i learned about shaving fromseventeen magazine and the internet. lather,

sweep with the grain, rinse

down the drain. warmth opens up

the pores, it makes

skin more willing to give up its

cover. i*ve found that people are

like pores. i discovered hair everywhere on

my body, and i tried to read it like a

map. my kneecaps

became mountains, my thighs 

stretches of interstate wandering towards

some hushed oasis or another. this

was learning myself in sections, finding

home in skin rich enough

to grow hair like wildflowers.

the last time i was in tompkins sq it still had a bandshell.and a puertorican kid let me see his knife once,me and paul; my brother used to walk his dog here until

he too went to california and left the dog

with a junkie named edgar. overall it seems nicer

less urgent. one summer when i had help i saw

people throw molotov ocktails from the rooftops

during a riot, at the police. id see the people

just the flaming smear of red yellow fire in the nite

near 8th st and avenue c. anyway i miss the bandshell

and as to the the rhubarb between the hippies and

puertoricans about what kind of music should be

performed

^^-- by now i would change sides and

prefer the salsa, pacahang or some bugalooga

but one thing i can say is i really appreciate

the relative scarcity

of dogshit -jm

dear greg,this is kind of weird because you're next to me right now and i would like you to stop looking -- thanks i dont really know how to write this without thinking about all the people that could read this, and that you will read this to. it probably wont 

make sense to anyone so im tempted to slam xout lines of poetry or makw

the metallic clicking of this typewriter gorgeous declarations of love 

and proclamations of joy, but thats not what this feels x like. right now

im just going to be olivia instead of a writer and let moorish dancers do

their jingle bell thing and without worrying about college or the future

or the internet, just stare at the back of your head and let your blue shirt

soak up my tears and jxust let my writing be bad. thats okay, every once

in a while. to be a human instead of a writer. xat least, it feels okay 

to me, my love. love, olivia

theres a girl i know with her eyes in her hair and her tics nested behind her teeth. her smile is painted on her fingers in black nail po

lish but she sees it as happily as any yellow july day. i dont think sh

e knows i love her yet -- maybe she did once but has lost it in broken 

promises and lonely red nights. i cant be sure, but i think she has los

t the love people have for her in the love unreturned she has for othe

r people

page torn and your cover is battered and hard but i read youpages with blank, pages with space but i keep turning the pages intrigued, pages unseen 

 you tell a story you paint a scene

 inbetween the lines there is a knowledge of all the little things sublimes that enchant your story

 your life is an allegory without a shame

 and as i keep turning the page i hope to find my name

 if not a chapter, maybe just a prase a hint of my being

 so that when someday 

 someone reads you they will know what this poem means .