i write about april, tequila, shooting stars, tripping, my black dress coat, torched, whispered, teal.

i should have been writing about the mountain.

i want to write about touch, or the lack thereof.  inability to.  and the vulnerability of strangers.

how we don't trust anyone, who doesn't fall in love 4 times a day.

and, some things i'm reading.

"i am trying to keep my heart open.  no need to slit the soles of my feet.  we begin the day in snow."

"let it come.  its coming.  when it comes, stand as close as you can. step over the line.  stand with your legs wide apart, palms facing out in front of your chest.  eyes open.  wooden boards.  blood in my hands.  a face.  a man, hunched above the shining metal, folded over.  paper.  his eyes.  gone.  arizona. oregon.  oil.  smoke.  my ankles are shaking.  i'm swaying.  stop it.  don't look away.  this is what you wanted.  you wanted to begin.  if you close your eyes, you will die.  but what about him?  that was him.  take the stone out of your shoe.  keep walking."

how i turn my music up.  working for a nuclear free city, my soundtrack.

"the sides of my mouth taste of licorice.  2pm.  i'm still wearing my pajamas.  there's so much and i can't begin.  sometimes i want to stick my pen in the arms of people who bore me.  every morning i wake up, put water on for my tea, flip my edith piaf tape, clear a space at the table.  i don't want to write stories anymore.  i am not a stripper."