what do i have to say about all the abandonment i have been victim to?
yes, please, run, if not, in the end i will abuse you. i'll introduce you to heroin then take it away, simply to watch muscles tense while your body shakes.
victimize me before i do something worse to you my golden calf.

Darling,
You have to know that River can smell all the states we have been though on my jeans. He was none too pleased that we slept through Massachusetts with no intent to ever actually make it to Boston. Lowell was a nice substitute, but the city was too small and filled with tiny girls dancing at street corners. Feathers, missing teeth, a parade of first place ribbons, and a funeral procession of losers.
I have since washed away any scent of unknown highways, but River sits at my feet and whines about never seeing the place he was born, but I have to wonder, were any of us ever born? What is our connection to life? Certainly it is not a puppy that is wiser than his helpless disposition lets on.
Darling, please hang your clothes to dry outside, i think we both need a scent of familiarity.


Kristen.

my thought process has become sloppy and vague. i've been stealing pieces of strangers conversations and making them my own, yet as fragmented as i am everything always comes back to one plot. the same story line plays out day after day without interruption. same characters executing each mark perfectly;

a boy, a cat, the faceless lush.

a boy, a cat, the faceless lush. a boy, a cat, the faceless lush. her lips,cat tails, lights out dress to the ground, a boy, a cat, the faceless lush. so it goes on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and so until i can find exactly where i placed the beginning or the middle i cannot bear to finish the part where the lush blacks out and the curtains fall.

i felt the doors dragging behind while the seasons blew in a northern wind, like any good daughter i forgot to say goodbye before i left to spend my last night in town lost in tunnels underground, banded like gypsies with an italian romeo and an albanian philosopher, trying to find that house in a hole.... i've never felt as comfortable as when they noticed something wrong with me.
" you dont sleep"
"you dont eat"
"oh god, i'm in a blackout arent i?"
romeo tried to pull apart every beauty mark or shifted glance, his smooth face holding back a gin mouth from calling out every over exaggerated feature i used to get where i wanted to be: drunk on the E train at 2am, making eye contact with foreign men, trying to make it to a bed that would only get me naked and fucked up.

ive stolen three hours for this, wasted days on the wrong train with a man that allowed me to vomit in his pocket, now, in front of you im so unsure of what needs to be said or done, or which bricks i should move to watch you tumble down without any clean break from yesterday or today. you're a house in a hole, where i've got my hand on the wall and a foot through the door,nothing left on the table but piano keys, layed out like an unwritten song, so we strung our guitars with christmas lights, falling over notes, we sang off key until our voices melted into one. you are the prettiest owl i ever did hear, i pull your breath down through the sheets, with my legs through the door you could call me a theif. destroyed the stair case in hopes to keep me around, turned the lights out and the pillows over neither of us expected the night to start like this with knowing how it would end: tiny paper notes hidden in my shoes; kicking up leaves more uncertain of what season is to come than my bending limbs that drag me further away from the part of who we were that made us a "we"

now be done with it, take my name so i'll never remember how i was so unashamed before you wore my skin.

francesco where are you?

holy holy

darling i was so much better with those needles in my teeth,
falling over you somewhere between brooklyn and 3:30 am.

imploding suns over 9:58

remember that scarf i lost at your place? well i heard that you sold it it to your ex-girlfriend for a bag of rice so you could feed me last night.
well i didnt eat it, i fed it to the fucking cat, threw the lentils to the pigeons. i dont want to eat your overcooked shit, it tastes almost as bad as your come in my mouth.
this is it, our terrible drunken goodbye sex, only instead of standing over you, naked as winter, scared of being seen at a bad angle, i'm laughing at how mad you get every time i interrupt to ask for another glass of vodka
what? you dont like a drunk easy girl, laid out across the boulevard? oh i think you do.
NOW... about that scarf, are you planning on getting it back? i never wanted this shitty dinner anyway, just like i never wanted to wakeup in the same bed as you for more than one night, or how i never wanted to watch your mouth form the lines and spaces that you forgot to fill with anything but p's and q's and fuck you's. No, i'm not saying this out of jealousy, i'm just reassuring myself that seeing your lips move in an empty fashion is just as bad as feeling them brush against my legs. Clumsy, Clumsy, wheres my shirt? how do i know which girl i am? Monday, Tuesday? Oh where the fuck is that calendar, you know..that calendar? I need to know which day is best for making up better reasons why i should control all of my judgments, and watch you pull my hair across your eyes when the lights come on. How long have i been in this same room? Three four five months?
i shouldn't complain, i mean the sex was always good, mostly..sometimes..well, whatever
Can you remember when i was plowing through streets, a quarter of the bottled down, half naked barefoot and drunk, wild and dangerous. I never caught up with whatever i was chasing, so like a dog in heat i ran circles around you instead. You took me home and undressed me, i never felt as cheap as i did when you didn't even touch me, just put me to bed, wokeup the next morning and smiled. " I'll see you later this week."
you are a lazy liar. you wont. you'll be seeing some other girl spread her legs while you ready your lips to fuck with her expectations.










"Theres alot of dead birds around your place this time of year."
" You are one interesting girl, an exotic bird."

forgot about you
remembered someone new
filtered my spit and drank the rest
oh what a battered city i've ridden into the mountains,where no one croons like the homeless do
settled in nicely to an anonymous life where i went to government parties dressed as a scarecrow, where i danced in circles around the politicians wives , drunk off every slack jawed male. i met you there, you, with your leather coat and nine-to-five complexion.
i gave you all my devils, took on a new vice, held hands with city hall, and fell into you harder than my mind wanted to allow
you there, my wild face, all framed with unclear intentions
fingers all painted black drifting over our clean sheets, patterned domino's drawing the curve of your face on my pillowcase
i fell asleep with my lips pressed to your ink outline
closed my eyes, tiny broken bulbs,because every time i opened them i saw everyone inside out, there was a woman with a doll house for a heart standing in place of my reflection
i woke up inside out and read in the news that you fell five stories without bending your smile, took a cab home and got stabbed over five bucks and an expired train ticket
i missed you last night at the governors ball, turned my eyelids out and faked a frown, because since you first wrapped that leather coat around me , i've been known as the prettiest girl in town.

we laid in a bed of spanish moss

I killed a white rabbitt while riding a black horse. tight spun organs unraveling with such a terrible speed. his race out of existance left my mouth dry. with nothing to drink i put my lips to his spine, lifted the fluid over my tongue and swallowed an exotic burbon. decades passed in that one taste. i pulled back feeling savage, wearing a crown of feathers, cradling four limp peacocks.

nothing leads to nothing leads to sex

i've seen it, your peak of perfection, your still death under moon slit eyes, naked as yesterday.
a pale decay at the corner of our bed, three broken ribs under my pillow
your breathing sounds like dragging feet across the brooklyn bridge
wishbone lockets thrown ontop of the radiator, the burning marrow soaked in cat piss
flecks of your curiousity trapped inside of me, a snowglobe of unconcieved children
still i'm here, spread out across the floor, a bear skin rug, too bare to trap the mud from your shoes, parchment fingers too curled to pick the secrets from your laundry.
that snowglobe turned to a woodenstove, sorting through each object you left behind. burnt hair and candle wax. you cant have the part of us that grows on the walls of my chimney stack. theres no us, only me, scraping away at my internal tombs tangled corridors. how are innocent people formed from the vile acts of spite and liquor soaked nights at such young moments? apple cores got planted instead of seeds, and this whole rotten city was birthed in return, is it the same with dogs or birds or children?
on the count of three darling we fall out of this together, both waiting on the terrible anomie we'll slide into, only i've never been good with numbers, and i can't say things once over, so lets try six, or twelve or whatever it takes for us to dismantel our rare bodies that hold together in such odd forms.





i'll see you next september, lets make it a regular thing: me forgetting my shoes, you forgetting to pullout.