Katelynn's blog: "MY POEMS!!! PLZ COMMENT!!! I CARE MUCH MORE ABOUT THE COMMENTS THAN THE RATINGS -- I GENUINELY CARE ABOUT YR OPINION!!!"

I FOUND THE ONE TO ... YEAH ;) When I Make Love Again Lately, I've led a life of loneliness. Not the kind of loneliness that comes with a lack of friends or family but the kind that comes in the inky night, when there is no one next to me that I can press against, feeling his warmth, and be reassured. Instead my bed seems perpetually empty. There is no chest to bury my head in, no arm to be draped across my torso, no warm beating heart to listen to when it is the blackest hour of night and there are no other sounds to comfort me. I am always left longing, left wanting. Wanting stroking and cuddling, kissing and caressing, cavorting and creating love, laughter, limp limbs. I long to lengthen and locate all the places that make you scream. I want to make you scream so loud you outdrown the sirens and car horns, the engines and the sounds of life carrying on outside these four walls. I want to make my neighbors bang on the walls, call the super, make a noise complaint. I want our limbs to merge, limber and loose, bending and blending in ways we never could think to imagine. I want to pant and sweat, out of breath, moaning in exultation of our coming together. Won't you please show up? Knock on my door! Grab me in a bear hug, lift me into your arms, carry me to the bedroom where we will bathe in the swirls of incense smoke and be illuminated by the incandescence of candlelight. I will dress up in my finest lingerie -- black silk nightie, halter-top that ties, flaring at the hips to show off the way my ass looks in lacy boy-cut panties, and how my legs curve in strappy 3-inch heels and thigh-highs topped w/ lace, garters and all. I won't wear these things long but long enough and when they come off, you will tease me, softly touching every inch of my beckoning skin, my welcoming erogenous zones calling to you. My nipples so hard, my ass so tight, my legs so limber. I'm wet. I'm coming before you even get near my sweet spot, yr that good and I've been so good, I've waited so long. I've waited too long. I cannot settle for just any old lay though. It has to be worth my while. It has to be intimate, intoxicating, alleviating, and deviating from the norm. No in-out, in-out, missionary-style wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am for me. No, I will wait to be intrigued, believed, redeemed. So, for now, I will just have to shudder and moan when my hands roam down south, or I brandish my tools of eroticism, doing to myself what so many have failed to do. Next time I find you, you will not fail me. You will bring me to the brink and then you will take me over the edge, into a moment of timelessness, sightlessness, when I'm only aware of sensational sensation and penetrating pleasure. So, while lately I've led a life of loneliness, a life where my nights leave me longing and wanting, I will continue to wait and wait until I know you're the one who will not only make me come but be gentle and rough, tough and sweet, a man I'd love to meet, a man I need, a man to make me go into heat. Someone who cares for my mind and soul as much as my body, my skin, my scent, my smile, my thighs, my heaving chest; someone who can love as well as fuck. I long and I want and I lead a life of loneliness but I know how to take care of myself and I will wait and wait till someone worthy catches my eye.

On Ferlinghetti and the Television Poet "When the revolution comes," said the television poet. What revolution? What uprising can come that will bring a satisfying ends to the means, a lasting change, a state of affairs that can quench all thirst for change. What coup or revolt can bring a time when no man's words are "when the revolution comes." "Endless the splendid life of the world," said Ferlinghetti. Yes, endless the splendid fourteen-hour workdays, coming home to the smell of the litter box, and the parade of ants marching across the kitchen sink. Those splendid fights with the boyfriend and the stack of past-due bills and splendid the sucking pit of debt. Yes, that hard rain falls. Day in and day out I listen to endless complaints: bitching and whining, pissing and moaning. Endless the population waiting to put their two cents in. Endless the fatigue and weariness that shrouds us. Endless the truths that are voiced: life sucks, shit happens, it's a dog-eat-dog world. BLAH BLAH BLAH Life is only what you make it. The revolution will come: the revolution within. Change comes from individuals, from within the spark ignites. We all want that something more than; how many really attempt to attain it? Carpe diem; live each moment as if it will be your last; live proud and without regrets; and always live for "when the revolution comes" and for "endless the splendid life of the world." copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Old Friendships I feel like I owe you something – the great twilight struggle, the violent feuding, lingering bitterness. We may never entirely make peace with each other. We greet each other with relief and meet each other with resentment. It’s hard for me to forget. There is no statute of limitations. It remains a bad memory: the ugly war, the boiling tension, sad conflict. The violence continued. Life in turmoil, you’re supposed to want my help – drunk on Mad Dog, you’ve got a dead man’s cough and you stink to high heaven. You’re bent on destroying, quick to lash out, missing in action, one drink at a time. It is time to put our war behind, let it be. It was fun smoking dope, that evil Thai stick reefer, raising hell, just messing around. In the end I could not move you, that mission failed. I’m still being held being captive. I shed a tear, out of pride, guilt, or shame. Get drunk on me tonight, baby, and try not to die for my sins. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Hiding Out In Neverland I. We women, we girls, we beautiful baby girls, we all have stories to tell, and yet it always feels like someone is stifling us, holding us back, saying “shhhh… now is not the time for that,” while we scream inside. I’m watching CSI: forensic evidence of some sicko creep, child-molesting, serial killer, pervert perpetrator flashes on my screen. After all these years, (twenty or so), I have the physical reaction I should’ve had the first time I saw Twin Peaks or Law & Order: SVU or . . . well, eight million and twelve other pieces of media. I run outside, dry heave, maybe I vomit just a little bit of bile and chardonnay – any alcohol that I think will keep the monsters and real life far far away. II. I want to rename myself Wendy Darling and take the second star to the right and go straight on forever. They say never-neverland is a pretty nice place. You never have to grow up or face grown-up problems. And I will always have the Lost Boys, a flock of boys to play mother hen to and I will always have Peter: a boy to infuriate me while he watches over me, shows me the mermaid lagoon, and reminds me that growing up comes with a price, comes much too soon. I can smile smugly at Tinkerbell while Peter holds me in his arms, in his vise-grip, little miss pint-size. I can fly. I’ve won my prize. Lost forever at age sixteen or twenty-six; it’s such a magical fix – his youthful unpolished kiss; how could I want anything more than this? I’ll be your memory, Mother, Father, brothers, as you wait behind, desperate to find even one platform shoe – some forlorn desperate clue that I’m still alive while I thrive, making smug faces at Tinkerbell, giving those poor little lost boys hell, telling Peter most of the secrets I have to tell – lost, forgotten, empty, a resounding bell, stuck in place, never aging. I’ve made my wager that never growing up, lost for all eternity, of this forever neverland, the Queen Bee, is better than from a chrysalis, becoming a butterfly, flying over the continents, land, trees, sea, even if it means a little crawling on hand and knee. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

A Dream that's Not a Dream What is a dream but a dream? And why when I awake can I still feel hands crawling all over me? I see the face of a woman, a woman not unlike me, and I become afraid. What if I end up like her? Do the same sort of damage? Sometimes I wonder if in my very soul it will turn out I’m evil; if at the core I'll find it's black – inky black like the infinity of pain. I've tried to run from the creeping-crawling hands, tried to pretend they didn't exist, and I'm still where I was the first time I woke up so fucking cold from a dream that’s not a dream. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

Ghost I. She does not come till later, not that summer, my twelfth, not until after Camp Kanata’s mess hall where I nibbled at grilled cheese, vegetable soup, sipped the watery bug juice. I popped Dexatrim at wooden tables, popped them sitting thick in grass, on a hill overlooking the lake, where the kids push each other into cold water, muddied a milky, silt-soaked tobacco color, water to which many have lost me. II. Many have lost me or I become lost to them. Later I might have thrown bags of peanuts at you, hit you square in the temple. Maybe I’ll throw my 32-ounce Mountain Dew in your acne-scarred face. Perhaps I’ll drink too much, make out with too many boys, forget you exist. Then, underneath you, my face hidden from yours, cradling you the way a bird’s nest cradles her delicate eggs, I’ll breakdown, tell my hysterical tale of betrayal, answer every question honestly. III. Question honestly how “a” gets to “g,” how we move effortlessly between moments, navigating ourselves from the present to eighteen years ago, back to today, and then to later, when I have no questions, and I am in your arms. IV. I am in your arms, face buried in your shoulder, staining your shirt with my salty regret. I listen anxiously every time your phone rings. My family does not call. I spend a lot of time sitting alone in a plastic lawn chair, on the concrete block you call a porch. Lively, lit voices carry from inside but I don’t hear them. My knuckles are white from gripping my beer bottle, my hands unsteady. They shake like a Parkinson’s patient’s. I clench the bottle tighter, afraid I’ll drop it and everything will break. V. Everything will break: while I’m on a Greyhound bus, sipping bourbon and apple juice; while flipping through fashion mags, earphones on, mountain music playing at the beginning of green foothills; while I arrive at the bus station in Asheville; while I sit on Annah’s front porch, the phone clutched in my clenched fist; while Jordan, Justin, and Dave walk up the porch steps; while my face, in shock, is streaked with mascara tears; everything will break. VI. We will open the other pint of Maker’s Mark, a bottle of red wine. We will cook vegetarian fajitas and burritos. I will struggle to choke them down. I will struggle to smile at my saviors and still She does not come till later. VII. She does not come till later, until apologies are made. Until the harsh words, criticism, raised voices, are forgotten. Until I begin to see her silky silver hair, to remember her creased hands turning creased pages of worn books, and the chintz sofa I lay on, my head in her lap. She does not come till later. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

The Stuff of Dreams You excite, take me to the edge of delight, then you tease and tantalize. I try to devise some fancy plot or scheme to bring me to our dream. I hold my breath, cross my fingers, to countless gods I pray, still, there are not the dazzling colors exploding, only the in-between of gray. Surrounded by a haze, I wait for days to be lifted to that highest of heights, to get that mystical, magical invite, to get rid of my demons, to exorcise, but, mostly, for you and me to be realized -- to be that perfect team built of fire and steam. Down, down, I lay, dreaming of sex and the San Francisco bay, waiting for the touch that will raise me to that state of crazed quivering, where you are delivering such joy, such pleasure, such extasy to my thighs and to all my erogenous zones, with such skill, such size. You are my prize. The joy may be fleeting, like our meetings, quick and pure, but oh, so much more. This fantasy of mine, the stuff of dreams, but you much more than exceed these silly little daydreams. You bring me to the brink, play with me, wink, then you take me beyond and above, fill me with laughter, light, love. Then I lay panting and flushed, but never rushed, in the cradle of your arms, languishing in your charms. You hold me tight, god, how you excite. I love the way take me to the edge of delight, hold me there, poised on the brink, then you take me all the way, 'till I sink into a moment of purity and calm, our hands entwined -- palm in palm. You, you are so much more than all the rest, in addition to being the best of the best. Even when we plot and scheme, what we got is the stuff of dreams. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews

not in touch even though I blew you not two hours ago and this has been going on for so long and even though we are friends and talk (all flirty and flippant with extreme shifts to personal and frank), I am scared to curl up into a ball towards you, into you, especially if you fall asleep before I do – as is so often the case because I never sleep anyway and sometimes I think I forgot how to fall asleep first, into drunken sleep, into confidence, comfort zones, all those close and cozy cares. I am so afraid to reach in the night for your hand, thigh, shoulder. and even during the transition from dark to dawn to day, desperate inaction holds its firm grip. I’ve been known to chain-smoke, throw back a beer, get high, do anything – something so I never have to peel off the wrapper and find no prize waiting when I lie down next to you. Sometimes, waiting, I think I could fall asleep in your touch, waking but asleep, next to you, but am so afraid you won’t so I can’t do anything not to feel lonely. not here, not now, not next to you, not in touch, and this has been going on for so long. copyright 2006 Katherine Andrews