Mon 10:31pm (notapoem)

Starting Over, *Ursylla

the monday, now soon to end, (fade, vanish, bruised beyond repair, bored to stone), blankly stares at me with _________(unable to maintain interest, seeps from my vision and collapsing into a hundred identical feathers with the sound of a bird that has left before i knew its name.

unbreathing, still as a cow, slamming head into cement pillow and restless as death-row inmates to burden one last tulip with a hug- alone but for myself (which is to say: not alone enough, but only with no one to speak to / my tongue heaving in my mouth slowly like a walrus at a zoo, too dejected to swim, hopes to speak a word, to slide along someone's lips and leave snail's paths of love along bellies and shoulders and bundles of warmth as kisses on necks-

all chairs i see are female. and the clouds.skin of women creep across the blue sky, lavish and soft and too far away, i hear that bird pass again as it heads up for a clearer look at her recline on a sheet of silk __(breaks my heart an ocean divides me from

time filtered through the openings of stars you can't fit enough through the colander so at night people lick the ceilings looking for ankles or knees or palms to kiss; all this white noise (my own doGdamned body untied as a shoelace, tripping over its own flappy skin, breathing deep to fill its lungs with the notenoughforeverybody / untimed miracles go off without a hitch. behind the hills, in back alleys,
little children perhaps witness them, caterpillars in gardens... bartenders walking home at night perhaps see something worth seeing (before masturbating once before turning blue with the taste of their body's loneliness, their face jagged across sheets not having mouth enough to scream for another chance at unloneliness.

monday on its haunches... falls to the floor in a drunken giggle. mindless. numbed beyond recuperation. raises a hand towards me, gesturing to pick her up, laughing into my face you fool, who likes you more than me? and perhaps i ought to cry- i don't know the etiquette of these funny games that break me (half now, half later, perhaps i'll have more to say then

monday dropping onto her back, kicking her legs into the air, flashing me some panty before snake-like wriggling away out of my grip, leaving me with not even time enough to
form th e (ulate) orWorsds thatt spell hell . helll . he l_ p.

the night has no violins left for me.

where is this here i've landed?- eyes to see the sky to see the vein i fell through i find no door back out (tuesday the dirty scratch licking her filthy lips promising to sit on my chest till i can't)

monday's sandwiches sit on the table, no one willing to take one, crumbs left only of chances or hopes defaulted on

there are no words for this rage:

that bleeds like hellfire through sullen electric heaters, empty bottles of water that, books that, clothes that illfit an illpumping body cracked and cheaply sold back so that, words that, mean nothing that, see nothing, that freak your sclera into earthquakes, implode, there is not speed enough for how far i want to run, that might save, that leave nothing, that take nothing, that moves not an inch from time to time, that still as a tombstone waits for me to dig my own grave happily singing about freaking time

freaking time and her battalion of my dying cells, unsleeping- these dreams of mine, or body slowing turning yellow from autumn or aloneness (you fool, who likes you more than me?) please damned hand turn off this faucet (the water drains from monday and makes a sucking sound as too much of myself drains into a small dark disk the size of a mouth opened wide with

i look in hoping to put my tongue in

________________air alone cannot save me from this

delirium or madness or

________________trench warfare

where are the ghosts who might kiss me pale

________________if i touch that shadow i'll be gone for good

there is not enough here for all of us,

________________we who cannot fit salute you

(the bastard night of monday's bitch-stomach that sleeps and fu&*s while i drift to an oblivion men weren't made to drift back from)