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je suis je

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[29 Mar 2010|10:19pm]
I don't want to own so many things.
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[01 Jul 2009|07:58pm]
one for old snaggle-tooth

I know a woman
who keeps buying puzzles
pieces that finally fit
into some order.
she works it out
she solves all her
lives down by the sea
puts sugar out for the ants
and believes
in a better world.
her hair is white
she seldom combs it
her teeth are snaggled
and she wears loose shapeless
coveralls over a body most
women would wish they had.
for many years she irritated me
with what I consider her
eccentricities -
like soaking eggshells in water
(to feed the plants so that
they'd get calcium).
but finally when I think of her
and compare it to other lives
more dazzling, original
and beautiful
I realize that she has hurt fewer
people than anybody I know
(and by hurt I simply mean hurt).
she has had some terrible times,
times when maybe I should have
helped her more
for she is the mother of my only
and we were once great lovers,
but she has come through
like I said
she has hurt fewer people than
anybody I know,
and if you look at it like that,
she has created a better world.
she has won.

Frances, this poem is for

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[09 Jun 2008|11:30pm]
A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the
streets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles
full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --- and you,
Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the
meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price
bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and
followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting
artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does
your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to
shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in
driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you
have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and
stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg
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somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence. [18 Feb 2008|09:37pm]
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[02 Dec 2007|12:04am]
good things past and present:

1. salvation army and school street bistro with mom.
(maroon sweaters and black dresses and vegetable fettucini)

2. bright eyes with lauren.

3. a cigar box, school mail, a print, august sanders: farmers and women.

4. no country for old men with bryan and mason.

5. $10 dollar photo books.

6. groceries, creperie and the 66.

7. prints for the holiday sale.

8. printing and pizza with eddy, lara, and john.
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not how I'm feeling, but a good poem [09 Aug 2007|12:32am]
"Don’t say you didn’t see this coming, Jason.

Don’t say you didn’t realize this would be my reaction
and that you never intended for me to get all worked up,
because if that were true, then you are dumber
than Lenny from Mice and Men, blinder than Oedipus
and Tierus put together and can feel less
than a Dalton Trumbo character.

You put the Dick in Dickens and the Boo in kowski
and are more Coward-ly then Noël.

But you don’t understand any of these references,
Do you, Jason? Because you ‘don’t read’.
You are a geology major and you once told me
That, ‘Scientists don’t read popular literature,
Cristin, we have more important things to do’.

Well, fuck you.

Be glad you don’t read, Jason,
because maybe you won’t understand this
as I scream it to you on your front lawn,
on Christmas Day, brandishing three hypodermic needles,
a ginsu knife and a letter of permission
from Bret Easton Ellis.

Jason, you are more absurd than Ionesco.
You are more abstract than Joyce,
more inconsistent than Agatha Christie
and more Satanic than Rushdie’s verses.

I can’t believe I used to want to Sappho you, Jason.
I used to want to Pablo Neruda you,
to Anais Nin And Henry Miller you. I used to want
to be O for you, to blow for you in ways
that even Odysseus’ sails couldn’t handle.
But self-imposed illiteracy isn’t a turn-on.

You used to make fun of me being a writer,
saying ‘Scientists cure diseases,
what do writers do?’

But of course, you wouldn’t understand, Jason.
I mean, have you ever gotten an inner thirsting
for Zora Neale Hurston?
Or heard angels herald for you
to read F Scott Fitzgerald?
Have you ever had a beat attack for Jack Kerouac?
The only Morrison you know is Jim, and you think
you’re the noble one?

Go Plath yourself.

Your heart is so dark, that even Joseph Conrad
couldn’t see it, and it is so buried under bullshit
that even Poe’s cops couldn’t hear it.

Your mind is as empty as the libraries in Fahrenheit 451.
Your mind is as empty as Silas Marner’s coffers.
Your mind is as empty as Huckleberry Finn’s wallet.

And some people might say that this poem
is just a pretentious exercise
in seeing how many literary references
I can come up with.

And some people might complain that this poem is,
at its core, shallow, expressing the same emotion again,
and again, and again. (I mean, there are only so many times
you can articulate your contempt for Jason,
before people get bored.)

But you know what, Jason? Those people would be wrong.

Because this is not the poem I am writing to express
my hatred for you.

This poem is the poem I am writing because we aren’t speaking,
and it is making my heart hurt so bad, it is all I
can do just to get up off the floor sometimes.

And this is the poem I am writing instead of writing
the ‘I miss having breakfast with you’ poem, instead of
writing the ‘Let’s walk dogs in our old schoolyard
again’ poem.

Instead of the ‘How are you doing?’ poem, the ‘I miss you’ poem,
the ‘I wish I was making fun of how much you like Garth
Brooks while sitting in front of your parents’ house
in your jeep’ poem, instead of the ‘Holidays are coming around
and you know what that means: SUICIDE!’ poem.

I am writing this so that I can stop wanting to write
the ‘I could fall in love with you again so quickly
if only you would say one more word to me’ poem.

But I am tired of loving you, Jason
cause you don’t love me right.

And if some pretentious-ass poem can stop me
From thinking about the way your laugh sounds,
about the way your skin feels in the rain,
about how I would rather be miserable with you,
then happy with anyone else in the world.

If some pretentious-ass poem can do all that?
Then I am gone with the wind, I am on the road,
I have flown over the fucking cuckoo’s nest,
I am gone, I am gone, I am gone.

I am."

"Lit (or: to the scientist I am not speaking to any more)" - Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
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[16 Jul 2007|01:34am]
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since you walked out on me I'm getting lovelier by the hour. [16 Jul 2007|12:47am]
"But the small careless kindnesses
When he'd had a good day, or a couple of drinks,
Come back to her now, seem more important
Than the casual cruelties, the ultimate dismissal."

Same E-line train,accidentally, but headed to meet anyway, i see you exit before me and then race down the corrider to catch the next train. I pause for a second to consider you are rushing to meet me. But more likely you cant stand the thought of missing the first 5 seconds of the movie.

We end up on opposite platforms, the red line a 5 foot gap between us.
You notice my hair color. I reply encouraging you to jump, but you dont hear me.

So I withdraw content to wait for the train to re-connect us. You hover, drift to the stairs and vanish, appearing seconds later at my side. Why still do you do things like this? These gestures are meaningless.

Your attention is at best incomplete. You ramble idly about yourself, injustices, and your lack of a reasonable job. Your interest in my job extends to its downsides, a weak attempt to make your job seem more worthwhile. You ask no other questions about my life. You cut me off mid-sentence, repeatedly.

You get me in free to the movie. A kindess? Or a side effect?

The evening goes on. You wander off, talk to other people, say almost nothing to me.

I remember why I haven't seen you in over a month, offer an excuse, and leave early.
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Happy Things List (abridged) [14 Jun 2007|10:51pm]
1. I am still in Boston.

2. spring 2007 grades:
view camera - honors
narrative film analysis - honors
intro to digital - pass

3. new job starting tuesday with Adaptive Environments.

4. still working event temps in off hours.

5. walking around in the city.

6. making up stories (in my head) about strangers.

7. being social.

8. book ideas for the fall semester.
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[03 May 2007|10:03pm]
It's such a relief to see the woman you love walk out the door some nights
for it's ten o'clock and you need your eight hours of sleep
and one glass of wine has been more than enough
and, as for lust - well, you can live without it most days
and you are glad, too, the Ukrainian masseuse you see every Wednesday
is not in love with you, and has no plans to be, for it is the pain
in your back you need relief from most, not that ambigious itch,
and the wild successes of your peers no longer bother you
nor do your unresolved religious cravings or the general injustice
of the world, no, there is very little, in fact, that bothers you these days
when you turn first to the obituaries, second to the stock market,
then, after a long pause, to the book review, you are becoming
a good citizen, you do your morning exercises, count
your accumulated small blessings, thank the Lord
that there's a trolley just outside your door your girlfriend
can take back home to her own bed and here you are
it is morning you are alone every little heartbeat
is yours to cherish the future is on fire with nothing
but its own kindling and whatever is burning in its flames
it isn't you and now you will take a shower and this is it.

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War and Peace [09 Jan 2006|03:13pm]
"We often think of peace as the absence of war; that if the powerful countries would reduce their arsenals, we could have peace. But if we look deeply into the weapons, we see our own minds – our prejudices, fears, and ignorance. Even if we transported all the bombs to the moon, the roots of war and the reasons for bombs would still be here, in our hearts and minds, and sooner or later we would make new bombs.
Seek to become more aware of what causes anger and separation, and what overcomes them. Root out the violence in your life, and learn to live compassionately and mindfully. Seek peace. When you have peace within, real peace with others will be possible."

- Thich Nhat Hanh
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Money may not buy happiness......but it does buy heat [18 Nov 2004|12:45am]
[ mood | complacent ]

And so...And so...And so I was just coming home the other day when i saw a white goose wandering around in the street in front of my house. I watched as he wandered out of the road across the street. then i tried to feed him some crackers i found in the house...but he wasnt that hungry i guess. so my mother called the police, and they seemed confused, but they came. Then I got to watch these two cops chase a little goose all around my neighbors yard. It was pretty funny to see them running around with their flashlights trying to see the goose in the dark. But they couldn't catch him. The goose flew away from them and now seems to be living somewhere in the woods behind my house. And so....And so....And so...that's all.

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