When you put to much pressure on yourself, you just can't do anything anymore. Everyone tells me things I should be doing, things which I have been doing- and then can no longer do once I've been told to do them.

I have decided to wear lipstick every day. So far, I've failed.

I wish I had a tape recorder inside my head, so I didn't need to write things down in order to remember them. I always feel as though there's so much I want to say, but when I sit down to write it out, it's all just gone.

There are also a lot of many, many horrible poets out there. Seriously god awful.

Do you wear lipstick to an interview? I need to know these things. All of these little, daily things that most people seem to know by default- I need to be let in on all of this. What exactly DO you wear to an interview? Especially for a job that finally doesn't involve serving food? I was only told to wear 'proper interview attire.'

How exactly dressed up do you get before you start looking like a hooker? How can you wear heels at all without starting to look like a hooker? How do you wear tights while wearing heels? How short of a dress is too short? Do I have to wear a suit jacket, no matter what? I was never told these things!

I'm not good at being grown up.

W.W.

A glimpse through an interstice caught,
Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove
late of a winter night, and I unremark'd seated in a corner,
Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and
seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,
A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and
oath and smutty jest,
There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little,
perhaps not a word.

W.W.

At dawn when the dew has built its tents
on the grass, will you come to my grave
and sprinkle bread crumbs
from an enchanted kitchen?

Will you remember me down there
with my eyes shattered
and my ears broken
and my tongue turned to shadows?

Will you remember that I went to the graves
of many people and always knew I was buried
there?

And afterwards as I walked home to where
it was warm, I did not kid myself about
a God-damn thing.

Will you remember that one day
I went to your grave and you had been dead
for many years, and no one thought
about you any more,
except me?

Will you remember that we are fragile gifts
from a star, and we break?

Will you remember that we are pain
waiting to scream, holes
waiting to be dug, and
tears waiting to
fall?



And will you remember that after you have gone
from my grave, birds will come
and eat the bread?

Richard Brautigan

21 days

it takes 21 days to make or break a habit.

I folded the note up four times, into a perfect square- the kind of note you pass back and forth in high school hallways, stick into locker slots only to have them fall among the clutter at the bottom. That's where this note belongs- forgotten under unused textbooks and dirty gym clothes until summer release finally frees it, unread, into a pile of community trash.

home.

home is where the river flows
humming through the willows.
home is milkweed in your hair,
with hemlock moss your pillows.
home, if only you could know,
is anyplace I see you-
it's in your heart
and from the start
I've known my home would be you.

-grande pierre

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--W. B. Yeats