...and a small boy named Matthew arrived from the pocket of his mother's womb last night.
I spoke to my mother yesterday. Had mad love from my brother. This madness ebbs and flows. Comes and goes around the mulberry bush of hope and anticipation.
My bones ache. Moving stuff around. Spring cleaning. Miles of junk to throw out. How do you decide what to keep when everything is sentiment. Reason is the tugboat of moderate action.
How boring of you my darling
when will you run inside the dark alley of a fierce wind
so out goes the gold trimmed armoire. the night-table I never use. The double dresser-mirrors that darken the room. Shift the bookshelf. Make a home for the turtles. Among the poems.
Among the trees.
still moving stuff around
in my head
in my heart
in my home
Staceyann
... in my jammies. Quiet ache taking up mad space in my funk
lonely
It's hard to admit
alone
with the sun out like it has not been in days
beautiful blaze of light
hands trembling and talking to myself
natalie merchant
sarah mclachlan
brood notes of crazy coined spring
and you betrayed me
what the fuck is the grand obsession with betrayal?
tease me
complete
rug pulled from under feet and I am falling again
falling for fluent colors
turning away from solid
bleed me
red and purple pills
swallow me
sinful
How I want always the thing I least am able to own
I want to own myself
the rhythm of me is disturbed
writing
writing
and the details are hidden from all I want to say
label me
weak
fool
friend of the fickle
my fingers do not wrap themselves
willing around what you refuse to tell me
tell me
what does looking for a director have to do with my cunt aching like
love used to live there
a long time ago
tragic
nothing tragic about the way I feel for you
she asserts
we are not tragic
and I am blanketed in tragedy
comic figure
bound by a belief in the dramatic
drunk on the memory of what I smell
in your purple pants
left folded on my couch
I don't want to fall in love
anymore
love is the knife used most effectivly to gut hope
hope me a mountain
faith
like a mustard seed
move that fucking mountain out my way
need to travel
for leisure
for the smart pleasure of seeing me
rumbling along
in countries I have not learned to be sad in yet
How I hate the recognizable common of lone silhouette
standing
looking out at the passing trees
you are among the wide branch of trees
outside my window of reach
don't jump girl
you do not leap feline into things not understood
yet
wait for the fall
Be still
stand in love
and pay attention
words of some woman
wanting me to be safe when I am in my own hands
you are not frail
she accuses
you will not break
because of anything you feel
what might kill you
is what you do not let wash over the agony of you
I am looking for a director
know anyone?
call 212 253 7017
the show goes up in August
if I can pull that shit off
kiss the wind under the skies you look up on tonight,
Staceyann