you are the cold hand on my fever

i have no time. i have the time to provide the necessary fuctions enabling me to perform the tasks at hand, i.e being a good student, being a server in some restaurant with an excess of political agenda, being a companion that wakes sleepy-eyed to steep you tea while you shower. since devoting all this time to be a nodded and accomplished adult, I have found that I am nothing more than machine engraved, a wooden shell. There is this coldness in the air as I walk across campus at 8:15, something that makes everything seem simpler. I am a girl with messy red hair wearing uggs and her pajamas with no bra and no panties, gripping bright orange mittens full of holes. I drive in a dirty white honda thats fuel needle is dipping far below the E on the meter, regularly. and of course it’s metaphorical. don’t mistake me. I like anatomy, i love albinus and his discomforting paintings of geometrically sound skeletons placed in renaissance situations, the light and dark, juxtaposition, oh my dali. something along the lines of holding a human skull in my hand. dissecting a house cat pregnant with kittens and smelling of formaldyhede. or lets say, anthropology. easter island full of giant gods and disappearing trees. nutrition full of hummingbird metabolisms and america’s upside-down pyramids. public speaking was most fun, dressing up in a mock corporate suit polished with my cat framed glasses. no one knew that i was wearing ultra sexy lingerie complete with an old school garter and knee highs. i felt like halfway through the speech I was to let loose and start stripping like I was in some white snake video. eases the mind. i’m still waiting to hear if i’ve gotten into the dental program. which creates a whole new brand of problems, seeing as how i’m planning on moving down to north carolina before next year’s snow.  i write no poetry. i make nothing but good grades, and my hands are growing soft and full of ink and pencil lead. i feel like a greyhound on a circle track. i picked up a bosch book at borders last night and it felt so good to look at material being so aesthetically pleasing for nothing but sheer joy. i hate that i’m becoming such a color indescribed, like i’m making all these comprimises because i want more money, because i want to go across the country and buy michael whatever he needs so he can stop working in that rotten building and feel beautiful about himself. i want a mini and new cowboy boots. i want to go hiking all afternoon and find some kind of new mountain flower, feeling high and careless. i want to see the grand canyon, the salt flats, and bluer water.  i want to consume nothing but chocolate and sex. this is a most lucid proposition. i miss my mother so much i can’t call her, i have dreams about burying myself  underneath the cement in her basement, pieces of me in white garbage bags. i might not have remembered it but i’m sure that i’ve felt this before, this ache for warmth. probably the first time they pulled me from her pink. perhaps it’s worse than the death of my father in a way. my grief is hibernated, it surfaces in images i can’t catch to write down on paper. in the dreams the storyline never waivers, i see him, i know he’s dead, it doesn’t matter. the energy of him feels the same, this mix of pleasure and pain, a child-like innocence.  tattoos and cigarette smoke. something you will reach out for and will not be able to touch. it’s not someting i want to go away. i rarely talk to anyone other than michael, which feels like a big warm bird’s nest most of the time. he is like a little extra of everything, some carousel in the center of a carnival, something that causes the heart to keep pumping. sometimes i don’t know why he finally let me in, i’m sure looking back i was so naive and inconvienient. in his living room telling me he would never love me, matched eye for eye with my determination. i should make him write it down and eat it in a bowl full of milk. i am a difficult person to live with, i imagine. i feel like i’m in some kind of dense fog today and people in my life are these little lights breathing on the coast. i’m sorry i haven’t been taking better care of you.

there is  a song inside of me
not even a song, a single note, a resonance
a frequency, like a small cold hand on a fever
the ring of a bell, there is a bell
there is a bell inside of me
that hardly ever rings
that’s what it is, a bell
that will not make a sound.