a martyr swinging 'round, a sacrifice nailed down-
yr tears could mark my baptism.
so come on to me now,
and know that i haven't got anything new or exciting to put out into the world... no
mary janes to buckle up quick and on the go, no
shining jubilation radiating from virginal innocence, nor any
soft pink sweetness for the boy next door to love.

only the absolute,
        dire need to please and appease,
and a self-centeredness that could pass for creativity if the timing's right and yr in the mood.

but you weren't then-
so i fled, as red as her skirt,
running for (the) cover(s).
and i hope it's on it's way, cause the jazz is still between my ears and lungs and thighs and is showing no signs of emerging from some subterranean sweet spot where it seems only music and love can last.
my hair's been growing long and the wait even longer-
but the jazz is still with me. still moving and moving in me and out and in and moving me. always moving me to tears or past midnites or to painfully aching recollections of those beyond sacrosanct trips to the backseats of cars and to comforters and mars, high on the lust of teenage rendezvous' that have left me squirming inside my warm shell on nites like this when i claw parallel lines in the earth, forced to simulate the care i took in clawing yr back when she came and we left for our own lunar landing.
    afterwards and before we both took a glazed look around and realized
how tired and up and on we were-
and oh god,     there go my knees a-bucklin' again.

and well,
i've let it all resurface and have reaffirmed my devotion to the sky and the ground and how sexy i feel when i can't tell the two apart.
when i can do no wrong, when my makeup doesn't run, when my hair looks gorgeous, when we were tucked up inside each other like some fetal position defense device, or rolling around haphazardly on the A.M. kitchen tiles.
it's a reflex, i believe. (kissing you, that is.)
cause i'm so… young, and unrestrained, and alltogether notwhatyoushouldbewanting.
and, after a slip up in the way of a tongue slip, i curse myself for not being
coy and shy and for not
radiating with virginal innocence.
    but here you are again, and i've never let out a more pregnant sigh.
in faith, i am at my best with you pressed tight to me-
sober and drunk both at once. so,
with the kind of faith that which fuels fatalists,
i'll let myself lay back down on whatever isn't above
and keep silent when nervous or threatened by onslaughts of insecurity or sanity or honesty.

i'll keep things simple,
like these numbers and points and changes in temperature. like a take off in yr gut or the plane of yr chest when i run my hands over you and pull you tight to me-
we’re so simple.
we kiss, and i'll take my smiling leave.
    i'll be willing to work, accepting that this vinyl could strike me deep, that this kiss could be my dismissal- that i have every right to be afraid of sleeping alone and need not fall into insecurity as if it were anything less than a mound of comforters or yr loving.
and that, is what makes me a real female cosmonaut.

the problem with reality is the lack of background music.



opening credits:
"alison" elvis costello.

waking up:
"beautiful" carole king, "happy day" ryan toby.

average day:
"what i got" sublime, "kiss me" sixpence none the richer (acoustic version only... shut up.), "what a girl wants" christina aguilera", "something to talk about" bonnie raitt.

falling in love:
"hello sunshine" super furry animals, "falling is like this" ani difranco.

first date:
"sock hop" all time quarterback, "what's going on" g love &the special sauce.

love scene:
"rapture" pedro the lion, "summertime" the fire theft, "communist daughter" neutral milk hotel, "penning the penultimate" the velvet teen.

morning-after:
"sunday morning" maroon 5.

emotional scene with friend:
"there's no 'i' in team" taking back sunday.

breaking up:
"lover, you should've come over" jeff buckley, "consequence" the notwist.

getting back together:
"she" elvis costello.

walking down the aisle:
just the chords of jeff buckley's "hallelujah".

life's okay:
"los angeles, i'm yours" the decemberists, "we will become silhouettes" the postal service, "santeria" sublime, "swing swing" all-american rejects (shove it.).

mental breakdown:
"mercury rising" from autumn to ashes, "iris" the goo goo dolls, "black and blue" counting crows, "okay i believe you but my tommy gun don't" brand new.

driving:
"my favourite chords" the weakerthans, "we laugh indoors" death cab for cutie, "claire" morphine, "can't fight this feeling" reo speedwagon (shut up.).

learning a lesson:
"gold days" sparklehorse.

evening bath:
"all about our love" sade.

flashback:
"left and leaving" the weakerthans. "the scientist" coldplay, "tiny vessels" death cab for cutie, "ghost man on third" taking back sunday, "cinnamon" the long winters, "falling in love" lisa loeb.

partying:
"44 caliber love letter" alexisonfire, "only you" portishead, "badfish" sublime, "call me" blondie, "i'm waiting for the man" the velvet underground.

drunkenness:
"lilac wine" jeff buckley, "snake face" the throwing muses, "centrefolds" placebo.

after-party:
"lover's spit" broken social scene, "soco amaretto lime" brand new.

happy dance:
"blister in the sun" violent femmes.

regretting:
"wake up" sahara hotnights, "paperbag" fiona apple, "we looked like giants" death cab for cutie.

long night alone:
"don't let me be lonely tonight" james taylor, "take everything" mazzy star, "apricot tea" the robot ate me.

death scene:
"naked as we came" iron and wine.

closing credits:
"alison" elvis costello.

we came out together in puffs and darkness and hips.
good intentions rang true 'fore the morning was over and amidst roll-overs and walnuts
i decided
maybe it was a good thing that could bind-- hold us to when shoulder blade would inevitably meet shoulder blade on the A.M. kitchen tiles, and the sun came up from in between teeth in winning smiles.

because i'm slightly sixteen and very much a girl and these points- they must be accounted for.
the trial will go on
through the present and the following days in lieu of scary testimonies and pointed-finger yelps of
'the windows were fogged!'

i'll sit in a pew somewhere this afternoon, feeling sick to my stomach, reconstructing yr profile when
i let you steer
and conjuring up the taste of
content in the back of
my throat, penning odes to the beats that refused to
stay the nite. a silent
speakeasy and
facial piece of negligee- oh how veiled by quaking blankets we all are! how much i'd like to rip them off and stand outside where the cold will sober us and match hand with heartbeat and lips with neck,
sing out of this hermetical want for
you to even try to let the covert eventide seep into our days.
because they can't know
what tongues can convey when the windows are fogged.

Ooohhh! But first I reallyreally feel the need to express my undying love for Conan- the funniest man ever.

Right. So. Have no idea as to whether or not I'm doing this correctly. Alas, Diaryland is dead and Livejournal over-stimulates my upchuck reflex with it's over abundance of bullshit, so I have taken Keith's suggestion to hit this place on up.
Will probably just use this non-El Jay thang as a publishing point for my pseudo-poetic poetry, so expect nothing more/less.
I guess I'll start putting older stuff up, just to get me started.
Hm.



a poem is a petition,
a petition is a poem.