081908

1.

The words will come out of the phone
with letters and writing
they will be pink and
spin around like cotton candy
and circle the room
in bubbles of childhood glitter

2.

You are making a spiral that spins on the wall
and shading it in gray pencil
and your hair is the paper barked Madrona
Curls sliding to cover your face

Your lead makes a deep masked conception
a candy swirled lollipop eye
to paint on a vortex of little girl dreams
mouth hid beneath jewel tones and sparkles

Souls of bright water opals.

Baby dreams
and toys floating
down a river's horizon
view filling my lungs
with kerosene and oxygen
flowing from a showerhead
and encircling everything
in an ocean of cherry blossomed
angles all spilling and filling
my veins with

peppermint liquid cooling
and spreading to fresh breath
and white teeth all grinning
down the boulevard and
feeling the hair colored golden
from sunstrokes and lightening,
your voice is like silken
Egyptian cotton and burgundy
circled around inside of my
head like liquid God.

And the rain pours down
dripping off the eaves
of the building and falling
fat onto a splash-happy earth.
Light streaming windows and
rock flowing music and
the rain dances two-step
past my window.

081808

Overheating.
Hot face.
Firestarter,
Dull ache.
Pony tail pain.
Desire.
Leather.
Lipstick.
Strangers
oh favors
and blowing
like Fall
leaves and drizzle.

Danger Train
track casualties
and late night
thunder storms.
Freedom. Liberation.
Open like
wildflowers
and a drifting acorn.

Rain clouds
And balloons,
all colors,
racing
trough atmosphere and
into the sun,
Red,
Blue,
Green,
Pink,
and Turquoise.

Bus stop.
Inhibited.
Forgotten behind.
and somehow
I've lost
my apprehension
along the way.
Licorice.
Vodka.

081708

Sweet and ridiculous
the taste of your mouth is
shining teeth lined up for
one, two, three and
I like it when you use them
to eat me alive.

Devour flesh.
Leaving marks like a mosquito
sucking it out in the heat of
the night.

Bodies churning burning
the sheets right off the bed.
You were unexpected,
and so was I.

And you loved me sweetly
and my own took your breath.
And it was fun with
lip biting and
you are not the way I 'd thought
you were- and I like it

I'm thinking of you with
heat in the humid morning
breeze of this afternoon.

Last night.

In the character on the movie screen
I saw projected last night
I caught your face.
You looked at me under long shagged hair
with eyes of desire
and your face was painted up the side of skyscrapers
and it made me want to be with you.
When the movie ended, however
I missed him instead

Oranges

Oh, how perfect death
computes an orange wind
that glows from your footsteps,

and you stop to die in
an orchard where the harvest
fills the stars.


-Richard Brautigan

081508

I really like riding with an open book in my lap
and staring at something far off away
to kill nausea-
though I've never been one to get carsick
But I'm watching the passers
as my shoulders creep up
and these headlights,
these headlights,
these headlights,
these headlights
are sending the sweat beading
upon my back.
And the fragment cologne
from those sleeping around me
moves through my body
a huge tribal cemetery.


Stranger
Your body would like to fall asleep on my shoulder.
Your mind rouses you, over again,
for you don't know: I'd let you.

Christmas in Jersey? A war poem.

My Godson thinks machine guns
and hand grenades are cool.
And I'm shaking
with breaking
tears lighting my face
for he can't understand
hell-terror's fireworks
and rockets that bleed
from the ears of the eyes
left out and quaking.

My Godson is six
and thinks killing is funny.
And I'm holding my rage
at this breathtaking stage
teeth clenched on media's guilty
black callous misleading
these boys become soldiers
and rockets that bleed
on this miserable
life spending mage.

080908: Your Birthday.

Why does everything
today
have to tell me
about you?
and your Birthday?

Last night I dreamed
of hidden drugs
and glass-blown pipes.
Of suspicious teachers
hiding bashful crushes
and unexpected rape attacks
crawling my body
on the hands of a friend.
Again and again.
As the movie lights dazzled
all strung from the ceiling
and plants overgrown
on the walls of my closet.
Cover a girl's dirty laundry.

What is love?

A friend of mine recently asked me this question. This is the response I sent to him:

What is love?

I used to know the answer to this question with much more certainty that I do today. Or at least, I understood the definition of being 'in love'. When I was in love it made me know with a faith I would die for that I'd never been in love before despite how many times I'd whispered to my early infatuates over the phone. Being in love was an ecstasy that made me beautiful. It was an endorphin overload that made everything around me even more beautiful. It was like the stupid grin that stayed plastered across my face or the uncontrollable squeals of laughter that would escape my lips for no reason and no person to hear.

Being in love is being happier than you've ever imagined possible in your life. It is the overwhelming sinking heartache and panicked despair that accompanies the thought of losing that person you are so in love with. And when that intensity is replaced with a solemn curiosity, it hurts in a way that your heart knows you are going to survive. And the sadness that accompanies falling out of love just solidifies what you used to have as being real. Falling out of love is a transition into clichés and hanging onto “I love you but I'm not in love with you.” And falling out of love with a lover who also occupied your best friend and strength and security and adventure and family is more terrifying than anything you could have been prepared for. For me, it is my well calculated impulsive action of leaping from an aircraft without a parachute and praying to a God I don't understand that the ground will be soft enough to catch and not break me. It is the downward rush of the wind against my skin and my iron stomach aiming to escape through my grinning teeth because as much as it hurts, and as much as you miss him, you asked for this. So you will only cry at night.

So you ask me “what is love?”, and to this question I have no answer for you. Love is different for every circumstance for which it is created. To tell you what love is would be an attempted at pretending I know the answer. I can try to tell you what falling in and out of such a thing was like for me, but to define love itself is something I feel better left to someone else. Lucius Annaeus Seneca once described love in the following way:

“Love in its essence is spiritual fire.”

My book is half destroyed and I've only filled ten pages.

Angels in the next room
needles placed into her skin
and I wait, I wait, I wait,
for something on this afternoon.
With pain dulled down to a
butter-spreading knife
I must gather persuasion and
concentration and motivation
in huge armfuls
from a nearby meadow
just to stay awake.
But she cries out tearful
and brings my eyes wide
and my attention once again
has a chance to sit and wait.

The Waiting Room.

Her name is Army; and she is beautiful. She smiles with bright highlights and tells me I have cute feet. She has a daughter my age who I can see through her eyes. They laugh over family secrets and cry over heartache. One the suffering, one the healer. She is a healer by nature and her eye-lights can cheer a baby even after the vaccine has been given. I don't know where she's from but she's been here longer than I. I'd love to take her out to lunch. To learn the secrets of her warm demeanor. Her name is Army; and she is beautiful. 080808

Persistance.

Melancholy drama queen
leaving me feasting on fasting
and night-longing lonely
gives desire for warmth.

Love me the way that you
did when you used to
cradle me soft in your arms.
And I'll sleep in safe haven
keeping this hot chill at bay.

This summer brings midnight
brings one and then two
and a cold aching hollow
my stomach's sick pit.

And I miss while desire
just sings me to sleep.
My lullaby. Dark ringing.
Rocked body limbs and
these starched stiffened gowns.

Odd Cat.

Obsession.
And I'm sick of it
And you hate my
you love my
obsession.

And you asked for it
warned over against
now you have it,
this sickness
obsession.

And you cry a young
and you keep tight this fleeting
the solace
of earthly
obsession.

And I hate what you make
of this visible blood
and I need it
this vile
Obsession.

Monday 080408

So smoke me away
with the rest of your dreams
and I'll curl in the ocean spray
Dark nicotine.

Seductive and vile a fantasy's trace
you'll never be washed from my
hair and my face you will linger in day
thoughts and I can't get all of your
gazes all tracing my parking lot movements
to sicken your mind with a
smile. Like fever.

So boiled and chilling I'll
cook you for dinner
my soul in the cell of your mind.

Nicotine flicking
ashes and beauty
and beetled mosquitoes
feast flesh of my arms

and you're draining my shell
like the drugs they keep pumping
and buzzing inside of my
flick-twitching ears.

My head-tunes reminding
and flies landing always
on something a ferris wheel
round and about

won't you scream it to deafness and
write with your blood
for this thought just wont leave you alone.

But I'm burning with interest
and it's bad
and we know it
for this game has been played
out in hailstorms before.

Desire.

Your words thick-sweet
like buttermilk.
You spin my head
like Russian silk.


Wait; let's touch everything before we wash our hands.

072408

My virginity is the watering can
poured onto the vying earth
rained into the hungry mouths
parched bloomage with blunt fangs gnashing

My body is split fertilizer
sold to bidders piece for piece
leached desire for minerals
left buried among the soil