flat on cc

As the sun dies around me
it exhales its last good graces
on anyone who is keen enough
to know and yet not know
why it has happened
and before you reach a single
conclusion, the night steps out
from in between the stars and
the buzzing fades


BDR

NMMP

A conversation with you is mostly a failure to Comprehend
Either tongue, the native which renders Expression childish, or the
Learned, which renders feeling dull and flat

Si, somos putos adolescentes, sobrealimentados y narcista
Pero tu angustia para ser conectado, con migo o con nadie
En este momento no lo puedo Entender

Comemos los cigarros (tu mas rápido que yo)--la muerte nos conecta a todos
Que por Saber, ya están Muertos.
Tal vez no hay solución,
Y por eso te digo-andate a Barça,
A beber, fumar y escibir. Lo unico en que yo creo
Es la Palabra escrita. Es Tu palabra. Y tal vez asi te conectaras en la unica forma Verdadera.

Tu me haces querer no vivir por otros,
Y por eso, eres mi Mejor amigo.

timeline

yesterday
i was a modern woman.
my boots clicked against wooden panels
and i hurried off to
the many places
to meet the many people
i was supposed to meet
many minutes before.
i scuffed my hair,
and the passerby
broke my intent
and shattered my gaze
away from the pavement.
the meetings i made
meant moving hands in stiff gestures
like perpendicular palms
and straw, crinkling fists.
but i had to run-
so with uppity verses
and upward ending
intonations,
i left.
(the linear intensity i stirred around me
distracted me
from the forgotten memories
from days
when lines of control
blurred into a soft fuzz-
all blankets and lotioned skin.
unspoken patterns
of dissent now
echoing back
dissolved words or thoughts
that guided
years of disorientation.)

DLS

judd i'm scared

judd, i'm scared!
the water's more than 15 feet down but it feels like more and we're all the way up here,
it'll be so cold and i'll be shivering in between thwarts while you warm yourself with sentimental strokes
we'll go together
just count down
five, four, three,
stop!
david's in!
i can't. judd i don't know why i'm so
scared.
what's going to happen.
okay, stop, you're going.
i can't
three
i'm going to scream
two
you know-
one
hesitating while they're flying and then splashing and then flying in the water like fish and birds are one and i have to go now because if i don't i will think
always thinking, yearning to
fly
and here's the air
fuck it:

s e c o n d s
elongate
as i near
the this is it
breath
or lack
there
of

LAUGHTER.
eyes closed, beaming wet face droplets on my eyelashes and your confused or amused gaze is nice so i avoid it with active determination.

again! giddy greediness and slippery rocks up muddy non paths back to the fear and counting down and judd i'm scared! you just did it! i'm counting. i hate you. really i do.

i
jumped
again
miraculous
fleeing
of
rocks
and
feeling
of
gravity.

SPLASH!
slippery skin and saturated smiles. why do you get so scared, you are incredibly happy after that. shrugs. eyes averted. one more time!

hurry, the cars are waiting and the peninsula is far so no fear this time. okay? not that i can help it. but soon your knees will brush my back in the stern of a canoe as i shiver and smile so it's time to jump while we're here, so far.

flailing arms
hit air
then water
then swooping
motions
like duck
feet
from
underwater
eyes
still
falling.

mmm. that's the best. isn't this all the best. i love it all so much. eyes rolled. ready the ship. i fall back in from slippery rocks. we laugh. my bruise purples as we head back. my lip goes white from biting and my cheeks hurt from beaming and my bone looks like it's sticking out a little more than usual but such is life.

love life.
love fear.
fearing love,
but wanting to
live in it.

dls

Riff on September 27

9 a.m. and thinking I had been awake some hours ago, but that wasn’t right, I had simply been thinking about lines about lions for hours, right before sleeping and just beneath waking - so I rose, like a lion I thought, lionlike, and I yawned a big-cat yawn and sat down at my desk in a pair of boots and a tawny sweater, lion-colored, and wrote my poem and was very late to class. It wasn’t quite the assignment either – DO NOT BEGIN WITH AN IDEA AND GIVE IT FUR OR WINGS – but I toasted my pumpernickel bagel proudly anyhow and thought well doesn't everything begin with an idea and listened to stories about communists in cold places and then an economist shouted at me and a lot of other people about unknowns and relationships, so I headed to a bookstore in the rain for some refuge – the walk cool like a season I had been wishing existed but had forgotten the tune to – and I damply stood vertical and read Frank O’Hara and wished I could speak to the sun on Fire Island and could list things the way he does with such joy here let’s see I’ll try – chocolate milk! library books! Godard, Truffaut, protest marches, scarves, wet leaves, and the rest of our lives, holes in sweaters, street puddles reflecting colored lights at 2 am, poems, bright young presidents and ambassadors avoiding nuclear war years and years ago for me to read about – and it was coming down harder as I loped back to the dorm, to my orange lamp and scuffed laptop, and I passed a boy who said why are you running, don’t you like the rain and I said I do I do but I have people to meet and we made plans to get lunch as he walked, sopping, squelching amiably, having abandoned philosophy to take a nap because we are at that age when we can decide what to do with ourselves. So I listened to more stories, these about flocks taken and huts burned and trials for things like truth, then spoke with a man I’d seen pictures of and admired – he had crooked teeth and spoke densely like this paragraph only more so. And dinner was Tchaikovsky and Chopin, instruments we gave up, childhood ballet and gymnastic lessons recounted (how we did flips, when we were small) and split pea soup and plans to escape to the mountains where there are bears and the cold is colder and more precise. Then home for lusty talk of men and boys and wanting until off to the sainted room with more poetry what a day how overflowing! Finally the library crew and too much coffee and discovering you two at the end of the night as if the day had all along been meant for holding sandwiches wrapped in paper and bags of chips and conversation about whether we want to be buildings or movies or poems or all of these at once forever always at least until tomorrow CDL

Captivity

I always heard, the lions share, as reprimand at dinner table,
when large-pawed adults batted the phrase
at me and one another.
I missed context and apostrophe,
so that cubs and lionesses, in savannah haze,
were soccer moms at half-time afternoons,
nuzzling matted manes, licking faces.
Each kept a yellow, mascara-lined eye
on the safari man with musket,
They doled out brown bag lunches,
sticky with blood and the kill, to the pride.
In the sawdust at zoos, straw rings at the circus,
the lions pace the cages.
Soft-set stares accuse the crowds:
we once had so much more.

CDL

Elephant

The elephant is so immense that up close it is impossible to see in focus.
Its eyelashes are long and thick: they arch
Like the cables of a bridge. The eye’s iris is dense orange,
Darker orange than late leafs; thin black lines spread from the black pupil.
The light that hits the eye is varied by shadow and glare,
So the iris has all times: In places bright as early morning or dark as dusk.
At its center, the iris curves under itself, opening up to the pupil.

The skin-lines are deep and permanent, like cracks in the desert floor.
Between these lines the skin is patterned like scales or bumpy like leather.
Wrinkles are from an elephant’s smiles and grief.

The trunk is there, and from this angle it slants a little
Like a nose (Even if people had orange eyes and gray skin,
Even then, you wouldn’t be inclined to call it human)
But it bends on itself: muscular, loose, soft, and wrinkled.

Every morning, when I look at this close-up photo, my desktop background,
My skin is soft from the steam of my shower, but cold and tightening in air.
Leaning to my computer, I remember a magazine article
I read once, about elephants suffering
As if from PTSD. Some attacked human villages.
These elephants would return to fields where they had buried the dead.
They acted like depressed humans, the journalist wrote.

Today, I saw an article about seven elephants
Killed by one train in India in an accident.
There were photos of the corpses being lifted by rope and wooden
Cranes. The tight ropes pull from the neck. The eyes are closed.
The head and trunk are loose to one side, no rigor mortis.
Five of the elephants had “attempted to rescue two young ones on the track.”

—EWW

Not a Breakfast Poem

When I swing,
I point my toes up,
Flying easily.
The moon casts a realm of dubious luminosity.
The night, thick and heavy,
I taste in the air,
Swallow on my tongue,
Engulf in my mouth.
On the incline, I stretch my legs,
And, letting go, soar up past the tall tree,
Above, beyond,
Reaching the ladder towards the moon.
I am by the church in Kilchberg, waiting for the bus,
walking down the path to Denner,
vanishing somewhere among the crickets and hedgehogs.
I am behind Schwelle, aged 7,
playing chase with tiny humans, unwilling cats,
Before we knew about the flies in the pizza.
In my thoughts, this place does not bind me.
But it is hot and I grow queasy feeling too much without boarders.
The buildings around me grow haunted,
Lightning charges everything, noiselessly
And I sink off into a slumber of reality, or something more ethereal
Like climbing trees, swinging off long chains, sprouting wings of pixie's leaves
in the woods over the hills late past sunset

-BHN

F

flash back,
back to flashing
lights
over the ancient city
of love? God? or civilization?

flashing back
to flickering insights
into the sad way the
world works.
all numbers, no figures and faces
to fill in the holes of the zeros
of thousands or millions
dead, or dead
inside.

flinching eyelashes
because i want to cry
and want to want to cry
for all of them.
just because i don't see it anymore
doesn't mean it isn't there
every
second
of
every
day.

back to finicky opinions
in the complicated landscape
where i judge
anyone who believes
him or herself to be
right.

finding anew
the defeat, weighing in
to find
how small i am,
in the scope of thousands of years
scholars
conquerors
and men.

hot flash
from the caffeine, and
i still miss it,
in some sick
or beautiful way.

DLS

King Lear at the BAM Harvey Theater on a Wednesday Night in Winter

You forget, when the old king pulls his shirt off
And it gets stuck around his head, his pants down, his penis swinging out,
What you came in wearing. It’s like you’re wrapped in but a blanket.

Remind yourself he was Gandalf, Magneto, Richard III,
That he’s not just Lear. Sir Ian McKellen (remind yourself).
Lear, lost in the gales in nowhere
Land, lonely but not alone. The rain on stage falls mainly
On the stage, not spilling past the bared bricks
Walled together under patches of painted plaster in the theater
(Remind yourself, watching the hanging of the fool).
You still feel cold.

And everyone but the old king –
Who this whole time never once
Broke from his lines,
Or ripped the meter like a map – is dead.
Look there, look there –

You can’t.
The blackout,
The felled curtain.
Remember,
Applaud.

– EWW

January, Johnson Hall

From beneath the pillows, comes:

“If Latin weren’t dead, I’d murder it.”

The threat hovers like our breath would,

and I want to claim accomplice to the crime.

Fifteen lines to go, outside the wind.

We fill the margins with hypotheticals and dares.

Radiator’s busted, so our secrets grow secrets

in the hothouse winter night. Beneath our desks,

in baskets, the cores of stolen apples - rot perfume.

(At the dining hall: “Please do not remove the fruit.”)

At dawn we trek on salted paths, through drifts,

to guzzle milk and cereal, burgle green bananas

and watch them ripen in the climate of the room.

Orchid-making should ensue, or plots. Conspiracy.

At dusk we unlock a window to the frosted fields

and blanketed hills to do translation.

Safe, as clumsy spies in hiding,
next-door suburb neighbors.

School makes good fugitives of us.

Fifteen lines to go, outside the wind.

CDL

the tangy swig

of a harmonica bend

changes the metric

steadiness

of my

a B a B

heartbeats heartbeats

until my breath

shortens sillily

in me.

a clotted throat

and i have to close my eyes

to steal all the air

into my nose

and slowly push it out from my lips.

my eyes stung with salt this morning.

breaths rose from my bed,

where my feet sat on my pillow and

the sun covered my face.

i mindlessly wondered

when the leaves of the

breezing tree

just outside my window

would catch flame with the coming

of autumn.

as i watched and willed her green leaves

brilliance, little birds chirped in her

tangled hair, playing tag

between her limbs

and tickling the morning dew

out of the fresh spider webs.

i slowly knew, then

that sadness flows like water.

it doesn't always evaporate

with the morning sun

as it should,

though.

instead it just seeps into the cracks

of reason,

sticks to webs,

and can coat the entire

outer layer of my skin

with a slick and odorless film,

sometimes pouring in a fall,

or just dripping,

steadily, softly,

as the meter for

harmonicas playing,

asthmatics breathing,

and birds chirping.

DLS

Last night I dreamt
About holding you close;
We were on top of a mountain
Clouds exploding all around
You murmured, or shouted,
About discrimination,
But I just held you tight
And that was all that mattered

And when I woke up,
It wasn't you
And when I squeeze my eyes shut
It's sometimes you, a
surprise

And tonight,
Shifting and moving,
Stevie Nicks makes sense to me
Repeat that shit-get rid of shuffle

I read everything tonight,
Catching up,
Forgetting being lost,
Separate--
Proved me wrong, with your devil's magic
And your health will return,
Even though I'll never stop thinking it was
Me.

A list--
10 things,
That will make it better,
Right?

Lima Beans (would sponsor this poem)

How easily cast off I am,
sand-filled sock, small fish,
unappetizing garnish on
bloated cow dish.

How little loved
it sometimes seems,
third-grade revolt against
lima beans.

How short a time,
how quick to forget,
I was here, I was here,
the floor is still wet.

Too complicated, tangled,
not cheekbone-angled.
Not blonde, not fair,
too dark, mess of hair.

I was here, I was here,
walruses and pies.
I was here, I was here,
sky of stars, the old lie.

EWV

8:30am, two suppressants in sleep

You
Had no right to wake me from my nightmare
After
I had so explicitly informed you
That your services would not be required today

You,
This morning,
Seem strangely compatible with the dissonance you deprived me of:
Unhealthy dependence, uncouth fixation, untimely arrival
Programmable incongruence, modern crutch
Sweet reliance

Nightmare, if you can call it that
I had not expected from these settings your appearance,
faulty mechanization or faulty understanding leading to this point.

After I saw that your sister had written this morning, I was in a state of shock I thought the world had stopped
I thought that you and all that’s yours would vanish from this world as you vanish from the ether between my synapses,
Leaving behind less than a bottle of rain, stripped of label and
laced with the scent of violet,
sickly sweet,
prettily aromatic, meaning circular,
somewhere deep within a cabinet in a bedroom you knew little of
but through my pearly, drop-in-the-ocean, alligator tears
and a jellyfish we caught there once while I made you unhappy
As you drink double whiskeys, in orders of two, that’s four,
Pastel-coloured sweatshirts,
I favour wearing black

-BHN

stay safe

they're mine,
too,
these streets.
i hate taking them
back;
it acknowledges
the uphill battle
of so many
battles
i would like to fight.
but screw the status quo
and supposed street smarts!
i'll race the shadows
on high
and flee from sleep
on elm
every night
until an army joins me,
or my own fear flees.
it pounds,
the two-step
leap,
bounding off
these streets,
running from thoughts,
images,
memories,
confusion,
shadows,
ignoring the pain
in my left achilles
or right hip flexor.
(it hurts all of us,
whether we acknowledge
it
or not:
the geography
of a woman's fear
is not a map
of her own psychosis,
it's an indication
of the ground
we are all
standing on.)

DLS

hiding/seeking

your absence could fill a room.
last night, it even followed me back to mine,
tagging along as i skipped stairs up to the third floor,
and sneaking through when i shut the door as quickly as i could behind me.
it tapped its knee next to me as i checked my email on the couch,
and even climbed into bed with me,
cooling that side of my body with its suffocating proximity.
your absence stares blankly at me
throughout our meticulous communication,
and chases me as i race through the night,
even talking through the beats in my insulated world,
where God is a DJ
and i'm coastin' with tornados meeting volcanos
in my WAKA WAKA
40 day dream.
your absence is everywhere,
even when you are
present.

DLS

peer-editing this paper might hurt

i am trying to write about
summer and
i wonder
if i am even here
in the library at
all
because
somehow i still
see
those
sacred smiles and
ran faster
today
in frustration
because i
would just like to
talk to the
sun
[he absorbs and
reflects
leaps in its
sparkles a
perfect
blond
line
against the
sea a
photo developed but
not
disposable just
bright and
grainy, sand at
the bottom of my
backpack]

CVP

Cooper Lodge

The cabin is a pause—
But he has forgotten how to rest, our interlocutor
“30 miles a day!” he crows
Awkward crow, shifty, sharp
His beak too long and quick to stab
“And you? And you?”

Pacing, he malingers
Seems to want to join us
Alas! he is too weak
To overcome Ego and Habit

Languid, another, asks for a match
Lights in a corner
Contrast to the last
Settling in, we talk of the past:

Quincy Saul? Your childhood friend?
Quincy’s father taught me to play the piano!
(a skill sadly lost in the passing of years)
But learned and retained
The importance of pauses—
Breaths that give meaning
To music and life

NSG

That Vaporous Scarshaped Smile

And later, coming upstairs to leave,
her friend showed me a caring smile:
sympathy as another’s mother, as
my mother’s friend. Some words about
the homemade beef broth she brought.
Coughing, healing, I laughed; and downstairs,
I thought, above the whispered water running
to fill another cup to calm her throat
dried as if to cry, my mom moved hand through hair.

We had heard murmurs of the other’s words:
I saw my friend’s discomfort in
his blue eyes as I joked about going bald,
and my mom shared a story—
of uncertainty suffering not from any
visible fact, like my bare scalp, but from a word
spoken almost accidentally months ago, as if
the doctor could give that news,
reach to end, the part about
God or fate or chance, and not even say it.

—EWW

After a Speech at the Political Union

The politician’s man arrives real slow, molasses-like.
He looks bad news to me: television-glow, spit-shined.
The house lights flicker when he talks.
With impish spin and syrup tongue he curtsies at the boos:
“Do not hiss, you student speakers,” blabs strategist to mob.
“Out there are people affected by the laws.
“You will eat spaghetti dinners in town halls
“and pancake breakfast at the fire house,”
as though we’ve never heard of meatballs or left school.
Someplace, though, the citizens take note.
A woman sparks the burners on her stove.
A fireman buys eggs, sifts flour.
They set out folding chairs and paper plates and wait.
(They’re not so far away from us as that.)
Here I live in a wooden house, fear suffocation nights.
The fireman smothers flame, does something with an ax.

CDL

august rushes by, remains

Goodnight moon,
Goodnight stars in the
amphitheater sky-
-Goodnight table,
round pebble,
hurricane lamp of
mosquito-bitten dinners-
Sweet dreams to you, Little
Misery, Big Misery, Manchester,
Marblehead-
-Goodnight Gloucester,
rocks and tidepools and
seagull calls-
Goodnight grass
of cartwheels and yoga-
Goodnight tree of the old buoy swing
-Goodnight lions, Goodnight you
screen door slam, honey sticky
kitchen, creaky stairs, million books,
sandy bed.

Goodnight house-Goodnight people,
Goodnight place forever in
my heart.

CVP

p.s. the word Goodnight has started to look really silly

Cinemanic

I'm feeling inspired!
I want to join a cine club
To start a cine club
Or something even bigger
Full of verse and art
mixed with music
and good company
A place to think freely
drink deeply
speak
with passion
break the bonds of ration-
ality.
I am not Truffaut
Nor was meant to be
Am but an attendant student
Caught in a moment of rapture...

We are young
We are bold
I want to sing and be sung
Before I grow old

-nsg

gusty

today is a day
of thick, rolling clouds,
wispy, wind-blown hair,
full sweaters,
and heavy naps.
the shivering breeze makes me close
my eyes,
and instead of the warmth on their lids,
the emptying winds
assures me,
of something.
exhaling my own gusts
to join the large crowd gusting like crazy today,
i suddenly remember
how happy i am.

DLS

the exploration of your bitterness

i'm sticking the velcro of my clap-ons
to the tops of my feet,
pulling down my goggles
from my round and grey helmet,
and juggling with one hand
my ice-ax
to climb the electric blue
of these frozen waterfalls.

my face is lifting up,
lighting up,
and there's a small grin
exposing white teeth
against my already dirt covered face
from the burning coals of battles
long since burning from
several nights
of anger, sadness, or longing.

i'm marching ahead,
equipped like a patagonia ad,
eyes with the focus of a bird
of prey,
but instead of wings,
each externality
has the edge
of an ax or metal tooth.

so now i'm ready
to rappel into the crevices between us,
dig my modern spears into your thoughts insulated with ice,
and chimney in the air separating our bodies.
my headlamp brings a yellow stream of light
wherever my neck turns;
its stream is illuminating the jungle of contoured, dripping rock
as i begin this exploration of your bitterness.

DLS

Thursday, September 9, 2010

The color of cranberry has turned to pink lemonade over the summer
And the coffee dispensers to mechanized vehicles of coffee propulsion
But the coffee they churn out still tastes like the same old mulch.
As I tell myself to put my personal thoughts aside and write this article,
Type, write, think, type, write, think, type, write, think, write, think,
I realize that it's okay to be suspended in your own thoughts sometimes.
And the pink lemonade cranberry juice still tastes delicious,
I must have forgotten how misrepresentative the labels are,
And I still like sitting alone behind the roll-away wood-paneled walls,
There are many things that are familiar.
So, on Thursday, I haven't opened a book once this week and am still behind on stories,
But I'll take time to enjoy this morning because there are some things that matter more than
oscillations along a vibrating wire
and
W.L. Cleveland's History of the Modern Middle East
and
a page to fill for the Weekend.
Thank you Clemantine for helping me see this.

-BHN

mine

i once wrote down,
with a navy rolly ink pen and a cheap
hard covered blue and yellow notebook,
the cryptic fortune telling past i laid out
with kissing and missing,
loving and hugging,
but a heart that echoed
and a head that toppled
over and over.

things changed.

[i still miss
the quiet of
ears under water
but nose above
with eyes closed
and the sun
lighting the scene behind
my lids.]

i wrote them
to remember
the reality of the past,
and forget momentarily
the new reality i had to face.

[i now long
to move swiftly,
as a blur through the night,
a fluid stream of motion
weaving light through the dense dark.]

i listened to the xx
and wondered
how boundaries are created,
and why nothing seems to happen when they are
crossed.

[i want to be far
and quiet,
these days,
rummaging behind a serene face
for reasons why
my face or body
is an invitation
for violation.]

i and i alone
reign over
this skin.

i sweat through it,
trail my nails over it,
lather it in bubbles and soak it in water,
tickle it with cotton and silk,
paint it wild colors,
scratch and skid it in tumultuous adventures,
and warm it with the sun's soft rays.

it's mine,
i've had it for years
and looking at it, touching it, and grabbing it
as often as you like,
will never make it yours.

my skin is not coming off,
you can pull it as close as you want,
tugging it towards you,
unknowingly scratching its surface,
but it's here to stay
as my eternal constituency,

for this kingdom has come.
my toes stand as bricks,
my hair waves as a flag,
my fists wait as moats,
and my eyes
guide-with ferocity-
the steady two-step
of my two
birkenstock clad
soldiers.

DLS

The Good Ship UC 18

We seamen-girls, we whaler-girls, we captains -
scaly, blow-holed, all gills and grinning ways.
We blubber-carriers, plankton-eaters, shark-catchers -
we stink of ocean, hum songs of the deep. We dive
and glitter at each other, gulp flask-spirits, rove.
We growl and curse and spit and mutter.
Spill the rum and crush the isle berries, stash the spices,
filch the riches. We expel the maiden-spooks and haunting-ladies -
lacy, lost, and huddled in the bow. We prowl. Our cabin's safe.
And vomiting out the port-side, and slurping at the
soup, we gruffly gut our voices with our laughs, churn chowder-kettles,
heat the ale. We mop the rank and dirty board-floors.
Tobacco-tough, clam-guarded, eyes urchin-sharp, with
pearls and trunks of pulp-paper stashed below, we'll
take that naked pack of playing cards -
with lusciousmermaid-girlies for each suit.

CDL

Sept 5

Have I done the math?
he asks with the wispy hair
How debonair - the math.
Have I added up,
summed and spelled?
Do the numbers all align?
I change the colors of the skies.
deepen shadows, flush cheeks, lips.
I alter slightly salt and foam.
There goes the smooth rocks' glisten-light,
a sharper line, a softer glare. I wonder there.
The years ahead they are the stairs,
as mortar falls like ash to desks,
the carilloonneurs sound.
The golden clock-face chimes.
I refuse to swallow quiet down
the sickly phlegm of mean denying.
No false rejection of the moment,
cruel apologetic tone.
Only honest choice and some commitment
these will bind me to a mast while smiling.

I laugh: "the math."

CDL

September 5

Earlier I drew the curtain back

propped open the window,

watched people pass and

invited people in.

Now I must hide myself,

so it is blue, false light falls

equally, unenthusiastic,

a dull yellow permeation,

and fake windows mock from a

stark white wall.

The emptiness of this large room

I cannot fill

is striking.

I miss the breeze and the sunshine

that, touching my cheek,

felt like another life

embracing my own.

EWV

by booklight

such different
possibilities borne
on the heat of the
day and
the relief of the
night. i see
the most in green
leaves under street lights,
tickled by a breeze that
finally
dries the sweat.

"learn a new
language and find
a new soul"?

aleph, be, pe, te, se...

CVP

No Class on Thursday...

i hoped to have a lazy morning
but construction starts at 7 o'clock sharp!
and hot and sticky
i never fell back to sleep.

(to the tune of bubbly)
i've been blue booking for awhile now,
got me feeling like a child now
'cause everytime that i check ocs
i find my worksheet in a total mess.

nsg