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petagirlpo
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Name: Jane Poe
Country: United States
State: Texas
Metro: Lubbock
Birthday: 1/2/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: the white stripes, books and pictures and politics, my strange and bitter tendencies, the goodwill of men.
and Nothing gets done. but it gets done before Something.
Expertise: typing too much. pomp and circumstance.
Occupation: Retired
Industry: Textiles
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  petagirlpo
Member Since:
11/23/2004
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| Notes on my Belated House of Jealous Lovers:
everything to him was a prowl
everything to me was a dance.
maybe that was the perfect yin and yang,
his raw mammalian side intimidating and powerful, liberating.
my poetry-laced cognitive presentation developed and intriguing. exotic.
brocade and tomfoolery,
foxed and flocked
smoldering,
toxins swirling about the head
quirky and luscious,
DROP DEAD
GORGEOUS
cornsilk kiss on the lips,
femme beguile virgin mary
mix company
but you never shed the brass brassier,
though the colors of our spring were soft as cashmere.
and rock-chiseled abs need to be avenged
bruises need a featherlight relief.
refugees of the state. the interpol on our tails.
a slow, browsing concentration. and the inability to illicit a response.
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| the difference between effort, ability and merit.
devotion, talent, uncle's legacy twice removed.
write even when you don't want to . it looks warn in and homey, like it's loved and used, no longer a piece of technology but a friend to take along on trips like a car or a phone. to live in a world of occam's razor, things will be simplified. god, biology, calculus, the way your jeans were sewn together. that does however open the floor for stereotypes. they make things a lot easier, too easy, and then people don't bother with what's below the individual brain cells and membranes where we are fundamentally different the most.
we don't respect what we ourselves can do. if they can do it better or they can do it faster, therein lies respect.
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| is a funny shade of grey.
in this dimension, anyway.
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| what draws you out of the downy comforters is the bells ringing.
christmas.
no?
the downpour could have fooled me, my toes numb little rocks inside my summer shoes.
what was i thinking?
that this wouldn't happen. winter would not come.
winter itself has always been a dichotomy of
intense, extreme pleasure and jubliance.
and the terrible, awesome numbness of feeling, elliott smith on heroine, sad crooning of nina simone on a vinyl scratched with rough bloody hands, waxy lips, blood thick as oil.
this is what they mean when they say "public ivy." aloof, icy ivy. burberry check prints. i recognize them, wool and cashmere, dusty baby blue v-neck sweaters with a violet flannel crown [unbuttoned.] his posture poetry, his courteous manner that of a miami yacht wedding. some were born into it, some are made. molded. clay, terra cotta, the fireglazed white and applied bronze alternating between teeth, freckles, and cold, clean blue eyes.
more rain.
endless, penetrating. the kind that'll creep into your bones if you're not talking to someone you love,
if you're outside in flipflops, if you forgot your morbid grey umbrella.
a sense of kinship from a random, impromptu end of the bus lap, when the portly driver's voice, less than apologetic, informed me and the one other passenger that this is the last stop before route CR goes out of service.
so we sat. alone together. cold.
surrounded by gargled spanish, by broken, frozen bottles, by sidewalks years overdue for repaving. we could feel the slow decay of warmth-into-fridgid-breeze of a setting sun. the traffic rushed past. honked.
offcampus, they always honk if they can see leg, and i guess what leg they were seeing was my partner-in-stop's jean clad ones. i was a black ball of fleece and zippers and could have passed for a hobo if not for my offstandish little white laptop clawing for nearby wi-fi.
drown out the noise before it drowns you. the spanish.
not my roommate's language of love and adventure,
a supplely juggled string of consonants and vowels,
like pearls on a beige string.
no, this was dirty, hacked spanish.
the spanish of slang, of blow and suck,
of tripped wires and desert sand in wounds,
scraped knees, carbon blades. bullets made of stares and trash bags.
day labor it's called. men with lost families and no greencards, dangerously worn, standing around the back entrence of an alleyway to a business with no name.
but now: dying batteries. numb toes. [with a brand new colosseum in the backdrop.] oh, coffee, oh sidewalks, cobble stone walks through the land of lacoste tweed and leather bookbags.
to studio 4.20.
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