it's four am.

Effectively studied from 6pm to 3:00am. Have not died yet. That is a good sign. My exam is tomorrow at 2:30. Hopefully I won't have died at that time yet either.

Now, I haven't had much time for poetry. Or reading really, except the aforementioned studying. But right now I'm going to try and think of something that describes how I am feeling at this exact moment. And then everyone can read into it like it means something:


Penelope as a biological dream

Isn't it strange that we used to be insects-
and I wish I could tell you the name of each bone
that twitches under the white sheen epidermis
arms and legs in sedentary angles
muscles everywhere, I swear
that this landscape is bound by tissue and
every fluttering soundwave is something's heartbeat

I imagine your back sprouting wings
like a Whitman cardboard butterfly

What lets you move-
machinery was never so graceful, after all
and I recommend that you transcend this nonsense of existence
they will see you all hollowed out in heaven,
just a cellophane shell
of gauze and mineral

emptied of the neat organs that lay inside
(thousands, I'll bet)
that twist and writhe sweet and hot
but elusive and unattainable
and always, always
covered by skin.

I think this poem is wonderful.

runners up:(hahahahah. oh god. what have I become?)
http://allpoetry.com/poetry/11877 (Anne Sexton)
http://allpoetry.com/poetry/2578 (William Butler Yeats)
http://allpoetry.com/poetry/37218 (Pablo Neruda)

lastly the song playing in my head. Which I believe to be relevant.


I'm Sorry I'm Leaving
Your middle finger was clutching my thumb
through the park and over macdougal.
The torches were blazing about our street
and just down from the sky.

Casey stepped with Anna off the curb.
His shoes are clogs, did you see?

They dipped in that puddle,
the one catching green.
They were tripping up and slipping around,
singing 'Rolalita come out tonight'
and oh I wanted to pull you down.

roll on top of me, baby.
just roll.

we'll wreck our clothes.
we'll scrape our knees.
we'll taste the scabs.

you, sweet,
are worth these next four months
until I bail out and kiss behind your ears,
drive off in the van.
oh my god, I think I'm dying
in this car seat,

where I'll spend through winter.



It may be just the fatigue from studying, but I sure do like the lack of time and effort it takes to let other people's words speak for me. Oh the ease.

all cross your fingers collectively tomorrow at 2:30.