Thank you. You have a boyfriend so we can't make-out. I don't want to make your boyfriend angry and sad because he will sit on his barcalounger and stare at houseplants and house-ferns for 900 hours and probably poison the plants and ferns and stare at the dead plants and ferns and imagine the dead plants and ferns as live plants and ferns and feel notalgic for them until he loses his job and stabs the wall nineteen times with his prison-shank.
Yes. That would make me sad. I love him very much. And I love my houseplants. And I love his job. And my wall. But mostly I love my boyfriend. He is very good.
You are still very pretty. Someone should make-out with you very soon. I encourage someone nice to make out with Ofi very soon. She is very pretty and should be making-out or the world is totally wrong. Sick and wrong.
I had a dream last night about little girls in little dresses in giant fields giggling and hiding and playing and running and attics of abandoned houses' attics with dust swirling through the sunlight streaming through the spaces between the slats, the boards, and it made me think of you. I don't know. Um. I think you're the attic. Maybe.
Gosh, O. You're just so stinking cool. Good interview. I love Vonnegut too, like a first pet or a blankie, something you've tucked away in a box in the attic but think of lovingly.
it's cold. honest, but cold. his poems are ok. they don't really leave me wanting to come back for more, but they're ok. there are things i like about them.
rereading them I couldn't really say. I remember finding a line here or there that seems interesting, but rereading the first couple poems and I'm left a little stale. they seem like new yorker poems. everything a Poem is supposed to be. the same language, tone, the same lingering feeling of calm and sadness and relief, but nothing that would make me jump up and sing. nothing that caught me looking sideways and punched me in the jaw. no sirrey. no hospital trips for this one.
14 comments:
Well done. I posted a comment/question there. You are so pretty. Have I told you that before? We should make-out some time.
Thank you. You have a boyfriend so we can't make-out. I don't want to make your boyfriend angry and sad because he will sit on his barcalounger and stare at houseplants and house-ferns for 900 hours and probably poison the plants and ferns and stare at the dead plants and ferns and imagine the dead plants and ferns as live plants and ferns and feel notalgic for them until he loses his job and stabs the wall nineteen times with his prison-shank.
Yes. That would make me sad. I love him very much. And I love my houseplants. And I love his job. And my wall. But mostly I love my boyfriend. He is very good.
You are still very pretty. Someone should make-out with you very soon. I encourage someone nice to make out with Ofi very soon. She is very pretty and should be making-out or the world is totally wrong. Sick and wrong.
I had a dream last night about little girls in little dresses in giant fields giggling and hiding and playing and running and attics of abandoned houses' attics with dust swirling through the sunlight streaming through the spaces between the slats, the boards, and it made me think of you. I don't know. Um. I think you're the attic. Maybe.
Gosh, O. You're just so stinking cool. Good interview. I love Vonnegut too, like a first pet or a blankie, something you've tucked away in a box in the attic but think of lovingly.
hey...where does that thing by epstein appear? i want to read the whole thing.
That is the whole thing blurb. I asked him why he didn't like my poem on his blog and that is what he wrote.
wow. that's some cold shit.
I like it. You should read his poems.
it's cold. honest, but cold. his poems are ok. they don't really leave me wanting to come back for more, but they're ok. there are things i like about them.
What things?
what did that comment say? i feel curious
It was a double-comment so I deleted it.
rereading them I couldn't really say. I remember finding a line here or there that seems interesting, but rereading the first couple poems and I'm left a little stale. they seem like new yorker poems. everything a Poem is supposed to be. the same language, tone, the same lingering feeling of calm and sadness and relief, but nothing that would make me jump up and sing. nothing that caught me looking sideways and punched me in the jaw. no sirrey. no hospital trips for this one.
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