Well, my schedule is…

Well, my schedule is entirely off, and y'all can blame Kevin. Though it was probably not entirely his fault that we ended up talking 'til 6:30 a.m. this morning -- the conversation was just too good to stop. What can you do? He finally told me to go to sleep when I started falling asleep on the phone and muttering bits of dreams when he tried to talk to me. So then I slept from 6:30 - 10:30 and have been surprisingly okay all day today, through puttering around the house and writing haiku for the slam and going to the slam with Heather and Lydia (small crowd, but they both did great nonetheless, winning cash prizes!) and meeting a friend for dinner afterwards (we went and had yummy non-healthy food at Cha Cha Cha's (Mexican place)) and getting slightly tipsy on sangria and coming back and having tea and talking 'til late. And now it's much much too late and I'm only getting 4 hours sleep tonight too, which is *not* a trend I should be continuing (but he's planning to leave town soon, so there was a lot to say before he went -- what can you do, right?).

And I know what at least some of you are thinking, which is "why the heck are you talking to *us*, woman, when you should be sleeping?" Which is a darn good question. So let me just enclose some of the haiku below and then toddle off. G'night, all. Pleasant dreams.

(Oh, and to save y'all unneeded effort, I'll note that only some of these poems really go together (and only a few of them are true. :-)).

Fifteen Haiku

I am not good at
talking about sex, yet I
want to tell you that...

I can fuck like a
bunny. But ask me to talk
about it -- I freeze.

Last night, I told you...
on the phone, told you -- my skin
ached for you, last night.

Close your eyes. Close them
and taste me, salt that lingers
on dry lips and tongue.

Can you smell me? There,
so far, in a room dust-dry,
salt waves are rising.

He said, wear green. You
look like a tree in springtime.
I said, climb me, boy...

He said, I love you.
I said, I couldn't care less.
But neither was true.

Isn't it a shame?
Poet's broken heart does not
guarantee good poems.

Tasty food, good friends.
Rent is paid; my book is done,
but you are not here.

You touch her, thinking
of how I would bite my lip
until it bled, for you.

I would take her in
our bed, smooth thighs and belly
if it brought you back.

I lay between you,
her soft breasts against my back,
my tears on your chest.

Her body comforts.
Slick thighs between my own, and
a handful of breast.

A handful of breast
smaller than mine. After love
we watch walls, silent.

You, I, she -- so tense.
Triangles are stable forms;
why is this so hard?

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