Note in my phone

What does it mean?

The note says:

170
Dream-
Men- shop with steps- cant die?


It is from 69 days ago. Anyway, I'm guessing it was a dream I had. I have no idea what 170 means. How do you shop with steps? Is that like voting with your feet? And what does that have to do with immortality?

Obviously am philosophical genius and do not know it nor understand it in my more coherent hours.

Planets

Needs a new title.. Anyway- both this and the previous two are adaptations of friends' stories. :)


Planets

His eyes were luminous planets behind his glasses.
When his eyes blinked, there was an eclipse.
They shone, Venus on a clear moon night.

They swirled, they drove, and the atmosphere
atmospheric pressure, no, gravitational pull
we were planets in rotation, dance of death rotation

The old ones say, you should've known
but the moon really was a mistress
named for gods, don't you see?

She ran after him, she chased him and he fled
in his rotation, he fled, but Venus
was a woman and is a woman, and bleeds

I am ready for love, I am ready for love
but there is no sound in space, no atmospheric
pressure, only black tangles and Mars who was man

We're flawless, no, not even the moon, though, no
but we aren't human. Anymore, just truths
I can't kiss you here. There is no sound in space.

Biding his time, we bide our time, ovular time
and translations of actions in this soundless space
Venus is so bright and Mars glows red tonight

Planets may be the most beautiful people
(not people) in the world (not world)
but they are also the most doomed

God of fear, personification of terror,
her little planets circle her, moons are imperfect,
there is no sound in space, and love but not in love.

Heart of stone, body of stone, all matter
last man, it matters, dance and circle and will
eventually collide. So they say.

A keeper of tales is not the same as a prophet
who reads these motions and silence in space
who reads these harsh prophecies
and smaller rotations.

Poems, a few

Two attempts at the same poem:


Mirror Girls

There’s a truth
to some of those rumors.
The truth to it is—we really
are a freak. Freakesque
if you will, we are
utterly unique, is
unique in our one-
ness but the fact
or truth, if you
will, of it is that we are,
we is, or I am, far
far more freakesque
than they’d like you
to know. If you all knew
the truth, the fact, if
you will, of my life, is
this, it is this: when we
look at our sisters we
do not glance at each
other. You see it now
don’t you? The honest
to god truth is when
we stand back and back
and back and at a perfect
angle so that it looks
as though a mirror is
traveling back and
back and back to show
us repeated but add a
mirror to that and you’ll
see that we are repeated
infinitely. I am repeated
infinitely and split into
three parts that carry on
back and back and so on
at an angle, so that the
mirror is always
available for I am
the vainest girl
in history. One
wasn’t enough,
so you’ll all
get, all you’ll get
is three of
me.


 
Dime a Dozen

Pinning up my blackbird hair
bobby pins purchased at CVS
for fifty cents a bundle
along with the dye, which
sprays on and washes out
of our long, blonde curls.

Fake lashes, long, to accent
an assumed youth preserved
in each of our faces, making it
one face. Drawing us out
and in to be alike. We pinken
our cheeks in the apples.

Carefully equipaged, our
bosoms are taped painfully
tight. We train ourselves to
speak as one, to finish each
other’s sentences, high and pre-
pubescent from doll-sweet lips.