick...

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1122613520879928272005-07-28T23:49:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.215-05:00

i've started posting on fictionpress again under solarfae, altho when i went back and reread what i'd posted, i was a bit embarrassed that i hadn't edited one last time before posting. heh. oh well.. . . . .i cultivate my exhaustionthe way i would worry a cavity--with the delicate pink tip of my tongueprodding carefully the source of painand finding, unexpectedly, the delightsof masochism,

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1120363349791076462005-07-02T23:00:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.127-05:00

think i'm gonna have to ask some people for help on this one, now that i finally have a poem that i actually like well enough to want to continue to work on. ^^; and i need to think of a better title for it... -_-;. . . . .i really want to knowtell me about all those thingsyou keep hidden in your closet--that come out at nightto tap-dance strange rhythms across your dreamsand leave little

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1119840880041380422005-06-26T21:45:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:59.027-05:00

tell me about all those thingsyou keep hidden in your closet--that come out at nightto tap-dance strange rhythms across your dreamsand leave little footprints of hesitationon your mind.i really want to know.whose body have you hidden,safe beneath the floorboards,that makes you so afraid of the dark,and what pet name of infinite affectionshave you given to their bones?what splintery, spidery

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1119653843872187092005-06-24T17:53:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.937-05:00

I'm trying to weigh the value, $4.00 and the trouble of crossing main street--twice--but how do you put a value on getting to of the house (I should have stayed longer at the library), and confidence, and the first sip of iced coffee? I make my decision coming up the front steps of my house, paint flaking off onto the bottom of my sandals. The house closes around me like a hand around a coin,

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1119653576943969392005-06-24T17:49:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.842-05:00

i want to kiss someoneand taste chocolate icecreamthose cold, sweet, summer-filled kisses.... . . . .just anothermessy-hairedstarry-eyednaivewould-be badasschickwaiting for her break. . . . .for just a momenta door opensacross the streetthrough a windowand another doorwayand i watchthe silhouette of a womanputting up her hairanother door closesand suddenlyshe's gone again

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1119378003316907192005-06-21T13:15:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.748-05:00

so i don't really want to do anything with this until i figure out what my point is, besides just being another high school, coming of age story... as much as the main character is like me, as much as some of those thoughts are mine from other times, she already has a rather distinct voice in my head, rather similar to the almost-me character that i always intended to write a coming of age novel

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1119315307299159252005-06-20T19:43:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.659-05:00

i found todaythat my head was full of poems of usthat i didn't want to writeabout how you broke my heartinto a million butterfliesand taught me to love disappointmentand inadvertantly pushed me to becomemost of what i ambut i don't want to write thati want to write about cool tilesand the texture of the walland finding comfortwhere it's least expectedand finding painwhere there used to be

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1118102335907965882005-06-06T18:54:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.574-05:00

so i never finished this... i still mean to someday.. um, yeah :shifty eyes:and maybe some more stuff posted in a bit... things i was too much of a wuss to post before, but suspect will be good with some revising... but first, i must finish high school! oh holy fucking shit O.O. . . . .it's so awkward--this intrusion into daily lives and things. but i've learned to love awkward, and i love this

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1114273523323501072005-04-23T11:20:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.487-05:00

the title of the first one is misleading. it's not actually about my break up at all, altho it is about moving in. the "old friend" is someone completely different, and the last line isn't even supposed to be meant romantically really. but i didn't know how to make the poem make sense to anyone else without either writing more information into it, or giving it a title that would offer a point for

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1113433770111999062005-04-13T18:03:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.389-05:00

it's that crazy, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, but not love--not love, not love, something sicker than love... a feeling i thought i'd pushed back (bile in my throat).i made it halfway up the hill today and want to crawl into bed. i can't tell if my allegies are a reason or an excuse.breathe.yes, breathe.the blossoms outside my window look about ready to explode. flowers always make me

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1111704868421057852005-03-24T17:50:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.274-05:00

i have this weird thing about bones... it's kinda creepy, except to me, it's not creepy. i dunno ^^; this isn't really even a poem so much as things i couldn't get out of my head in philosophy (so i wrote them down).. . . . .hip bonescheek bonesjagged anchorskeep me in linetiny knuckle jointsfortune telling in the marrowin little shells of fingernaildelicate ribs of collarbonecartiledgepebbly

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1111701479267247922005-03-24T16:48:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.177-05:00

ehh so, like most things, they still need a little fine tuning... they're from a while ago, early this month i suppose. and i did take a little poetic license with some the facts/timing...er.... . . . .definition of poetryit has to be done spontaneously:open the sliding door,leave my socks on the porch,jump the railing,and when my feet touch the ground,i know i'm home.--the ground slowly turns my

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1111245850153142902005-03-19T10:21:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:58.060-05:00

this was written a good two years (okay ear and a half), but i've been going through old files, and i just had to post it. it just sums me up too well... heheh. . . . .sick irony(8.17.03)hello worldhere I amwhy do I get the feelingthat you’re laughing at me again?(well maybe you are)and this sick ironyis congealing in my stomach(if only I was that braveor that stupid)I suppose I should have

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1109606555082891202005-02-28T10:59:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.947-05:00

so there're two stories that i've been spending a lot of time on lately. and this is (a very small) part of one of them.. . . . .I came downstairs to find that Gaby was already awake and sitting at the dining room table. Spread out before him was what appeared to be every glass in the house, half-filled with different colored liquids. He looked up at my wearily as I came in and flicked the glass

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1107911097489449092005-02-08T19:51:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.842-05:00

disconnected, unfinished, unconnected pieces of writing. (they don't really mean much that way, do they?) the last one's totally ripped-off from something britt wrote, altho with my own spin. blargh. . . . . . it's one of those glazed days when you haven't gotten enough sleep, when the sun's just too hot, even if the air's cool. everything's all hard edges and fast, shiny cars, and there's a

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1107005906592166992005-01-29T08:37:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.722-05:00

this one was from yesterday morning . . . . . i find that infallibly infuriatingly my poetry imitates your form broken-ended and flailing in the water ripe with love and malcontent unbalanced and cold

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1106971687935638812005-01-28T23:04:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.617-05:00

it's an odd feeling, this floundering like two swimmers who aren't drowning but think they are our innate hypochondria buried deep in conflicting personalities eventually, we grow accustomed to the water in our lungs and choke on air . . . . . omg i can't believe i actually read this at coffee house o.o .... (and "someday i will smash mirrors")

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1105204700600069582005-01-08T13:16:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.502-05:00

the kind of inane little thing i write when i'm bored in class... . . . . . poems are like riddles pieces of string to wrap around your fingers and twist into shapes little clever things, like puzzles and charms to wear around your neck

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1104880200832004012005-01-04T18:06:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.360-05:00

and we return to the snake's back (because i like it). not sure i like it, not sure i don't like it, but i think i've gone about as far with it as i'm going to unless i get highly inspired again. (it's not really the kind of thing i feel like i most like writing anyway.) . . . . . this is a poem for me not because i don’t love you but because i’m trying to love myself this is for me, borrowing

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1102890169798881992004-12-12T17:18:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.250-05:00

it's rather rare that i write about riel in the third person, but since i write about him so much, i thought it might be time to actually post something about him. he will probably never have his own story, because he already has a million of them, and i can never write down more than one or two scenes from each. don't think this passage is too bad though. . . . . . On the weekends, Riel

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1101852894804130792004-11-30T17:07:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:57.025-05:00

i like quiet rooms white chirstmas lights melancholy songs and silence idol worship throw stones into my eyes watch the ripples reflecting outward eating a dollar dog in the arts/bohemian neighborhood of chicago (wicker park) i have good lips for pouting and bruises in my eyes from too much dreaming not enough sleeping my voice isn't quiet but i try to make it to show you how

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1099597283153523382004-11-04T14:37:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.891-05:00

still working on it... trying to find something i'm happy enough with to submit to lit mag. primarily, i just like "shifty, elusive" (and, of course, the first three lines...) . . . . . you disappear through a glass door sliding neatly between one reality and the next gone from my view (i have your sweater, your diary, and the taste of your lip-gloss still held in the palm of my hand somehow,

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1098210967902426752004-10-19T13:34:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.781-05:00

emotional discourse becomes the enemy (writing poetry is flirting with danger) at three a.m. my sister is eating bagels on the couch in her pajamas watching th all-hours news (so that you can see people die anytime) and i think i've gone cynical and i think we're all crazy we're down to the last card in our deck (the three of clubs never was my lucky day)

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1095467033835696702004-09-17T19:21:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.488-05:00

wow, another prompt posting... with no relevence to anything but a few random lines that decided to pop into my mind... oh, and one small request... thank you to everyone who's left comments, and i know not everyone has a blogger account, but could people maybe be like gnat and give me some idea of who they're coming from? ^^; . . . . . something's burning oh dear, better go check the kitchen

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1095465180910099002004-09-17T18:48:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.351-05:00

ever have a story turn into something completely unexpected? . . . . . The ground feels like December, a cold stillness rising through the soles of my feet--but it's the only things that does. My sweater lies discarded on the porch like a rumpled blue bird. The sunlight washes like water over my bare arms as I squint out at the flat New Jersey horizon. I remember when the view was cornfields,

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1095287913604204292004-09-15T17:32:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.182-05:00

how fragile, like glass how sharp (the way you go straight to the bone) an ache like Never... . . . . . been working on versions of this second one all day. still don't like the ending, but i wanted to put some kind of ending on it. . . . . . you disappear through a glass door sliding neatly between one reality and the next gone from my view i have your sweater your diary, and the taste of

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1095002314381760752004-09-12T10:09:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:56.062-05:00

weee... bored in class, and working off the prompt "a december memory". marked up the first part a lot and trying to imitate that here. maybe at some point i'll scan in my rough draft to show what i really did to it... ^^; this is why i try to type things... heh. not finished, of course, but who knows if anything of mine will ever be... . . . . . The ground feels like December, a cold stillness

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1094937394801936562004-09-11T16:13:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.944-05:00

it sounded a lot more profound when i was first thinking about it... (don't they always?) . . . . . i wanted to dance with you there in the aisle surrounded by frames, art prints, and cheap crafts with my old favorite songs playing over the intercom i wanted to dance with you and feel the fabric of your jeans slide over my fingertips instead, i walked away wishing you would hold my hand

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1094776949518468712004-09-09T19:40:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.828-05:00

why is it that i am only intelligent sitting on the kitchen stool, watching the years between 17 and 42 stretch and slide between notime and infinity and only until i burst into tears

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1094688199341872482004-09-08T18:46:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.722-05:00

i am a black flame flickering my body-- shoulders, breasts, calves and ankles-- my hips like knives-- my vanity-- cast dark shadows on the wall, --inately ridiculous-- a flicker/echo of my mind in silhouette my anger what do you want from me? . . . . . lifting my arms i change (faceless, nameless, wingless) into something that flies i don't understand the way you move a black rain shivering

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1094348540554547152004-09-04T20:41:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.614-05:00

posted this on oasis a while ago, altho i had originally meant to revise it before i ever posted it anywhere else. heh. who knows if i'll ever really get it revised... -_-; non-fiction. original posting found here. . . . . . we couldn't go up to brittany's room because her mother is always suspicious when i am over. she has this strange idea that i, of all people, have turned her daughter gay

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1094240250692117612004-09-03T14:35:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.482-05:00

trying to remember my thoughts walking the beach at night... these would need a lot of work if they were ever to really be a poem... . . . . . i have known with my own eyes why they say that the sea has fingers and i have watching the moon follow me home like a stray puppy i have watched tendrils of foam slip over the sand as delicate and delicious as the tendrils that cling in curls to the

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1093481126922381362004-08-25T19:41:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:55.369-05:00

sex, music, poetry--it's all the same thing, right? (sorry, it killed the way it's supposed to be spaced...) . . . sweet, honeyed dripping thick from the speakers hips grinding in time (moans & sighs) a sound you can taste on your lips my hands clenched in the sheets a sound you can taste on your

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1092805185229788342004-08-17T23:59:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.777-05:00

i'm a failure a writer; i can't capture a moment.

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1090645130258718172004-07-23T23:52:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.692-05:00

highway the wind blows our hair into silky tornados, into teenage medusas, into the wind-blown goddess look, with the air rushing past our open windows and swirling around the shiny, bright-wax candy exterior of the passing cars. the radio singer howls and wolf-growls our favorite anthem to the wild-beat bass drum pounding chords like drops of water falling in the dark of a cave and echoing

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1090643614722367432004-07-23T23:21:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.590-05:00

poems i found. cleaning my room. yup. like the descriptions in the first two, but they're not arranged so well. the third one's just... weird... yeah... . . . highway the cars go speeding past bright and hard like waxed candies the wolf-growls of the radio singer are our anthem the sky melts  into the colors of exotic drinks laughter drips from our lips like silver belss and marachino cherries

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1090455249620883492004-07-21T19:04:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.489-05:00

found this when i was cleaning my room. it's not especially good or comprehensible, it's just what goes on in my mind. (i always have been a little odd...) . . . i skirt your eyes in the hallway pronouncing my oddness with every slap of my sandals on linoleum left     right black     white girl     girl     girl     creature i am proud you never knew me and i never knew you but i am

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1089856550860222022004-07-14T20:50:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.372-05:00

looking for my old notebook. didn't find it, but found these. . . . eating organic granola and cherry starbursts in a house that smelled like mold, she pressed her face into the sheets and felt the pulse on the back of her neck. eating organic granola and cherry starbursts in a house that smelled like mold, she pressed her face into the sheets and felt the pulse on the back of her neck,

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1089391536846103792004-07-09T11:38:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.190-05:00

mostly from two nights ago when i couldn't sleep. i just grabbed one of those mini-pads of paper and a sparkly blue pen, and i was off, scribbling a line or two every few minutes or half and hour... . . . butterflies and red, red lips i'm wearing someone else's smile (i'm living on someone else's dime i'm getting off on someone else's fuck i'm laughing at someone else's joke i'm hiding from

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1089250553871921212004-07-07T20:35:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:54.097-05:00

doom and gloom with something as simple as hanging up the phone my day ends too early to sleep too late to live the spider inside spreads its legs and swallows my pride leaving me (a shallow rhyme) empty inside

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1088730085185303722004-07-01T19:57:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.998-05:00

oh yeah, was supposed to post this too, wasn't i? . . . at night, the vines creep down and cover over us-- your sleeping form beside me-- spied on by blossoms surreally iridescant. the vines crawl up our arms, twist around your waist, slide over my hips, binding my body to yours; butterflies light on your cheeks, tendrils slipping over your sweet shoulders. i kiss your hair, not fighting the

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1088729760188758632004-07-01T19:54:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.899-05:00

hm, don't think i ever posted this. just found it in my notebook... . . . the porcelain shivers-- down to the molecules pulling apart-- slowly-- with imperceptible thinness--at first-- and--carefully, the earth shakes and parts leaving a long vein across the painted flower--

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1088023487283321702004-06-23T15:40:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.804-05:00

another one coming when i get my notebook back from britt. i think i may actually post some stuff on fictionpress for the first time all year... ... i'm always afraid holding you-- the measure of your strength more than the pull of the sinew, muscle of your limbs. an aphrodisiac in your scent, a tangle in your eyes, you refuse the rope, coat your feet in mud. you are the original wild thing;

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1086823310860707242004-06-09T18:17:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.708-05:00

work in progress.. =p . . . what they never told you (about being in love) they never told you that you might end up dating someone six inches shorter than you the same sex as you that she might be half a foot shorter and have her face pressed into your chest and you lean down to press your face into her shoulder, into her hair in front of half her art class filtering into the room she leans

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1085280934089324682004-05-22T21:51:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.409-05:00

yes, yes, i am still alive... one of my poems got published in the school lit mag o.o; . . . lying in the grass, you told me the fireflies' secret (beneath the frenzied flashing of a million tiny buggy, seeking lights) about how all of us are out there, looking for someone making the same pattern we are. when the storm came in, you stood, arms aout-stretched, my hands cupping your ribcage; you

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1082329689917985262004-04-18T18:08:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.296-05:00

just three lines from yesterday: . . . it's warm but i am cold melt me . . . blah. idiotic, ne? and something in my head keeps going "you need a livejournal for this!" despite the fact that the whole point was to keep this simpler. i swear, those stupid journals are addictive o_o

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5903021.post-1081378068299657282004-04-07T17:47:00.000-05:002006-11-13T21:30:53.166-05:00

ok, poems now. late-march to early-april -ish. rather different tones. neither my best work, but then, most of your stuff can't be your best work, can it? hopefully these won't get me in any more trouble than i'm already in... . . . i want to carry you off to a place that looks just like my bedroom, only cleaner, and i've actually remember to change the sheets for once. the sunlight spilling

faehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17737195580711061192noreply@blogger.com