down in me

hello i am participating in international change your blog template (ICYBT) day which explains why this blog is now pink and which is what if you really loved me you would have noticed and emailed me about

an arrow points at another which points at another. that’s how we go around, chasing each other like tails.
writing can never be an enjoyable experience for me because writing is either work or therapy.
you can never be an enjoyable experience for me because you are either work or therapy.
it’s like me, mixed up with him and a little bit of another.
it’s like when you toss up all the candy and it lands and some of it hits you in the head.

I don’t want her. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t flow. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t glide weightlessly towards me with a thin smile. I want a girl like gauze. I want a girl that exists in streams, that tears into long strips, that can easily float onto a breeze. I want a girl that rustles soft like paper, a girl that doesn’t spit, that isn’t big, that doesn’t open wide, that doesn’t lie back. I want a girl that’s tightly wrapped and lean. A girl narrow like string, sparse like vellum. I want to feel her perpendicular, outstretched, reaching from her slight core far outwards, miles and miles of her, reams of her, taut and fine.

Thing #1
Like some days ago Ben Brooks was here, but it turns out that he had been here all along. He was just hiding. His favorite hiding places are: in the fridge behind the bottled water I drink when I have panic attacks and making me laugh in front of YouTube windows and of course behind the couch. Some of the pictures in my head say: Ben eating frozen mango yogurt. Ben and Chris Killen leaning into each other in conversation. Ben sitting in the bathtub reading The Insurgent out loud. Ben making faces. Sometimes I think we talk about writing. Now Ben’s hiding in my womb.
I am reading An Island of Fifty out loud but in a soothing voice and it’s hard to tell if Ben’s listening. I want everyone to read Island of Fifty and The Insurgent right now. I want to read The Insurgent right now too and probably again at some future point.

Thing #2
In 2011 a chapbook on Mud Luscious Press will say my name and tell how my milkshake brings all the boys. A genuine MLP chap. I think it will be called this love is office lighting (great and harsh but always off when no one’s there). This is all thanks to J. A. Tyler. I fear if I think about it any more my heart will poof like glitter in a snowglobe and I will have to go to the emergency room again and I don’t like doctors.

i like matthew savoca’s field mice a whole lot.

matthew savoca, david ray, stephen daniel lewis, molly gaudry, daniel bailey and robert baumann all like mice.

i like mice too. i am cozy under daniel bailey.

thank you, stephen daniel lewis. robot melon is my favorite fruit.

i swam in the sea at some time past midnight in my panties and trees cannot do that however. i was not scared about the fish. the fish were not scared about me.

the last time i visited this town i slept in the gutter on the roof. it was five stories up and had i turned one inch to the left in my sleep i’d have fallen to my untimely drunken idiot death. lucky then that this did not happen though i often think how easy.

i heard the sea rush and could see the glass reflecting moon. this little town is magic in that it inspires minor recklessness and whatever you think about that you know things can be great if you like them.

in a white place with pillars on the side of a mountain i was groped by very many european boys until sunup. i don’t say this to amuse you it is just what happened.

finally here is a thing i wrote which ended up in JUNE PANK. i fancy pank not only for its awesome but because it sounds like ‘spank’ and i am always very pleased by palms meeting my bum at intervals.

so you see how everything makes sense.

feel like a mass delusion. feel like a tree, feel like going into the atmosphere with my friend milky and saying ‘fuck it’ to the stars because really, who decides when light is to reach the surface of my leaves? i want to climb up stairs, feel like an intrusion, feel apt. i just want someone to say here is a girl, her name is ani, care for her, pretend she’s an animal, pretend she’s a tree. i want to know when i became so standoffish and i want to know when i became sane and i also want to know if that was you in the car park the other night, bleating horribly into the space like some winded elephant or a nintendo 64 or something because i really wanted to play with you but my eyes kept saying stop it, you are not a tree you are a mass delusion and we don’t want to see where you’re going to end up, we always were the prettiest part of you, we don’t deserve this squinting treatment and etc.

He had a regular-sized dick and I went to the store and I stole it. From the regular-sized dick collection behind the glass. A lot of us talk about beauty. A regular hanker for a cure, a regular size, not big or extra. I said, I’ve been waiting to do this all night and then I went and did it just like I’d seen it done. I don’t know what happened after that. Someone had thrown a breast and shattered the glass and a glass crackling caught my eyeball. But they are one of those bands that are going to sound normal live.

Here is something I sweated over pretty disgracefully:

IN WHICH WE WRITE ABOUT SEX AND OUR INTENTIONS ARE UNCLEAR

And here is a poem I wrote about a second ago and didn’t edit:

just racking up a couple of sad sorry states of affairs
decided i didn’t feel like much of anything
no sugar rat poison
no boys swimming
decided i felt like a much more hungry child
decided your talk bubbles blow my ass in water
decided to become a free agent
disgusted with what’s left of my
oh i don’t know
i racked up a few lines of indiscretion
and decided to take your comments all too seriously
decided to live dispassionately
like a humbug hungry for the harbor
what do i know
the poetry of my repetition is indiscriminate
and i’m inseminated

I don’t know why boys make my ticking clock tock but we won’t go into that so there you go.

I reviewed (sorta, kinda) Scorch Atlas by Blake Butler for a shiny new site called ‘other’ which I am deeming ‘official hangout’ like The Peach Pit or The Max but with more stripey dicks and strange refrigerators.

Big-as-the-milky-way thanks to Crispin ‘Bringing the Internet Together’ Best and Socrates Adams-Florou, whose new novel touched me in my special place. Also theirs are not the stripey dicks far as I can tell.

If you wake up, the night will be over, and if you don’t have another drink, the night will be over, if I’m not entertaining, the night will be over, and if there is silence, the night will be over and if you worry, the night will be over and then it is over and you come into view of the children basking in the sun with people walking dogs, freshly fucked, sour-smelling and them, bright-eyed and you, longing for another hit – to speed hearts and close eyes and sharpen tongues and never have to live the rejection of the day of you. Listen, I know I overstate earnestly, but some people deal okay with that. This country’s people are not warm like its weather is not warm and immigrants need to remember to keep hands inside the railing at all times.

100 better words and others even more so at amphibi.us with love

limbs growing entwined with fertilizer
like happy plants that chew
like flowers growing for the sun
we grow each other into
several hours of exploding
for every one week of imploding
to a languid anguished afternoon
to a wish for wind or green or
for a pollinating hug or
a very leafy vine or a petal face
your skin is so soft tonight your
hair smells like the uprooting of trees