full of moxie and viscosity

what a shame, words are all we have at this point
connections are only little lines, spaces, amalgams of fabricated representations
but they will do

the sky here in washington state dissolves into the earth
it drizzles down constantly
perhaps the way we all feel
the essence of something, higher, fatter, bigger
drizzling down into us
or we do the drizzling
i'd like to turn off my windshield wipers
watch from the inside as i'm filled up
with essence

i can sit and cry, if i want to
but it seems so trite, so dramatic, so womanly
as though being a woman is wrong
i suppose at this point i am allowed to deny myself
my femininity
scratch off the dastardly breasts
close off my legs
turn off the tears
seems that it might be nice to Be Good For Once

my nights are filled with pouring
rain and words and letters
onto the pages, the windows
(i once wrote, the novel is my laboratory)

my days are all the same, air conditioning
carpet and pens and papers and telephones

men are not worth it, but to be a woman is so much effort
i'm still deciding what to do about that.

sometimes i feel alone
which is not the wrong way to feel
alone is either perfection
or absence of emotion
or general happiness

my days are rainy but i'm tasting the essence--
the windshield wipers slow, things get heavier

wish i had more than words to give you now
but my heart is overflowing
and it needs draining
and it only speaks in words
and raindrops