November25
bumps and bruises
   
dreams of a beautiful dress, driven by reality, waking up in sunshine,
hunch me over a wireless device, eggs in the kitchen, nabob is warm,
winter is warmer with visitors from the UK, twice, said she.

two girls and a Swiss man;
one is old enough to make eggs;
one actually eats eggs;
all things change,

as i once said, winter now embraces us, in a northern hemisphere this is how we do it baby.


define cruelty;











November21
mixtures
   
no glasses no mEp.
wakey wakey eggs and bakey.
everything's bold where it's not supposed to be.
conversations with a ten year old in a puzzling time
piecing together what's important
is not always easy.







November 15
documentation
   
what can be documented.
multiple reasons for a throbbing head; poots stares straight ahead, past arteries;
past keyboards; java to the lips rote, joy has dripped out of the mug.

correction; it's been poured out.
these are not mEppish things.
whatever runs deep can easily be rectified;
the christians know it;
after surveys, what is normal.
i ask you, again, what can be documented,
like the colour of the morning sun,
the taste in my mouth, desire in a body,
the curves of my fuller breasts,
empty teardrops,
and the slow, painful, fall from grace.














can i document















November 13
it's early when things are flashing..

tip-toeing, it's early. things are flashing, poots shoulders taughter than a hiwire, yawns, rare, and staring into space.
java will help. people do this all the time, poots. straighten your back, your body, it has a function today. what could feel more
functional than it's main function.

>>there is a missing sentence here<<

he showers me with compliments, don't take these as de facto; they are, in fact, the only facts.

fatten yourself up for christmas poots. somehow it's okay to speak of teeny boobs, but not fatter ones.

even the mouse is still awake. go figure.


the missing sentence was about bleach, midnight kisses, reassurance, love, and french cooking.


















November 12
really early. too much time.

sleep, my Swiss man, sleep.

a book is really long. even when it's Pinocchio.

who wakes up hungry, but those who don't sleep.

the coffee is tepid, not hot.

will Christmas come this year,

and who talks German to a pig.

poots, once in a while, needs to circle back through circular things.

if there is a good weekend, that was it.












November 11
7:48AM lest we forget.

all i've got are dashing thoughts.
how many times is enough

regret.
i regret to say, that i regularly and constantly, because i am human, err.
and i err not by choice; i err not by definition;
but i err in my interpretation of the world around me

and in that world are words
which i use as though i own they, because i do, temporarily
and i take those words, and people, the ones who mean dearly to me,
and i give them a meaning of my own.
i do it here, i do it there, i do it daily.
am i a psychopath for this?
but i have decided what is a psychopath (that makes me one i know)
i have decided for myself, what reality i choose;
i have decided to blow dry my naked body;
i have decided when i do the laundry;
i come here and i write it down
and then, it floats away
from me.


i need to turn a psychopath inside out.
or maybe i already have.

i have no guilt
yet my definition of guilt may differ from yours.
i may have erred there too.
do not hate me for being free
even though to you,
i sound like a psychopath.



regret, aka littlepoots: "to insanely wish that you would have been another person in a given situation, and made a different choice."

otherwise, all there is, is to accept a decision that you made,
and move the fuck on.

it's not the Oxford definition,
but it's mine.

so there are no regrets, only wishing you were not yourself.
and i wouldn't give up myself, i love myself unconditionally.

thanks Mom.


the word regret implies that you will regret it for the rest of your life.


 





November 6.
  6:38 AM

joy, returns one sip by one sip. boldface is stuck.
rodents gnaw. heaters whir.
winter, with no regard for my fragile bones and global warming, cometh.

no one knows that my life is told in these lines; not even those who read them;
but i've said it before, it's all there.

my coffee is no longer what it used to be,
a different man snores in a different bed,
a difference heater blows hot air,
and startled, i awoke, from a three-second dream of a man, his son, and his decision.
he won't read this here though, because a man, generally, is a man.
teach your sons and mostly your daughters, men are still men, but women are forced to adapt.
and adapt they do.

now you didn't want to read that at six-forty-five on a cold November morning, did you.

now the earth rotates enough to brighten the grey sky;
things must go on, pci dss is nearly history, and everything else you wonder will pan out, it will pan out.








November 2.
  7:21 am - i was louern.

of teams, allegiances, and fighting with fonts.
rodents gnaw, poots cannot spell anymore, weird coincidences, have you ever really been 'careful'.
keeping people outside my life, that was for books, liars, and the weak. which one am i, now?

the coffee is thick, the sky still very dark, and the heat is on. i can smell it.
when we look at a date, a month, really look at it, we don't see many Novembers. there aren't that many we recall, are there.
in fact, not one, sticks out, for someone born in august. except the last one. and this one. the smell of heat is stronger now.

i squirm, the pigs chirp. stress. it's everywhere.
there is no rest, really, no rest. it can only be bought.
so i bought some. how do other adults do it, i wonder.

...and millions of other things that simply can't be spoken, recorded, or written down.
so today, i must wonder aloud, what is the point.






















ntsts,













November 1.
  am i louern